I’ve heard it said that one of the greatest friends and one of the worst enemies of the Jewish people was Johannes Gutenberg.
Gutenberg invented the printing press in 1450, launching a literary revolution.
For the Jewish people, this meant that the Torah and all its prayers, laws, and commentaries could now be studied and passed from past to present and future generations.
Yet there was a regretful underside to Guttenberg’s invention. It meant that prayer became frozen on the page. And that has, in many ways, been Judaism’s challenge over the generations.
When we attend synagogue, either on Shabbat or on the High Holidays, we often feel a disconnect: Are these prayers really speaking to us? Are they “authentic” to newer and current generations?
“Surely,” one teenager once shared with me on Yom Kippur, “We all can’t be this sinful. Where is the positivity?”
Indeed, as I read this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim (rules), I began thinking about the most meaningful rules as I grew up, and who taught them to me.
More often than not, it was my mother—of blessed memory—and her many “oral” commandments.
“The hard today will be easy tomorrow.”
“Everything has a home.”
“Whatever you wish for yourself that is what I wish for you.”
This Shabbat, in synagogue, we will commemorate two important events. One is the reading of the 53 “rules” that follow the giving of the 10 Commandments.
And the other is the official announcement heralding the arrival of Adar, the month when we celebrate the holiday of Purim.
In ancient times, Rosh Chodesh, the new moon, was uniquely celebrated by women; it was common for women to take a day off. Some would meet in groups, to study, to pray, or to relax.
This led—during the 16th Century—to the first publication of prayers specific to women.
There are known as techinas, often translated as “vernacular prayers to be recited outside of the traditional prayer book.”
Most are in Yiddish. In recent years, these texts have been republished, as we realized that within Judaism, men and women often pray in different ways.
Recently, this model was revived by women of our congregation, who meet regularly to share, study, pray, and learn.
Are the prayers of men and women unique? For example, in ancient times, the male prayer for approaching childbirth may have been, “May my wife give birth to a son.”
But the women’s techinas version reads, “Dear God, I am so scared going into labor. May it be your will that I survive.” Some women’s prayers express a hope that the Shabbat challah will rise just right.
Another reads, “May it be your will, Lord my God and God of my forebears that you provide nourishment for your humble creation, this tiny child, plenty of milk, as much as he needs.”
On one cold Shabbat morning in 1992, as I was co-leading services in Edmonton, Canada, a stately woman entered the sanctuary dressed in a heavy coat and a large fur hat.
She sat at the end of the fourth row. When I came off the bimah to officially welcome her, she said in a thick Russian accent: “I have just arrived from the former Soviet Union where we were not allowed to be Jewish. I just want to sit here and be Jewish.”
A few minutes later, I approached her again and asked, “Are you comfortable leading us in the English Prayer for Peace?”
“Oh yes,” she replied, eyes sparkling. When the time came—in her heavy Russian tone—she began, “May we see the day when war and bloodshed cease, and a great peace shall embrace the entire world…”
And when she concluded, she looked up off the page, into the heavens, palms raised, and added, Baruch Atta Adonai – Shomeah Tefillah. ”Praised are you my God, who listens to prayer.”
There was a silent pause, with some tearing, as many heard the silenced voices of lost Jewish generations.
But then that mood was broken by the voice of one of our “traditional” worshippers who whispered a bit too loudly, “Hey, wait a minute. That blessing she recited is not part of the actual prayer. She can’t say that.”
And someone turned and replied, “Oh yes, she can.”
It was, perhaps, the purest prayer I have ever heard, because it came from the heart – thru pain and, ultimately, joy.
On this Shabbat, as we read some of the 53 written laws from the Torah guided by men, I will also think of my mother, and both of my late grandmothers, and that Russian matriarch, who reminded us that Judaism is often practiced off the written page.
Indeed, each one of us is entitled to our own unique prayer.
And while we thank Johannes Gutenberg for enabling us to link past and future generations, let us also remember those prayers and life laws we learned—perhaps never recorded—from those who no longer walk among us.
For those prayers and laws, have made us who we are.
The great commentator, Rashi (1040-1105), noted that a man wins the respect of his child through his work ethic, but a woman wins the love of her children through kind words.
In a world too often dominated by verbal attacks, lies and condemnations, as we read the firm laws recorded in this week’s Torah portion, let us also recall the power of spontaneous prayer.
Let us on one hand respect the laws, traditions and prayers put to paper by our male ancestors but let us also recall the often-unscripted words of our mothers, who taught us to share our toys, and to live a life of kindness, care, and compassion.
Indeed, the unwritten laws of my mother have helped shape who I am today.
As she and the poet, Elise Sobel, constantly remind me:
“May all your words, my friend, be kind.”
Shabbat shalom, v’kol tuv.
Rabbi Irwin Huberman