Parshat Bemidbar 5763

God at the Center: Structure and Meaning in Jewish Prayer
May 31, 2003 - 29 Iyar 5763

Parshat Bemidbar
By Rabbi Mark B Greenspan

You've been invited to your friend's home for the first time. You haven't known each other a long time, but you're looking forward to meeting his family. As you sit in the living room you look around. What does the house tell you about your friend? What type of art hangs on his walls? Are there books on the shelves - what do they say about his interests? Are there objects of religious significance displayed around the house? How is the furniture arranged? Does the home express order or disorder? How do the members of the household relate to one another?

We don't always realize it, but structure and meaning are related to one another. In fact, structure deeply influences the way we see the world. On one level, physical criteria of judgment may seem superficial. "Don't judge a book by its cover," we say. And yet the way we organize our lives says more about us than the things we say. Meaning is often communicated not in words but in what we do. In fact, there's an entire field of study in the social sciences called "Structuralism" which explores recurring patterns and systems, and what they say about society and the individual.

It's of some interest, then, that the opening chapters of Bemidbar focus on numbers and physical organization. At first glance this Parshah appears to be terribly boring. What does it matter how many people there are in the tribe of Zebulon or if Judah is located on the eastern or western side of the camp? Yet the Torah devotes a full four chapters simply to describing the make up and demographics of the Israelite camp in the wilderness.

Organization is both the media and the message. The Israelite camp was organized as a large square. At the center of the square was the Ohel Moed, the Tent of Meeting with the Holy Ark. On each side of the tent was a configuration of priests, Levites and other tribes. The priests and the Levites were located closest to the Ark, while the tribes were situated in groups of three on the four sides of the ark. The Torah tells us which tribes were located on the north, east, south, and west side of the Ohel Moed and which tribe was in the middle of each configuration of three. In this way the tribes provided a protective barrier to the ark not so different from a circle of covered wagons in a wagon train in the nineteenth century Wild West.

The Torah says, "The Israelites shall camp each with his standard, under the banner of their ancestral house; they shall camp around the Tent of Meeting at a distance." But what does all this say about us or our connection to community?

Structure defines identity. Note that the standard is expressed in the singular, "his standard" while the banner of the ancestral house is plural; it is "their banner." Each Israelite was identified by three criteria: the tent of meeting, his own standard, and one's ancestral house. Where you lived told you who you are as an individual, what your allegiances should be as a member of a family, and what your relation to God should be.

The first thing an Israelite saw upon leaving his/her home each day was the Ohel Moed - the theological core of Jewish life. And as they went about their daily routine the Israelites would take note of their individual identity as well as their family connections. Israel's camp was an example of "fenn shui" - organization affected one's wellbeing.

The Torah suggests that we need to pay closer attention to structure in understanding who we are. Synagogues are not just buildings. They make a statement about what we believe, what type of community we wish to be, the values we cherish and the ideals for which we strive. Of course a building by itself means nothing, but unconsciously it spells out the nature of our communal culture and our most basic beliefs.

Consider the fact that the central object in every synagogue is the ark and the Torah it contains. There are no other visible symbols of Judaism; no concrete objects that express our basic beliefs. Judaism is based on a text that we read; that we study and discuss. Even if a person knew nothing else about Jewish life, he or she would quickly surmise just how important our sacred text is to our way of life. We take the Torah from the ark, carry it around the synagogue, listen attentively to its words and lovingly touch and kiss it. That says more than all the words in the world.

Actually we don't kiss the Torah. We touch it with our Tallit or our prayer book and then bring its sweetness to our lips. Our actions speak volumes about our relationship to our heritage.

Most synagogues in the West Hemisphere are built on an easterly axis. Unfortunately our synagogue isn't. Still we know that when we pray we face toward Jerusalem even if we are not physically facing that way. The direction we face is a statement of our commitments and beliefs. Zion is at the heart of Jewish life because we face Jerusalem when we recite our prayers.

But how about the way we sit, and where we place the rabbi and cantor in the synagogue. Once again structure makes a statement. Our sanctuary is an _expression of the cultural mores of the fifties and early sixties when it was originally built. Like many congregations of that time, the Rabbi and Cantor were placed on a stage in front of an audience, high above the congregation. The Rabbi was an all knowing, all powerful community leader and the congregation played a passive and minimalist role in worship and study. Only Jewish life can't survive that way. And Jewish life has change. Unfortunately the structure of our congregation has not. I wonder whether the structure our sanctuary actually discourages people from playing a more active role in Jewish life.

In many traditional synagogues the cantor stands in the midst of the community rather than in front of a congregation. Some Conservative synagogues are now being built or redesigned in this fashion. This structure makes a very different statement about the relationship between the prayer leader and the community, about the role of the individual, and the focus of Jewish life. Frankly, I have never been completely comfortable with the idea of people bowing in my direction when they come to the Alaynu, or standing with my back to the ark when I pray! A Rabbi should not be apart from the community - he should be part of the community.

We are trapped inside a box of our own making. What would it take to change the culture of worship in our synagogue? What worked a generation or two ago may not work for us today. Rather than passively accepting things as they are, we need to initiate a discussion about what makes prayer meaningful for us and how we can escape this box in the quest for a more authentic prayer experience. There should be no assumptions other than our commitment to Halachic. Jewish law offers us more alternatives than we often give it credit for.

Earlier this year I conducted a Friday night family service in which I had everyone sit in a circle as we davened. The service was punctuated with wordless nigunim and instead of a sermon I told a story which I wove into the fabric of the service. It was a very different service with a different feeling. Does that sound too radical? Consider the Lincoln Square Synagogue in Manhattan where the sanctuary is built in the round. Lincoln Square is an Orthodox shul - and yet they found room for flexibility, change and creativity. We seem to be bound by the status quo rather than tradition.

I'd like to suggest that such decisions should not just be the prerogative of the rabbi either. A congregation should take a more active interest in its prayer life. If prayer is important to us than we need to move away from the frontal, formal structures to which we have become so accustomed.

Last week I commented on Shabbat morning that our sanctuary communicates an unfriendly atmosphere when we sit in the far back and along the isle the way we often do. In retrospect that was not a fair criticism. As I looked around at the Kiddush following services, I could see the warmth and heimishness that are our congregation's best quality. Still, we need to think more deeply about how to make prayer more meaningful and dynamic in our congregation. And like the ancient Israelites we need to find ways to put God back in the center of our community, both physically and symbolically.

Structure isn't everything but is sure says a lot about who we are. What do you think our sanctuary says about us?

Shabbat Shalom

		Beth Shalom Oceanside Jewish Center

Rabbi Mark Greenspan Email Me at rabbi@oceansidejc.org		God at the Center: Structure and Meaning in Jewish Prayer May 31, 2003 - 29 Iyar 5763 Parshat Bemidbar By Rabbi Mark B Greenspan You've been invited to your friend's home for the first time. You haven't known each other a long time, but you're looking forward to meeting his family. As you sit in the living room you look around. What does the house tell you about your friend? What type of art hangs on his walls? Are there books on the shelves - what do they say about his interests? Are there objects of religious significance displayed around the house? How is the furniture arranged? Does the home express order or disorder? How do the members of the household relate to one another? We don't always realize it, but structure and meaning are related to one another. In fact, structure deeply influences the way we see the world. On one level, physical criteria of judgment may seem superficial. "Don't judge a book by its cover," we say. And yet the way we organize our lives says more about us than the things we say. Meaning is often communicated not in words but in what we do. In fact, there's an entire field of study in the social sciences called "Structuralism" which explores recurring patterns and systems, and what they say about society and the individual. It's of some interest, then, that the opening chapters of Bemidbar focus on numbers and physical organization. At first glance this Parshah appears to be terribly boring. What does it matter how many people there are in the tribe of Zebulon or if Judah is located on the eastern or western side of the camp? Yet the Torah devotes a full four chapters simply to describing the make up and demographics of the Israelite camp in the wilderness. Organization is both the media and the message. The Israelite camp was organized as a large square. At the center of the square was the Ohel Moed, the Tent of Meeting with the Holy Ark. On each side of the tent was a configuration of priests, Levites and other tribes. The priests and the Levites were located closest to the Ark, while the tribes were situated in groups of three on the four sides of the ark. The Torah tells us which tribes were located on the north, east, south, and west side of the Ohel Moed and which tribe was in the middle of each configuration of three. In this way the tribes provided a protective barrier to the ark not so different from a circle of covered wagons in a wagon train in the nineteenth century Wild West. The Torah says, "The Israelites shall camp each with his standard, under the banner of their ancestral house; they shall camp around the Tent of Meeting at a distance." But what does all this say about us or our connection to community? Structure defines identity. Note that the standard is expressed in the singular, "his standard" while the banner of the ancestral house is plural; it is "their banner." Each Israelite was identified by three criteria: the tent of meeting, his own standard, and one's ancestral house. Where you lived told you who you are as an individual, what your allegiances should be as a member of a family, and what your relation to God should be. The first thing an Israelite saw upon leaving his/her home each day was the Ohel Moed - the theological core of Jewish life. And as they went about their daily routine the Israelites would take note of their individual identity as well as their family connections. Israel's camp was an example of "fenn shui" - organization affected one's wellbeing. The Torah suggests that we need to pay closer attention to structure in understanding who we are. Synagogues are not just buildings. They make a statement about what we believe, what type of community we wish to be, the values we cherish and the ideals for which we strive. Of course a building by itself means nothing, but unconsciously it spells out the nature of our communal culture and our most basic beliefs. Consider the fact that the central object in every synagogue is the ark and the Torah it contains. There are no other visible symbols of Judaism; no concrete objects that express our basic beliefs. Judaism is based on a text that we read; that we study and discuss. Even if a person knew nothing else about Jewish life, he or she would quickly surmise just how important our sacred text is to our way of life. We take the Torah from the ark, carry it around the synagogue, listen attentively to its words and lovingly touch and kiss it. That says more than all the words in the world. Actually we don't kiss the Torah. We touch it with our Tallit or our prayer book and then bring its sweetness to our lips. Our actions speak volumes about our relationship to our heritage. Most synagogues in the West Hemisphere are built on an easterly axis. Unfortunately our synagogue isn't. Still we know that when we pray we face toward Jerusalem even if we are not physically facing that way. The direction we face is a statement of our commitments and beliefs. Zion is at the heart of Jewish life because we face Jerusalem when we recite our prayers. But how about the way we sit, and where we place the rabbi and cantor in the synagogue. Once again structure makes a statement. Our sanctuary is an _expression of the cultural mores of the fifties and early sixties when it was originally built. Like many congregations of that time, the Rabbi and Cantor were placed on a stage in front of an audience, high above the congregation. The Rabbi was an all knowing, all powerful community leader and the congregation played a passive and minimalist role in worship and study. Only Jewish life can't survive that way. And Jewish life has change. Unfortunately the structure of our congregation has not. I wonder whether the structure our sanctuary actually discourages people from playing a more active role in Jewish life. In many traditional synagogues the cantor stands in the midst of the community rather than in front of a congregation. Some Conservative synagogues are now being built or redesigned in this fashion. This structure makes a very different statement about the relationship between the prayer leader and the community, about the role of the individual, and the focus of Jewish life. Frankly, I have never been completely comfortable with the idea of people bowing in my direction when they come to the Alaynu, or standing with my back to the ark when I pray! A Rabbi should not be apart from the community - he should be part of the community. We are trapped inside a box of our own making. What would it take to change the culture of worship in our synagogue? What worked a generation or two ago may not work for us today. Rather than passively accepting things as they are, we need to initiate a discussion about what makes prayer meaningful for us and how we can escape this box in the quest for a more authentic prayer experience. There should be no assumptions other than our commitment to Halachic. Jewish law offers us more alternatives than we often give it credit for. Earlier this year I conducted a Friday night family service in which I had everyone sit in a circle as we davened. The service was punctuated with wordless nigunim and instead of a sermon I told a story which I wove into the fabric of the service. It was a very different service with a different feeling. Does that sound too radical? Consider the Lincoln Square Synagogue in Manhattan where the sanctuary is built in the round. Lincoln Square is an Orthodox shul - and yet they found room for flexibility, change and creativity. We seem to be bound by the status quo rather than tradition. I'd like to suggest that such decisions should not just be the prerogative of the rabbi either. A congregation should take a more active interest in its prayer life. If prayer is important to us than we need to move away from the frontal, formal structures to which we have become so accustomed. Last week I commented on Shabbat morning that our sanctuary communicates an unfriendly atmosphere when we sit in the far back and along the isle the way we often do. In retrospect that was not a fair criticism. As I looked around at the Kiddush following services, I could see the warmth and heimishness that are our congregation's best quality. Still, we need to think more deeply about how to make prayer more meaningful and dynamic in our congregation. And like the ancient Israelites we need to find ways to put God back in the center of our community, both physically and symbolically. Structure isn't everything but is sure says a lot about who we are. What do you think our sanctuary says about us? Shabbat Shalom