Kol Nidrei 5777 On understanding prayer

Rabbi Lea Mühlstein 11 October 2016

Kol  Nidrei…  the  haunting  melody  and  the  sacred  drama  of  the  opened  ark  so  easily  distract  from  the  words  that  we  have  just  uttered.  As  is  the  case  also  for  many  of  the  other  prayers  found  in  our  High  Holy  Day  liturgy,  if  we  were  to  pause  and  look  more  carefully  at  the  actual  words  recited,  many  of  us  would  encounter  challenges:  

• Do  we  really  believe  what  we  are  saying?  

• And  if  not,  how  can  we  say  these  words  nonetheless  especially  on  a  day  such  as  Yom  Kippur  when  we  are  asked  to  examine  ourselves  and  our  actions  with  great  honesty  to  allow  us  to  make  amends?  

• Can  we  really  “lie”  today?  

• And  if  not,  how  then  can  we  all  be  part  of  this  community  which  repeats  these  words  together  over  and  over  again?  

Of  course,   these  are  not  new  questions,  but  rather  a  central  aspect  of   the  thinking  of  our  forefathers  of  Liberal  Judaism.  In  the  affirmations  of  Liberal  Judaism,  Rabbi  John  Rayner,  of  blessed  memory,  writes:    

We  affirm  the  paramount  need  for  sincerity  in  worship:  we  may  not  say  with  our  lips  what  we  do  not  believe  in  our  hearts.  To  that  end,  though  we  retain  much  of  the  traditional  Jewish  liturgy,  we  have  revised  it,  with  some  omissions  and  modifications,  and  many  amplifications.i  

 While   this   might   solve   the   problem   for   the   prayerbook   editor   who   is   able   to   align   the  prayerbook   with   his,   or   rather   more   rarely,   her,   theology,   it   does   not   resolve   it   for  congregants  who  each  have  varying  belief  systems.    The  approach  of  our  forefathers  was  to   judge  prayers  as  true  or  false.  We  cannot   imagine  that   prayer   is   fiction,   so   this   approach   is   not   altogether   surprising   because   we   are  accustomed  to  judge  non-­‐fiction  in  that  way.  So  if  the  text  of  a  prayer  turns  out  to  be  false,  we  cannot  be  faulted  for  dismissing  it.  Good  fiction,  like  good  poetry,  never  grows  old,  but  we  do  not   read  yesterday’s   science   textbooks   the  same  way.  When  a  piece  of  non-­‐fiction  grows  old,  we  replace  it,  treating  the  older  version  as  factually  misleading  and  even  morally  inappropriate  because  it  seems  to  be  passing  on  a  lie.    By   approaching   prayer   as   prose,   then   —   prose   that   cannot   be   merely   fiction   —   we  automatically  open  it  to  the  probability  that  it  will  sometimes  seem  like  a  lie  that  needs  to  be  replaced.    

So   let   me   daringly   suggest   that   our   forefathers’   approach   is   actually   not   really   helpful.  Instead  I  would  like  to  share  with  you  another  approach  taught  by  the  American  professor  for  Jewish  Liturgy,  Rabbi  Larry  Hoffman.ii  He  says  that  we  can  appreciate  prayers  better  if  we  look  at  some  of  the  deeper  ways  that  language  takes  on  meaning.    I  want  to  share  two  different  approaches  with  you  tonight.  The  first  is  based  on  the  work  of  the  classic   linguist  Roman  Jakobson  (1896–  1982),  who  provided  a  fascinating  model  of  six  different  ways  in  which  language  works.    The  first  way  is  what  Jakobson  calls  contextual  or  referential.   In  this   instance,  the  point  of  speaking   is   to  convey  a  message:   for  example,   the  cat   is  sitting  on  the  carpet.  The  person  making   the   statement   simply   wants   to   convey   a   reality   to   the   listener.   The   appropriate  response  is  therefore  to  confirm  the  factual  statement  or  contradict  it  –  “no,  can’t  you  see  the  cat  is  sitting  next  to  the  carpet.”    But  when  said   in  a   slightly  different   tone,   the  statement  “the  cat   is   sitting  on   the  carpet”  might  instead  convey  the  dismay  of  the  speaker  who  is  seeing  a  cat  sitting  on  his  expensive  carpet  about  to  ruin  it.  The  appropriate  response  in  this  case  might  be  “Calm  down,  nothing  is  going  to  happen  to  the  carpet”  or  “shall  I  get  the  cat  off?”  This  is  what  Jakobson  calls  an  emotive  statement.  The  point  of  making  the  statement  is  not  to  convey  a  reality  but  rather  an  emotion.    At   times,   the   person   speaking  may   not   be   trying   to   express   their   own   state   of  mind   but  instead   influence   the  mind  of   the   listener.  The  person  reassuring   the  owner  of   the  carpet  that  all  will  be  well  is  doing  exactly  that.  This  is  what  Jakobson  calls  “conative.”    The  fourth  way  of  communicating  is  when  we  simply  want  to  make  sure  someone  is  on  the  receiving  end.  When  I  think  your  phone  might  not  be  working,  I  say,  “Hello?  Hello?”—  not  to  introduce  myself,  but  to  elicit  your  assurance,  “I  can  hear  you!”  The  response,  as  well,  is  not  a  “fact”  about  your  ability  to  hear  but  rather  a  statement  that  you  are  listening  to  me.  This  linguistic  function  Jakobson  called  phatic.    Sometimes,  it  is  the  very  form  of  the  message  that  takes  most  of  our  attention,  and  then  we  have   poetry.   If   ordinary   content-­‐driven   communication   is   judged   by   its   truth,   then   form-­‐driven  communication  attracts  attention  for  its  beauty.    The  final  form  of  communication  is  when  we  use  language  as  a  code.  Figures  of  speech  and  proverbs  are  the  most  obvious  example.  The  statement  “No  man  is  an  island”  is  completely  nonsensical   if   we   try   to   judge   it   in   categories   of   true   and   false.   Yet,   used   in   the   correct  cultural  context  the  meaning  is  absolutely  clear.  These  types  of  statements  Jakobson  called  metalingual.    While  many  have  suggested  that  prayers  should  be  understood  as  poetry,  Larry  Hoffman  is  the  first  to  apply  the  ideas  of  Jakobson  more  broadly,  explaining  that   identifying  prayer  as  poetry   goes  a   long  way   in  opening  us  up   to   find  meaning  below   the   surface,  but  we  also  need  to  understand  when  the  lines  of  prayer  mean:    

• to  make  a  statement  about  the  way  things  are  (contextual/referential);  

• to  express  our  own  feelings  (emotive);  

• to  influence  God  to  act  a  certain  way  (conative);  

• or   to  check   in  with  God   (or  with   the  other  worshipers)   to   say   that  we  are  present  (phatic),  

• and   that   we   are   all   on   message   using   the   same   understanding   of   language  (metalingual).  

That  is  not  to  say  that  this  will  solve  all  our  problems  with  prayer.  For  instance,  our  personal  theology  might   suggest   that  we  do  not  believe   that  God  can  actually  “act”   in  history  and,  thus,  requests  to  do  so  would  clearly  fall  on  deaf  ears.  Or  we  might  not  believe  in  God  at  all,  making  “checking  in  with  God”  redundant.    This   is   why   Larry   Hoffman   suggests   that   the   linguistic   considerations   should   be  supplemented  by  a  philosophical  consideration  —  the  second  approach  that  I  want  to  share  with  you.    This   approach   is   based   on   the   work   of   the   great   twentieth   century   philosopher   Ludwig  Wittgenstein.   In  his   later  years,  he  came  to  believe  that  language  should  not  be  judged  by  what  it  means  so  much  as  by  what  it  does.  He  likened  language  to  the  contents  of  a  toolbox  —  we  learn  as  children  how  to  use  linguistic  tools  to  accomplish  different  ends.  In  addition  to  some  of  the  linguistic  functions  that  we  discussed  in  the  context  of  Jakobson’s  work,  language  does  other  things  too:  it  may  promise,  hope,  question,  doubt,  or  engage  in  playful  repartee.  We  run  into  problems  when  we  misunderstand  the  goal  of  any  particular  utterance.    Think  also,  said  Wittgenstein,  of  language  as  a  set  of  games.  Misunderstandings  arise  when  we  do  not  recognise  what  game  other  people  are  playing:  when  (for  instance)  we  think  they  are   telling   us   a   truth,   but   they   mean   only   to   tell   us   how   they   feel;   or   when   they   are  participating   in   a   ritual   instead   of   an   ordinary   conversation  —   because   rituals   have   their  own  peculiar  ways  in  which  language  works,  their  own  favourite  set  of  linguistic  tools.    As  a  kind  of  ritual,  Jewish  prayer  has  its  own  language  games  that  are  just  part  of  the  way  Jewish  liturgy  works.  Instead  of  toasts,  for  example,  we  have  blessings:  not  “Raise  a  glass  to  ...,”  but  “God  bless  you  with....”  At  toast  time,  no  one  refuses  to  “raise  a  glass”  to  “long  life  and   happiness”   on   the   grounds   that   they   aren’t   thirsty   or   because   the   bride   and   groom  already  know  how  their  guests  feel,  so  why  bother  repeating  it!  Toasting  is  just  part  of  the  wedding  game.  Similarly,  when  we  say,  for  those  who  are  ill,  “Blessed  is  God  who  heals  the  sick,”  it  is  inappropriate  for  people  to  opt  out  because  they  don’t  believe  in  God  or  have  the  experience  of  God  not  healing  other  people  who  were  sick  with  the  same  malady  last  year.    Invoking   blessings   is   a   language   game   that   has   nothing   to   do   with   belief   in   God   or   the  likelihood   that  God  will   respond   to  what  we  ask.  Objecting   to  God-­‐language   in   a  blessing  because  “I  don’t  believe  in  God”  is  a  case  of  mistaking  language  games.    

Another   language  game  that  Jewish   liturgy  often  plays   is  “citing  Scripture.”  The  point   isn’t  whether  you  believe  in  what  gets  cited.  The  point   is  simply  to  root  the  hope  expressed  by  the  blessing  in  a  biblical  context—  the  way  a  speaker  quotes  Shakespeare,  not  for  the  literal  truth  of  what  Shakespeare  said,  but   for   the   imagery  he  offers  and   the  connectivity   to   the  greatness  he  represents.    A  keynote  speaker  at  a  conference  arguing  for  a  more  compassionate  nation  concludes  by  saying,   “‘The  quality  of  mercy   is  not   strained;   it   droppeth  as   the  gentle   rain   from  heaven  upon  the  earth  beneath’—  let  us  revel  in  the  possibility  of  harvesting  the  mercy  that  comes  naturally  from  God  but  goes  to  waste  if  we  do  not  collect  it  and  disburse  it  in  everything  we  do.”  No  one   interrupts   to   remind   the   speaker   that   the   atheists   present   do  not   believe   in  God  or  that  mercy  doesn’t  really   fall   from  heaven.  Everyone  knows  that  quoting   is  part  of  the  “speaking  game.”  It  adds  artistry  to  what  would  otherwise  be  a  dull  lecture.    The  High  Holy  Day  liturgy  does  more  than  make  statements  of  fact.  The  decision  to  attend  is  tantamount  to  agreeing  to  participate  in  a  language  game  (actually,  a  whole  set  of  games)  where   the   usual   rules   of   speech   no   longer   hold   and   to   open   ourselves   to   language   that  otherwise  we  would  find  questionable.    Any  given  line  in  the  prayers  recited  may  be  contextual,  emotive,  poetic,  or  conative,  but  it  also  may  be  the  appropriate  linguistic  move  in  some  other  game  such  as  expressing  regret,  community  identity,  or  personal  hope.    I’m  not  suggesting  that  it  is  an  easy  task  to  look  beyond  the  literal  meaning  of  the  words  of  our   prayer,   to   look   beyond   true   and   false   but  what   better   day   to   give   it   a   go   than   Yom  Kippur?!                                                                                                                    i  Rabbi  John  D.  Rayner,  Affirmations  of  Liberal  Judaism,  1992,  Affirmation  31. ii  Lawrence  Hoffman,  “The  History,  Meaning,  and  Varieties  of  Avinu  Malkeinu”  in  Naming  God:  Avinu  Malkeinu—Our  Father,  Our  King  (Prayers  of  Awe),  Jewish  Lights  Publishing  2015.