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Of the three pillars of Jewish practice, I’ve always found prayer the most challenging.

Torah study: not a problem. I love reading and commenting on texts. I grew up in academia, and study seems the most natural of activities. Mitvot (good deeds) - also easy to embrace. I like the idea that if I’m helping someone, or if I’m politically active, I’m helping to heal the world and thus carrying out a commandment.

But prayer. To pray requires a subjegation of self to a higher power. This, to me, feels unnatural and a bit dangerous and I tend to resist it.

I think the abnegation of self is actually one of the profound benefits of prayer. Jonathan Slater, in his book Mindful Jewish Living, writes:

When we sense that our hearts have reached their limit, when we fear our hearts may break, we are at the doorstep of the Holy One: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; those crushed in spirit He delivers” (Psalm 34:19). In the movement from self-awareness and self-protection to openness to the whole world and compassion for all beings, we open our hearts to the presence of God.

One of the wonderful things about this blog conference has been the opportunity to pray in different traditions and to talk to people about their experiences with prayer. I’ll recount a bit of this below…

The evening Shabbat service at the blogcon, led by Rachel Barenblat, referred back often to the techniques of meditation, the centrality of the breath. Her preparation for prayer:

Breathe deep, from the belly,
as if for singing.
Notice your vertebrae, the curve
where spine tilts to pelvis,
and inhale everything into place.
Blanket the mind
as trees blanket grass with leaves.
Drape woven wool over
every sharp worry and task.
They’ll survive a night without you.
Drizzle cornmeal on cookie sheets
like a sand painting
of the chaos in which creation begins.
Let challah dough rise and fall
like slow breathing.
Tonight the sky arches
like bent boughs roofed with cloud,
spangled with constellations.
The Breath of Life spreads peace
over creation.

On Saturday evening, we had the chance to engage in Muslim prayer. Hussein, who publishes a wonderful site called Islamicate, led us in Zikr, a devotional ceremony enacting the remembrance of God, as commanded to all Muslims. We sat crosslegged on the floor, without shoes, and chanted a series of phrases:

Bismillah ir-Raḥmān ir-Raḥīm - In the name of God the most Compassionate, the most Merciful
lā illāh ilā allāh - there is no deity but God
shukrun līllah wa al-ḥamdulīllāh - all thanks and praise are due to God
yā raḥmān yā raḥīm - O Compassionate; O Merciful

I found that with the multiple repetitions required, the phrases in Arabic became easy to repeat, and I could say them firmly, with conviction. I noticed that the “h” sound - one made by a simple expulsion of breath, without vocal resonance - occurs more frequently than in Hebrew, so that with each phrase, there are several opportunities to focus on the breath as a part of prayer.

Hussein also demonstrated a traditional Muslim prayer service, which is distinct from Zikr. What struck me especially were the ritual motions involved - raising the hands to the head repeatedly, and on several occasions kneeling and placing the forehead on the ground. Muslims are called to pray five times a day. To bow one’s head to the ground five times each day… what a powerful reminder of humility. Everyone should do this, I think.

My favorite story came from Lorianne Schaub, of Hoarded Ordinaries. She grew up in a Catholic household, but in college became a born again Christian. Apparently in that tradition it is customary to speak silently to Jesus all through the day. Lorianne would try to tell Jesus her thoughts, prayers, worries - but after a while, she found, she would run out of things to say. So she decided instead to spend the day listening to Jesus. She began to cultivate an inner silence that would allow her to hear.

This did not go over well with her co-religionists. Eventually she found her way toward Buddhism, which she practices and writes about today.

I absolutely love the idea of listening to God instead of talking.

For me, too, Buddhism - which I’ve learned mainly from Rebecca - has been a way into prayer. Whether God needs out prayers, I can’t say. But I find that when I spend time in silence, meditation, or in ritual devoted to something outside myself, my mind is clearer for study and my heart stronger for mitzvot.

Parenthetically, Rachel gave me a wonderful passage to read in the Shabbat service on God’s need for our prayers:

It was taught as Rabbi Ishmael ben Elisha says: I once entered into the innermost part of the Temple to offer incense and saw the crowned God, Adonai of Hosts, seated upon a high and exalted throne. God said to me: “Ishmael, My son, bless Me!” I replied, “May it be Your will that Your compassion overcome Your anger. May Your compassion prevail over Your other attributes. May You deal with Your children compassionately. May You not judge us solely with strict justice.” And God nodded to me.

I said above that I feel prayer is dangerous, and I really believe that it can be. To let go of the self - and to do this in a group, in a guided service of worship - leaves one exceptionally vulnerable and susceptible to persuasion. Self-negation is a very moving thing, and that emotion, once evoked, can be harnessed to unscrupulous ends. Imagine surrendering yourself fully to the will of God - only to be told that what God wants you to do is bomb an abortion clinic; or make holy war on another religion.

Look at the Jews who kill Arabs with a clear conscience, knowing that they are fighting for the land God promised to them; and vice versa.

That’s why I think it is essential to look carefully for a community of faith in which you can put your trust; to use your mind and your moral sense to evaluate the tradition in which you pray; and to question religious dogmas that tend toward separatism, judgement of the other, violence, and dominion.

Certainly, as we shared our traditions and beliefs this weekend, I knew I was in a community I could embrace with my whole heart.