Rabbi Gabriel Botnick explains the Jewish approach to prayer

People are often surprised when they ask what my favourite holiday is and I respond ‘Yom Kippur’. I understand their confusion as this might seem like an odd response. Yom Kippur is the one day of the year when we don’t eat, we don’t shower, and we stand in synagogue for hours on end. How could I possibly like this solemn holiday more than Chanukah, Purim or even Passover? I inevitably explain that, for me, Yom Kippur is the most meaningful day of the year.

One of the reasons some people are confused by my answer is that when they hear the word ‘prayer’, they envisage someone having a conversation with God, asking God to intervene in their lives and hoping for a direct response. With that concept of prayer in mind, it’s understandable that people would find it strange that I favour a day focused mainly on prayer. But the Jewish idea of prayer is rather different.

In Hebrew, the word for ‘prayer’ is tefilah and ‘to pray’ is lehitpalel, which is a reflexive verb meaning ‘to judge oneself’. This is why I often describe the siddur as a mirror that we hold up, trying to see our own reflection in the words used to describe God: patient, understanding, loving, etc. When we pray, we are really asking ourselves whether or not we are living in a God-like way: are we embodying the Divine attributes enumerated in the siddur, or are we falling short of our potential?

When I pray, I am not speaking directly with God nor am I attempting to persuade God to answer my requests. Instead, I am meditating on the concepts and values cherished by our tradition: I am searching for ways to live in a more ‘Godly’ way in the world and better realize my potential as a human. This approach to prayer doesn’t require fluency in Hebrew or familiarity with the liturgy. One could simply look at the English translations for inspiration or even just close the book and sit in quiet contemplation. This is why I absolutely love Yom Kippur – and the rest of the High Holydays – as they provide the ideal environment to engage in the deep spiritual work we are all called to do.

As a young man, I was not so different from the average ‘Jew in the pew’. I could sound out the Hebrew of the siddur and was familiar with the melodies of the service, but I definitely did not understand the words I was reading. I would go out on Friday nights and meet up with friends at a cafe on Saturdays. My home was kosher, but I was less stringent when dining out. In other words, I was no different from many other Jews.

But it was through Yom Kippur and the blessings it brought – sitting in quiet contemplation, blocking out the noise of life, refraining from eating, drinking and showering, not worrying about my physical needs or wants and instead focusing on the spiritual aspects of my life – that I was finally able to identify what had been hiding in plain sight for quite a while: my path, my truth. I was able to admit to myself that a future in the rabbinate was probably the right path for me.

So I want to invite you to allow yourself this year to dive deeper than ever into the waters of the High Holydays. If you usually come to synagogue on each day, try staying longer. If you usually come on just one day, try attending another service or two. If you usually just sit there and passively listen to the choir, try praying in your own way.

Prayer can be an intimidating concept, but it doesn’t have to be. It’s actually very easy to engage in it. Prayer doesn’t demand that you follow any strict set of rules or rituals; it simply invites you to have an honest conversation with yourself, with the themes of the liturgy serving as your waypoints.

I look forward to seeing you at Belsize this year for the High Holydays and hope my approach to prayer will help to guide you on your own spiritual journey.

There follows an edited version of Rabbi Botnick’s sermon at a special Shabbat service on 1 March to mark the end of our 85th anniversary year:

He started by referring to a meaningful message within the text of that week’s Parsha. The Torah reading had begun a nearly two-month-long narration looking at the description, building and accounting for the works that went into the Mishkan, the Tabernacle that wandered with the Israelites through the wilderness. David later brought it to Jerusalem and Solomon eventually built a more permanent structure, the Temple. The entire narrative had begun with God instructing Moses to tell the Israelites, ‘Make for me a holy space.’

We have all this description of these items, the materials that went into them, and all the various labours that were needed to make them. We spend literally weeks reading about this over and over again. Why? What’s so significant about the building of this Mishkan? Why do we spend more time focusing on this rather than on the story of the Exodus or on the story of giving the Torah and the Ten Commandments?

Rabbi Botnick spoke of Mordecai Kaplan, probably one of the most influential people in 20th-century Judaism, who had started out in the Orthodox world and founded the Young Israel movement of Orthodox synagogues in the USA. He then developed the concept of the Jewish Community Center, where a synagogue could be a gathering place for more than just prayer. It can be a place where you come together to have meals, learn, have wonderful events, and even work out – a place for Jew to live Jewishly with one another. He went on to found Reconstructionist Judaism, a relatively small denomination primarily in the United States, but with ideas that are pervasive throughout the Jewish world.

In his seminal text, ‘Judaism as a Civilization’, Kaplan tried to rid Judaism of its authoritative concept of a distant, abstract God and make it much more about people. He said that’s really what Judaism has always been about anyway – the people. Around the middle of his text, he shares his vision of this new idea of Judaism as a folk religion. He says that the significance of the traditional Jewish religion ‘does not derive from the cognitive element of its God idea but from the conduct in which that idea has found expression.’ This may not be the easiest concept to follow, but what he was saying, in essence, is that our faith is rooted not in the idea of God as such, but in the rites and customs that we’ve practised throughout history in acknowledgment of our God.

This is actually echoed by the continuation of that opening verse of the long Mishkan narrative: ‘Make for me a holy space, and I, God, will dwell amongst you.’ It’s by doing something, by actively building a space together, that God then becomes present in our lives. The holy space isn’t so much holy because it’s where God lives; it’s holy because God lives amongst the people. It’s the people working together, contributing their money, their precious items, their time, and their skills, as they did for the Mishkan, that make the space holy. God isn’t so much present in the Mishkan without us taking the steps to build that Mishkan and to practice our religious observances within it. It doesn’t matter at all what you think God is. What matters is that our individual ideas of God have led us to build a beautiful and open community together. God lives in this space because we make this space holy by coming together.

For 85 years, people, originally German Jewish refugees but now from all over the world and many different backgrounds, have come together to make this a truly holy space. This is a unique, special and precious community. Every synagogue talks about being a warm and inviting community, but most of them aren’t. We don’t say that anywhere in our literature or on the plaques outside, but we truly are. This is a special community, and it’s special because of the efforts of every single one of you, whether it is serving on the board as an honorary officer, sitting on a committee, helping run events, volunteering as a greeter or security, singing in the choir, playing the organ for us, or helping with the children. Each and every one of you has played a role in building this holy space, not just so you have a place to encounter the Divine, but so that others can benefit from that work as well. That is what makes this space so special. That is why we come together to congregate in this space – not so much because of God, but because of how we come together to experience something so much bigger than ourselves, which we might call the Divine. Whatever it is, it truly is special. It is a holy space, and it feels as if the Divine is dwelling amongst us because of each and every one of you.

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick on the use of words – and a hidden word in the Book of Esther

Have you ever criticized someone not for what they said, but for what they didn’t say? We often see this when someone delivers a less-than-heartfelt apology: ‘I’m sorry you were hurt by what I said.’ Such words do not constitute a true apology. Rather they simply pass off responsibility to the person who was hurt. However, if one were to say, ‘I’m sorry for saying something so hurtful towards you’ – that would indeed be an apology.

In other situations, it might not be as important for someone to be so forthright in their language. For instance, when speaking to a relative after a death, one might consider it insensitive – or even hurtful – to keep reminding them of their loved one’s death. Instead, when speaking with a mourner, we often use more euphemistic language: ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ Everyone knows exactly what that ‘loss’ is, so there’s no need to use more vivid or painful language.

The use and intentional exclusion of certain words can be both productive and harmful. Our early rabbis understood this dual nature of language and taught it through the metaphor of fire, which can be both productive – by providing warmth and healthy food – and harmful by threatening total destruction. The rabbis taught that the Torah is written as ‘black fire upon white fire’, that is, the black letters of the Torah and the white spaces in between are both seen as fire. It makes sense that the written words of Torah can be seen in that way, capable of inspiring passion and offering sustenance, while holding the potential to burn those who struggle with its teachings. But the rabbis also teach us that sometimes we need to look deeper into the Torah to understand what is not being said explicitly, but rather what can be understood through critical reading. In these instances, the white fire of the Torah can be even more profound than the black fire.

This philosophy stands out most dramatically in the Book of Esther, which we read at our Purim service and celebration, as the Book of Esther is the only book in the Bible that does not contain the name of God. So, if God’s name isn’t in the Book of Esther, why is this text included in the Bible? Well, drawing on the metaphor of black fire on white fire, the rabbis teach us that God actually is present in the text – just in hidden ways. In fact, the name Esther itself means ‘I will hide.’ Of course, this ‘hiding’ could refer to the fact that Esther hides her Jewish identity from her husband, the king, but the rabbis prefer to see the name Esther as an allusion to a verse in Deuteronomy, in which God says, ‘I will hide my face’ from the Israelites at a later time (Deut. 31:18). The Bible explains that Esther’s real name was Hadassah (Esther 2:7), which may not seem so significant at first. But the rabbis say this name alludes to a verse in Isaiah that says, ‘Hadas (myrtle) will rise up and be to God as a name.’ (Isaiah 55:13). In other words, the name Esther may be a placeholder for the name Hadassah, which in turn is a placeholder for the name of God.

Finally, there is yet another way in which the name of God may be hidden in the text of Esther. There is a tradition to write the Megillah so that the first word of almost every column is ‘HaMelech,’ which means ‘the king.’ On the surface, each use of HaMelech clearly refers to King Achashverosh. But on a deeper, mystical level, each HaMelech might be a hidden reference to God, who is also known by this name.

So, is the name of God really absent from the Book of Esther? Technically, yes. But in reality, I don’t think it is. One could easily read the story of Purim and conclude that God played no role in our victory over the wicked Haman. But the rabbis teach us not to be so quick in making this assumption. And more importantly, the rabbis are actually trying to teach us not to be so quick in assuming that God doesn’t play a role in our lives today. Just because we can’t see or hear God doesn’t mean God isn’t there. Rather, God is hidden in our world, and we are all tasked with figuring out how best to reveal God’s presence. Who knows, you might find God in nature, in our traditions, or even in the words and actions of our everyday heroes.
Chag sameach!

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick encourages us to recognise optimism in the light of the Chanukah candles

According to the Talmud, God created humankind on the sixth day following Rosh Hashanah. As that first autumn progressed, Adam noticed that the days were getting shorter – that there was a decreasing amount of light in the world – and he worried that the world was coming to an end, and so he observed an eight-day period of mourning. But then, shortly after midwinter, he noticed the days began to lengthen once more and that this must simply be the way of the world, so he observed an eightday period of celebration, lighting candles each day to contribute even more light to the world. And thus, Adam laid the foundation for what would eventually become our celebration of Chanukah.

Of course we do not understand this story to be factual, yet it still speaks to a profound truth in life: that light and darkness – joy and pain – ebb and flow independently of our own actions. And just as every night is followed by the dawn of a new day, so too all periods of darkness eventually give way to brighter days.

This truth applies to each of us individually: dark clouds of depression at some point give way to renewed feelings of happiness and hope, and highs of elation in turn are supplanted by struggles and pain. It is therefore paramount – especially when all hope seems lost – to remind ourselves of this cyclical nature of life.

And this truth also applies to us collectively: our people will experience periods of safety and prosperity as well as periods of worry and strife. The very recent past has reminded us far too well of this fact, and so now, more than in a long time, we must remind ourselves that this too will pass.

This year, like last, many of us may have struggled to decide whether to position our Chanukah candles in the window where they could be seen by others (and therefore draw attention to ourselves as Jews) or to place them somewhere more discreet inside our homes. So, I encourage you to consider our sages’ portrayal of Adam that first winter following Creation: do not allow yourself to become overwhelmed by the prospect of darkness, but celebrate this celestial reminder that brighter days are awaiting us. Why not hasten their arrival by contributing as much of our light as possible?

Cantor Paul Heller officiated at a moving rededication in Austria

Earlier this year, the Government of Lower Austria and the Institute for Jewish History in Austria invited me to participate in the inauguration of the restored synagogue and old cemetery of St. Pölten, about 40 miles west of Vienna, where my paternal family comes from.

Jews have been part of Lower Austria’s population for over a millennium. In the Middle Ages, they primarily lived in imperial cities where they found legal and economic protection, enabling the rise of a local Jewish bourgeoisie. However, by the late 15th century, most towns were judenfrei due to campaigns of persecution. Only Vienna retained a small Jewish community during the 16th and 17th centuries. In the 18th century, partial toleration policies led to a Jewish return, and by the 19th century, there was renewed immigration, with Jews settling in St. Pölten, the capital of Lower Austria, and its surrounding towns, as well as in Vienna.

In March 1938, Austria was incorporated into Germany. The Anschluss was greeted enthusiastically by the majority of the population. Persecution of the Jewish population commenced soon afterwards and then came 9 November 1938, Kristallnacht (‘Night of Broken Glass’), pogroms that were particularly brutal in Austria. Most of the synagogues in Vienna and elsewhere, including St. Pölten, were destroyed and the cemeteries vandalised. The events of that night were not just an attack on buildings but a devastating blow to a vibrant culture and community that had flourished for centuries.

In the following decades , it became clear that restoration and preservation of Jewish sites in Lower Austria were important to local communities, as well as to the museum sector. A large investment was made by the government of Austria in recognition of the profound tragedy that Kristallnacht and subsequent persecution had inflicted upon the Jewish community.

The restored synagogue and memorial at the destroyed cemetery of St. Pölten reverberate with the history and heritage of my family and others. As we stood together, participating in their inauguration, we felt that the act of restoration was more than a symbolic gesture. It was a testament to resilience, to the endurance of memory, and to the importance of reclaiming heritage. The ceremonies served as a powerful reminder of the importance of honouring history, especially in places where that history had been so violently interrupted. I was struck by the mixed emotions of the participants, mostly descendants, who came together from across the globe – joy at the revival of sacred spaces, tempered by the sombre remembrance of those who were lost. We were joined by local dignitaries, uniting people of diverse backgrounds, to honour the memory of our ancestors who had faced unimaginable hardships, with presentations that still resound in our minds.

The gathering instilled in all of us a sense of responsibility to preserve the lessons of the past. In this way, the synagogue and cemetery are not just relics; they are living memorials that breathe life into our shared history and identity. The work done by the Institute of the History of Jews of Austria (INJOEST) under Dr Martha Keil has brought to light what would have remained in the archives.

Standing together, the air filled with prayer, reminded us that the roots of prayer and the tradition surrounding it are at least as important as the text itself. We reaffirmed our commitment to tolerance and understanding, for it is vital that we should all learn from our history to prevent the repetition of such atrocities. The legacy of those who endured the horrors of the Holocaust must continue to guide us, reminding us of the importance of fighting against hatred and discrimination in all forms. The Central European experience of antisemitism, directly linked to the history of fascist and socialist regimes, is also linked to post-war amnesia and socio-political negligence. So it will not suffice just to arrive at reconciliation and to open up closed narratives about Jews. The institutions set up to implement the restoration, preservation and conservation of locations where the desecrated synagogues and cemeteries once stood, and the cultural authorities responsible for the protection of monuments, can be used to educate future generations with exhibitions, workshops and cultural events. In Austria, under the guidance of INJOEST, we can hope that with God’s will, despite recent worrying political trends, truth and peace will prevail.

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick encourages us to take a more relaxed approach to the High Holyday services

Ever since I was a young child, I have loved going to synagogue on the High Holydays. Not so much for the religious or spiritual experience – I only learned to appreciate this aspect of the holydays well into adulthood. I also didn’t love my parents forcing me into an itchy woollen suit or constraining necktie, but I still loved going to shul on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I loved sitting with my family in the balcony, where I had a perfect view not only of the rabbi and cantor, but the choir and organist as well. Best of all, I had a perfect vantage to see which of my friends were sitting where, whose hat and jewellery was the most ostentatious, and who dozed off during the rabbi’s sermon – all sights that brought me much joy.

But despite these decidedly nonreligious aspects of attending High Holyday services, my favourite memories are of standing between my parents, singing beautiful and familiar melodies in an unfamiliar tongue, and just feeling like I was connected to something much bigger than myself – to the hundreds of other Jews in the synagogue, the millions of other Jews around the world, and the myriad generations that came before me who all enjoyed the same experiences.

In short, there are many reasons to come to synagogue on the High Holydays. Some people come for the music while others come for the sermon. Some people come to connect with their friends while others come to disconnect from the demands of life. There’s no one reason to come to shul on the holydays and no reason is better – or more legitimate – than another.

In Judaism, we often speak about the three kinds of relationships we enjoy – with others, with God, and with ourselves. The only reason for coming to synagogue that matters is the one that helps you connect on a deeper level with any or all three of these relationships. But just coming to synagogue isn’t always enough to effectively achieve the connection you seek. You may very well arrive at shul with the best of intentions, but end up feeling lost in the liturgy, turned off by the language, or befuddled by the rituals. But this does not need to be the case.

If you find yourself in services feeling more distant from God, others, or yourself compared to before you walked through the doors, then try mixing things up. Don’t worry about doing the holydays the ‘right way’. Don’t worry if you’re on the wrong page or if you fail to bow at the proper time. Those things don’t matter – they’re only there to help you in your quest to connect. Instead of giving in to feelings of foolishness or inadequacy, try using those moments to empower yourself by finding your own way to connect. Flip through the pages of the machzor, find a passage that resonates with you, and take some time to meditate on ways to embody the themes of that text. Close your eyes and allow yourself to get swept away by the singing of the cantor and choir. You could even come prepared by bringing along a beloved book that might help you achieve clarity of thought.

There’s no one right way to ‘do’ High Holyday services, just as there’s no one right reason to show up in the first place. My only wish for you is that, by joining us at Belsize for the High Holydays this year, you’ll find your own, meaningful way to deepen your connection with the relationships that matter most.
Shanah Tovah!