The Tenth Man

Basketball was a passion in my teen-age years. Everyday after school, I would find a pick-up game in the schoolyard, a block and a half from home. Depending on who showed up on any given afternoon, the games could range from one-on-one to half court, or if we were lucky enough to find a tenth man, we could play full court. There was one catch. Every afternoon, depending upon when the sun set, our neighborhood rabbi roamed the streets also in search for a tenth man, but in his case to complete the minyan (prayer quorum) for minchah (the afternoon prayer). In those days, the rules of basketball confirmed that an extra man had to wait out a game and keep a lookout for the rabbi. If the rabbi was detected, the awaiting player sounded a warning that sent us scrambling behind trees or under parked cars, so as not to be found. If however, you were spotted, you followed the rabbi to shul, otherwise your parents would receive a little visit on Sunday.  How I detested the minyan!

Eventually, I learned to pray during the eleven month mourning period when I came to shul twice daily to say kaddish, after my father died. As a youngster I got turned-off to prayer from the stale, musty old shuls, that could barely make a minyan and where old men clung desperately to memories of lost youth. I was taught to pray the old-fashioned way: I was handed a yellowed, time worn siddur (prayer book) and a stern finger pointed to the proper place, in case you wavered for even a moment. It seemed back then that prayer was continual, unintelligible muttering that had no beginning and no end. It took me a while to realize that there is actually a structure to Jewish prayer. Each service is, with particular variations, fundamentally the same--one or more introductory psalms, blessings before and after the Sh'ma (Hear, O Israel) and the Amidah (the standing benedictions), the central prayer itself at whose core lies the essence of Jewish prayer, praise, gratitude and petition.

As the first weeks rolled by, I desperately tried to make some sense out of the business of prayer, if no more than to relieve the boredom. It took me even longer to come to terms with what the Rabbis aptly termed, a service of the heart. What heart did they mean? Not the beating heart that sustains life, I reasoned, but the heart that resides deeper within and that's recognized as the seat of feelings. Slowly and awkwardly, I began to open my heart to God and express my heartfelt emotions. I, in fact, made myself vulnerable to the Divine presence. I allowed the text of the prayer book to guide me, through its imagery and my imagination, to the threshold of the Almighty where I unburdened my distressed feelings and passionately prayed for intimate nearness to Him.

The next phase came most unexpectedly, almost by way of a miracle. I ultimately found that standing before the majestic presence of the Source of Life, it was unbefitting to "kvetch" (complain) or blame anyone for my sad state.  I would discard my everyday concerns and approach Him in detached tranquility. You can't ask for special favors from the Creator, like health and wealth, after all who better knows our needs.

There are many books on prayer, but there's not much written on how to pray. So, I offer this piece of advice: Pray in the language you understand best. Get to know the distinct sections of the service, even if in English, but above all allow the meanings to direct your heart. That's the essence of prayerfulness; it's an altered state of consciousness, unceasingly mindful of God, similar to a meditative state and acquired through devoted kavannah (focused attention) in prayer.

Rabbi Zalman Shachter, the founder of Jewish renewal, many years ago, conducted the most moving prayer service, here in Providence, that I ever had the pleasure to attend. About twenty people assembled at about four in the afternoon on that particular Shabbat for minchah. Everyone immediately reached for a siddur when Reb Zalman announced that they would not be necessary. In a large circle, we stood hand in hand.  The diminishing sun cast graceful shadows on the oak paneled walls, as he softly chanted a lilting niggun (wordless melody) before initiating the recitation of the late afternoon service in English, punctuated with a few key berachot (blessings) in Hebrew. A mist of pure silence overshadowed the room except for Zalman's voice melodically davenning the Eighteen Benedictions. I felt for the first time what it meant to open my heart and feel the presence of God and myself concurrently. It was then I understood what prayer is all about--an encounter with the soul, that spark of holiness within. Since then I am always ready and eager to serve as a tenth man, or as it is said these days, a tenth person.