 | Once upon a time, long before Jews were called a "People of the Book" seeking guidance and instruction in a vast sea of sacred text, spiritual life had no printed instructions. Long before pathways of spiritual practice became carved in bedrock, people lived spiritually – letting themselves feel spiritual impulses moment by moment and naturally responding from their hearts and souls. Long before there existed siddurim (prayer books) chock full of approved words of liturgy for personal and collective prayer, people prayed spontaneously, unconcerned if their words were "correct" by someone else's standards. And fittingly, Torah's first recorded prayer was for healing. |
By Rabbi David Evan Markus
Parashat Beha'alotekha 5784 (2024)
The prayer for healing is a keystone of Jewish spiritual practice. In seminary, I teach a whole course on illness and healing. Many of us know from experience that sometimes the human journey of pain and illness is one of the most powerful impulses that turn us toward (and/or away from) God, spirit, meaning and holiness.
So it should be little surprise, as we read in this week's Torah portion (Beha'alotekha), that Torah's recorded prayer was for healing – and it has much to teach us about prayer and spiritual life themselves.
The backstory is juicy and provocative (Num. 12:1-13). Hot and bothered in the vast desert, Moses' siblings Aaron and Miriam grow tired of Moses' uniquely close relationship with God. In a fit of sibling rivalry, they speak against Moses in an overt fit of racism (Moses' wife was from Kush, in modern-day Sudan, and probably Black), insisting that God speaks also through them. God summons the three for a dressing down, after which Miriam is stricken with tzora'at (a spiritual sickness much like leprosy). Aaron tells Moses to do something ...
... and Moses spontaneously cries out to God, אֵל נָא רְפָא נָא לָהּ / El na r'fa na lah – "Please God, please heal her" (Num. 12:13).
Parashat Beha'alotekha 5784 (2024)
The prayer for healing is a keystone of Jewish spiritual practice. In seminary, I teach a whole course on illness and healing. Many of us know from experience that sometimes the human journey of pain and illness is one of the most powerful impulses that turn us toward (and/or away from) God, spirit, meaning and holiness.
So it should be little surprise, as we read in this week's Torah portion (Beha'alotekha), that Torah's recorded prayer was for healing – and it has much to teach us about prayer and spiritual life themselves.
The backstory is juicy and provocative (Num. 12:1-13). Hot and bothered in the vast desert, Moses' siblings Aaron and Miriam grow tired of Moses' uniquely close relationship with God. In a fit of sibling rivalry, they speak against Moses in an overt fit of racism (Moses' wife was from Kush, in modern-day Sudan, and probably Black), insisting that God speaks also through them. God summons the three for a dressing down, after which Miriam is stricken with tzora'at (a spiritual sickness much like leprosy). Aaron tells Moses to do something ...
... and Moses spontaneously cries out to God, אֵל נָא רְפָא נָא לָהּ / El na r'fa na lah – "Please God, please heal her" (Num. 12:13).
These ancient words have stood the test of time. Thousands of years later, we still repeat them. They're the core or inspiration of every Jewish healing liturgy. They adorn jewelry and art across the Jewish world. They flow into Shabbat evening's famous liturgical poem Yedid Nefesh, which asks God to heal the soul from the week (and, provocatively, heal Shabbat and the Shabbat Bride from their loneliness awaiting the arrival of this next Shabbat).
We have loved these words into an eternal life. But why?
One reason, I suspect, is that illness and healing (not the same as "cure") are so universally human. We all experience them. They challenge our sense of control and invulnerability. They force us to confront limitations, disappointments and mortality. Inherently, they're rich fodder for spirituality.
Another reason is their simplicity. The five words of Moses' spontaneous prayer are "easy" to say – uncomplicated, unadorned. There's no buttering up God, no flowery preparatory rhetoric. They're raw and direct, portable, immediate.
It's what we might call an arrow prayer. Imagine being an archer, shooting an arrow. Prayer can be like that: load the arrow, aim and release – boom, quick, by your own impulse. Moses didn't need a siddur to tell him what to say. He didn't need permission, or the right time, or a long prelude. Arrow prayer: load, aim and release.
Our ancestors followed Moses' example. Tradition holds that My namesake, King David, uttered 150 emotion-filled Psalms that became liturgy but began as one person's intimate and personal words to a personal God of intimacy. One of David's successors, King Hezekiah, learned of an impending fatal illness, "turned his face to the wall and prayed to YHVH: 'Please YHVH, remember how I walked before You sincerely and wholeheartedly, doing what was good in Your eyes,' and Hezekiah wept greatly" (Isaiah 38:2-3).
Direct. Personal. Raw. Load, aim and release.
Don't get me wrong: I'm all for liturgy. Liturgy – an agreed 'script' of structured prayer – is important to help inspire, express, teach, connect generations and connect community. But liturgy is not prayer. Liturgy is like a recipe, but prayer is the meal. Liturgy is a noun, but prayer asks a verb. As theologian Jonathan Magonet so beautifully put it:
We have loved these words into an eternal life. But why?
One reason, I suspect, is that illness and healing (not the same as "cure") are so universally human. We all experience them. They challenge our sense of control and invulnerability. They force us to confront limitations, disappointments and mortality. Inherently, they're rich fodder for spirituality.
Another reason is their simplicity. The five words of Moses' spontaneous prayer are "easy" to say – uncomplicated, unadorned. There's no buttering up God, no flowery preparatory rhetoric. They're raw and direct, portable, immediate.
It's what we might call an arrow prayer. Imagine being an archer, shooting an arrow. Prayer can be like that: load the arrow, aim and release – boom, quick, by your own impulse. Moses didn't need a siddur to tell him what to say. He didn't need permission, or the right time, or a long prelude. Arrow prayer: load, aim and release.
Our ancestors followed Moses' example. Tradition holds that My namesake, King David, uttered 150 emotion-filled Psalms that became liturgy but began as one person's intimate and personal words to a personal God of intimacy. One of David's successors, King Hezekiah, learned of an impending fatal illness, "turned his face to the wall and prayed to YHVH: 'Please YHVH, remember how I walked before You sincerely and wholeheartedly, doing what was good in Your eyes,' and Hezekiah wept greatly" (Isaiah 38:2-3).
Direct. Personal. Raw. Load, aim and release.
Don't get me wrong: I'm all for liturgy. Liturgy – an agreed 'script' of structured prayer – is important to help inspire, express, teach, connect generations and connect community. But liturgy is not prayer. Liturgy is like a recipe, but prayer is the meal. Liturgy is a noun, but prayer asks a verb. As theologian Jonathan Magonet so beautifully put it:
Liturgy
defines
the
Community
that
prays.
Prayer is the offering of each individual.
Liturgy affirms the values of Community.
Prayer sets those values on our lips and in our hearts.
Liturgy unites those who share a tradition.
Prayer connects us to all who pray.
Liturgy describes the boundaries of a community.
Prayer locates us in creation as a whole.
Liturgy offers a language for our prayer.
Prayer reaches out beyond language.
Liturgy places us within a history.
Prayer opens us to the future.
Liturgy invites our emotions.
Prayer refines our emotions.
Liturgy begins with the world we know.
Prayer suggests worlds to be explored.
Liturgy provides a place in which to pray.
Prayer tests the truth of what we pray.
Liturgy seeks to bring God into the world.
Prayer helps make room for God in our lives.
Liturgy provides security, continuity and certainty.
Prayer disturbs, challenges and confronts.
Liturgy without prayer may become sterile.
Prayer without liturgy may become selfish.
Liturgy is an event. Prayer is a risk.
Liturgy sets limits. Prayer offers space.
Liturgy asserts. Prayer expresses hope.
Liturgy is the motor. Prayer is the fuel.
Liturgy is the vehicle. Prayer is the journey.
Liturgy is the companion. Prayer is the destination.
Prayer is the offering of each individual.
Liturgy affirms the values of Community.
Prayer sets those values on our lips and in our hearts.
Liturgy unites those who share a tradition.
Prayer connects us to all who pray.
Liturgy describes the boundaries of a community.
Prayer locates us in creation as a whole.
Liturgy offers a language for our prayer.
Prayer reaches out beyond language.
Liturgy places us within a history.
Prayer opens us to the future.
Liturgy invites our emotions.
Prayer refines our emotions.
Liturgy begins with the world we know.
Prayer suggests worlds to be explored.
Liturgy provides a place in which to pray.
Prayer tests the truth of what we pray.
Liturgy seeks to bring God into the world.
Prayer helps make room for God in our lives.
Liturgy provides security, continuity and certainty.
Prayer disturbs, challenges and confronts.
Liturgy without prayer may become sterile.
Prayer without liturgy may become selfish.
Liturgy is an event. Prayer is a risk.
Liturgy sets limits. Prayer offers space.
Liturgy asserts. Prayer expresses hope.
Liturgy is the motor. Prayer is the fuel.
Liturgy is the vehicle. Prayer is the journey.
Liturgy is the companion. Prayer is the destination.
I'm all for liturgy when we're together, and I'm all for liturgy for everything it offers. But in the final analysis, Moses needed no liturgy. Neither did Hezekiah. In a moment of encounter, neither do we.
So if the journey of illness and healing beckons you, if anything in life beckons you, to reach toward the One we call God, remember that you need no invitation: you already have it. You need no liturgy: there's no prerequisite. You need no set time: the time is now. You need no liturgy: the words are in your heart.
Load, aim and release.
So if the journey of illness and healing beckons you, if anything in life beckons you, to reach toward the One we call God, remember that you need no invitation: you already have it. You need no liturgy: there's no prerequisite. You need no set time: the time is now. You need no liturgy: the words are in your heart.
Load, aim and release.
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