Parashat Mishpatim

Our Mothers' Lost Prayers

I’ve heard it said that one of the greatest friends—and one of the worst enemies—of the Jewish people was Johannes Gutenberg.

Gutenberg invented the printing press in 1450. And with this amazing invention, he launched a literary revolution—especially for the Jewish people.

 The Torah and all its prayers, texts and commentaries could now be studied and passed from generation to generation.

Yet, there was a spiritual underside to this invention. It meant that prayer, in many ways, became frozen in time.

Rather than being fluid, spirituality too often became linked to a written page rather than an evolving heart. And that, in many ways, has been Judaism’s challenge over the generations.

When we attend synagogue, either on Shabbat or on the High Holidays, we often feel a disconnect: Are these prayers really speaking to us? Are they “authentic” to current and newer generations?

“Surely,” one teenager once shared with me on Yom Kippur, “We all can’t be this sinful. Where is the positivity?”

Indeed, as I read this week’s Torah portion—Mishpatim (rules)—I began thinking about which rules were most meaningful to me as I was growing up, and who taught them to me.

More often than not it was my mother.

For while this week’s parashah shares many commandments about empathy, kindness, fairness and equality, a significant number focus on how men should navigate the ancient world.

However, we no longer live in a world where wives or slaves are "acquired."

More meaningfully, as I reread this week's Torah portion, my thoughts drifted to my mother, and a few of her many commandments.

“The hard today will be easy tomorrow.”

“Everything has a home.”

“Whatever you wish for yourself, that is what I wish for you.”

This Shabbat we will commemorate two important events:

The reading of 53 “rules,” which follow the giving last week of the 10 Commandments.

And, we will mark Rosh Chodesh, the new moon, as we celebrate the arrival of the Jewish month of Adar.

In ancient times, Rosh Chodesh was particularly celebrated by women. It was common for women to take a day off. Some would meet in groups, to study, to pray or to relax.

In recent years, this ritual has been revived by many congregations.

And, during the 16^th Century, this led to the first publication of prayers specific to women.

They are known as techines, often translated as “vernacular prayers to be recited outside of the traditional prayer book.” Most are in Yiddish, and many have been republished in recent years.

For example, in ancient times, the male prayer for approaching childbirth may have been, “May my wife give birth to a son.”

But the techines version reads closer to, “Dear God, I am so scared of going into labor. May it be your will that I survive.”

Some women’s prayers express a hope that the Shabbat challah will rise just right.

Another reads, “May it be your will, Lord my God and God of my forebears, that you provide nourishment for your humble creation, this tiny child, plenty of milk, as much as he needs.”

This past week, I remembered one Shabbat morning in 1992, as I was co-leading services in Edmonton, Canada.

At about 11 am, a stately woman entered the sanctuary dressed in a heavy coat and a large fur hat. She sat at the end of the fourth row, and soon after, I came off the bimah to welcome her.

In a thick Russian accent, she shared: “I have just arrived from the former Soviet Union where we were not allowed to be Jewish. I just want to sit here and be Jewish.”

A few minutes later, I approached her and asked, “Are you comfortable leading us in the Prayer for Peace.”

“Oh yes,” she replied, eyes sparkling. And in her pronounced Russian tone, she soon began, “May we see the day when war and bloodshed cease, and a great peace shall embrace the entire world…”

When she concluded, she looked up off the page and added, Baruch Atta Adonai—Shomeah Tefillah. “Praised are you God, who has heard my prayer.”

There was a quiet pause, with some tearing, as many heard the silenced voices of generations of Jewish Russians.

But then the mood was broken by the voice of one of our “traditionalists,” who whispered a bit too loud, “Wait a minute. That last blessing isn't not part of the actual prayer. She can’t say that.”

At that moment, someone turned and replied, “Oh yes, she can.”

It was perhaps the purest prayer I had ever—and have since—heard.

We, as Jews, are so preciously linked to our tradition and to history. Our fixed prayers provide us with consistency. They define in part who we are.

But on this Shabbat, as we read from a portion of the Torah directed in part towards men, I will think of my mother and both of my late grandmothers, whose laws were laws of kindness, whose lessons equally endure.

And, while we thank Johannes Gutenberg for enabling us in print to link past and future generations in synagogues and places of study, let us also remember the prayers and lessons we learned at home.

I will remember those prayers most on this Shabbat, as we mark a new month and recall the role of women in shaping our tradition.

Their prayers may not have been widely recorded on paper, but they remain forever embedded in our hearts.

Shabbat shalom, v’kol tuv.

Shabbat Shalom, v'kol tuv. 

Rabbi Irwin Huberman.