Noah (Hasidism)

The Ba’al Shem Tov on Prayer

How can one even begin to talk about the Baal Shem Tov? It would be no exaggeration to say that, for Hasidim, this charismatic, somewhat mysterious founder of the moment, is almost on the plane of Moses himself. On the one hand, his was clearly an overwhelming, charismatic personality: an extraordinary embodiment of holiness, of esoteric knowledge, of the qualities of direct contact with the Divine usually associated with prophecy; on the other, combined with a simplicity, almost naivete, that somehow made him accessible to the simple folk. But his life is so imbued with folk legend and shrouded in mystery that it is difficult for modern people with a modicum of historical sense to sort out truth from fiction, or embellishment from empirical fact. (Although attempts have been made by scholars to do so in recent years, most notably by Moshe Rossman, author of the first scholarly biography of this great figure.)

R. Israel son of Eliezer was born around 1700 in the Ukrainian town of Medzibozh; the first forty years of his life were spent in anonymity, working for his living in the limestone quarries of the Carpathian mountains. During this time he would wander in the fields, meditating and praying with great ecstasy, and secretly studying both the revealed and hidden Torah, especially Sefer ha-Zohar. Legend has it that he received esoteric teachings from the mysterious Adam Shem Tov, described as a disciple of Ahiyah the Shilonite. At the age of 40 he “revealed” himself, and began teaching his Torah to a small circle of disciples. After his death in 1760, his closest disciple, Reb Dov Baer of Mezhirech, “the Maggid,” assumed the mantle of leadership of the movement, organizing Hasidism into a popular movement, which by the end of the eighteenth century had swept over much of Jewry in Poland and Eastern Europe.

As for his teaching: like many religious innovators, be they founders of new religions or teachers of radically new paths within existing traditions (comparisons come to mind of Jesus or Gautama Buddha; I hope none of my pious readers will be offended), the Baal Shem Tov did not leave behind any written presentation of his teachings (with the possible exception of a small mystical commentary on Psalm 107, the psalm recited by Hasidim at Minhah of Erev Shabbat); rather, his teaching (and the legend of his life) was transmitted orally among the circle of his devoted disciples and recorded only some time after his death. Among the best-known books which purport to be recordings of his verbal teachings during those early years are Tzava’at ha-Ribash and Keter Shem Tov. There is also a biography, or rather hagiography, written in the early nineteenth century, Shivhei ha-Besht, in which the numerous tales about his life are organized into a coherent narrative. About the reliability of these, as well as many details of his biography, there is no little controversy.

In addition to these two books, the Baal Shem Tov is quoted innumerable times in the writings of his disciples, the teachers of the second and third generation of Hasidism: R. Yaakov Yosef of Polnoyye, a short snippet of whose Toldot Ya’akov Yosef was presented in our last issue; the Maggid himself, in his Maggid Devarav le-Ya’akov; Nahum of Chernobol, author of Meor Einayim; the Baal Shem’s grandson, R. Ephraim of Sudilkow, author of Degel Mahaneh Efraim; and other hasidic greats. The phrase “I heard from my master, the Baal Shem Tov” always enjoys a place of honor in these books.

All these citations from the Besht were collected and systematically arranged according to the weekly Torah portions in a work entitled Sefer Ba’al Shem Tov, compiled in the late nineteenth century by Shimon Menahem Mendel of Gevartschev, but only published many years after his death, in Lodz in 1939, which is the most comprehensive collection of the Besht’s teachings. (My friend, Hasidut scholar Menahem Kallus, has made the interesting observation that this work was compiled during the same era that classics scholars in the West were busily compiling and researching fragments of the teachings of Socrates.) Perhaps the best known part of this book is the lengthy section in Parshat Noah entitled Amud ha-Tefillah (“The Prayer Stand”), an anthology of all of the teachings of the Besht pertaining specifically to the subject of prayer—a major concern in Hasidism. Indeed, could well say that prayer occupies a position of centrality in Hasidism analogous to that held by Torah study in traditional Rabbinic Judaism, both prior to Hasidism and parallel to it, in the oppositional movement of Mitnaggedism. Indeed, the single most important innovation of Hasidism may well have been the placing in the center of religious life of prayer, a devotional act whose seeming simplicity belies its depths. As R. Yaakov Yosef of Polonnoye, who “converted” to Hasidism when he had already attained the stature of a great Talmudic scholar, purportedly said, “It is more difficult for me to daven one Shemonah Esreh than to learn five blatt (folio pages) of Talmud.”

Why Parshat Noah, specifically? Because of a word-play on the word teivah, “ark,” metaphorically interpreted as referring to the words of prayer, leading to the following teaching with which this section opens:

§15. “You shall make a window for the ark, and place it [or: finish it] to one cubit above” [Gen 6:16]. Rabbi Israel Baal Shem said: “You shall make a window [or: light] for the ark”: that the word (teivah) that a person speaks in Torah and prayer shall be radiant [mazhir; from the same root as tzohar, “window”]. For in each letter there are worlds, and souls, and elements of divinity. And they ascend and connect and unite with one another and with the divinities, and thereafter the letters unite and connect together and become a word, and thereafter they unite in true unity with the divine. And a person must incorporate his soul within each of these attributes, for then all the worlds unite as one and ascend, and there is great joy and pleasure without limit. And this is “you shall make it with a lower [story], and second and third [stories]” [ibid.]—that is: worlds, and souls, and divinities. For there are three worlds there [from Zohar, Shelah, III.159a].

To understand this passage, we first need to clarify several implicit assumptions. First and most significant is the central role here of what might be called “word mysticism”: the significance of words and letters, in the literal sense. This is based upon an ancient Rabbinic tradition, itself little more than a spelling out of what is already almost implicit in the biblical text, stating that “With ten “sayings” [i.e., acts of speech] the world was created” (Avot 5.1). The actual words of Divine speech recorded in Genesis 1 are thus seen as the instruments of Creation. Likewise at Sinai, the great moment of revelation was first and foremost an act of speech and a revelation of words: the Ten Commandments recorded on the tablets of the covenant, and the text of the Torah as a whole. Hence, the very letters of the Hebrew alphabet are filled with mystical power. This is a tradition of great antiquity, that long predates Hasidim or even Spanish Kabbalah, but already appears in the ancient mystical work known as Sefer Yetzirah. The approach to language here is radically different from that accepted, almost automatically, in modern culture: words are not merely functional, semantic instruments, conventional signs and symbols created by and assigned meaning by human culture, but innate metaphysical entities of cosmic significance.

Hasidism took this idea one step further. Not only when these words and letters are spoken by God do they become instruments of power, but also when man does so. Hence, the act of prayer is not merely a recitation of liturgy as a form of expressing human feelings and longings, as a modern religionist might have it, but a utilization and mystical elevation by man of those same letters with which God created the universe; more than that, according to Lurianic Kabbalah it is an act of tikkun, of correction of the primordial flaw in the cosmos. By extension, the liturgy itself becomes a holy text, similar to the written Torah. The recitation of these particular words, at this time and in this specific sequence, becomes a mystical act, a vehicle for holiness. Hence, one must put ones entire self, ones whole soul into it, to “make the words shine.”

“And in each letter there are worlds, and souls, and elements of divinity.” A third concept important for understanding this, and many other texts, is the four-tiered picture of the world. Basically, the idea is that the universe is composed of four “worlds” or planes: the physical, material world, as we know it; the world of “souls,” of spiritual being, what we might call inner, subjective reality; the world of angels, or divine beings; and the world of God himself. In human terms, these are sometimes described as corresponding to the realms of action, speech, thought, and soul (that element within man which is part of God Himself). In Kabbalistic terminology, these are most often known as The World of Action, of Formation, of Creation, and of Emanation (asiyah, yetzirah, beriah, atzilut). In this passage, only the three lower worlds, those which are not themselves part of the divine unity, are mentioned: “worlds,” “souls” and “elements of divinity” [i.e., angelic beings]—olamot, neshamot, elohot. In any event, prayer is conceived as a kind of ascent among these worlds.

[The passage continues with a series of Kabbalistic allusions, whose elucidation here would be excessively lengthy and esoteric for this forum. The teaching ends with a kind of recapitulation of the theme with which it started:] “Come into the ark/word, you and all your household” [Gen 6:18]: that is, with all your body and all your powers, come into the word.

In the next passage, the idea of prayer as spiritual ascent through the worlds comes through more clearly. As we said above, as Sefer Baal Shem Tov is a compendium, in which various secondary sources are brought as is, there is a certain amount of repetition and duplication— but this itself can be of interest, shedding light as it does on the same basic idea from different angles, as retold by different disciples, or perhaps as articulated by the Baal Shem Tov himself on different occasions, with different emphases.

§16 In prayer, a person needs to put all his power into the words, and he should move thus from letter to letter until he forgets his corporeality; and he should think that the letters combine and connect with one another, and this is a great pleasure. For if in physicality this is a pleasure, all the more so in spirituality.

And this is the World of Formation [yetzirah]. And thereafter he enters into the letters of thought, and he shall no longer hear what he says, and this is where he enters into the World of Creation [beriah]. And thereafter he enters into the attribute of Nothingness [ayin], in which all of his corporeal powers are nullified, and this is the World of Emanation, the attribute of Wisdom.

Prayer is depicted here as a process of spiritual ascent through the various divine worlds. But this requires real immersion in prayer, to the extent that a person forgets his physical body! In some schemes, the four main sections of Shaharit, the weekday Morning Prayer (which is, in some sense, the main prayer of the day, being the longest one and that which opens the day) are seen as corresponding to the four worlds: the opening blessings and Korbanot; Pesukei de-Zimra, the psalms of praise; Shema with its blessings; and the Amidah, the Prayer par excellence, in which one enters into communion with God, described here as “entering into the attribute of Nothingness”—that is, God as He is in Himself—which requires nullifying ones own self, and especially ones own will.

This brings us to the concept of ayin, the nothing, and the related concept of bittul, self-negation or nullification, which are very important in Hasidut. This idea, which Rivka Schatz has identified with the attitude described in religious studies as “quietism,” refers to the emptying out of ones own ego, to nullifying the feeling of selfhood—not necessarily passivity in the sense of not doing anything, but in the sense of “thrusting one’s lot” upon God, detachment from the feeling that one’s own effort, hishtadlut, is what is important in life. One more comment about the instruction to “go into the word” and to “make the word shine.” This idea has been interpreted in many different ways in Hasidism. There is slow, deep, meditative prayer in which a person contemplates the meaning of each and every word of prayer; not only its literal sense, but perhaps also in terms of its mystical “kavvanot,” the divine worlds and sefirot to which each word refers. In this, Hasidism continued the traditions of the Kabbalah that preceded it. But Hasidut also wished to teach a path for the ordinary person, not only the mystical adept; hence, it also included a nearly opposite path. Precisely because the words are holy, the individual worshipper’s understanding of their meaning is of secondary importance; they may be read super fast, almost like a mantra, provided that they are recited with an intensity of energy and devotion and faith. Many of us have doubtless seen Hasidim davening quickly, literally running through the prescribed text so rapidly that one wonders how he could possibly have said, let alone understood, all the words? But the “attachment” here is of another kind: elevating the words through filling them with ones enthusiasm and vitality and life energy, rather than filtering them through the mind. This, too, is to be found in the Besht’s teachings: but I am getting ahead of myself.

One last short statement, that may be surprising to those familiar with Hasidism as it is practiced today:

§39. He should take care that his prayer, both in summer and in winter, is before sunrise. That is, that most of the prayer, until close to Keriat Shema, should be recited before sunrise. For the difference between before sunrise and after sunrise is as great as the distance from east to west. For then one is still able to easily negate the Harsh Judgments. And the sign of this is , ”And it [the sun] comes forth like, a bridegroom leaving his chamber, rejoicing like a strong man to run his course …. And naught is hidden from its heat [hamato; also, “his sun”—Ps 19:6-7]. Do not read, “His heat” but “His anger” [heimato]. That is, once the sun has gone out over the earth, then he is not hidden from the judgments that come from angels of anger. Therefore, let not this be a small thing in your eyes, for it is great. And the Baal Shem was very meticulous about this matter, and sometimes when there was no prayer quorum at that time, he would pray alone.

This passage is interesting because later Hasidism was notorious for its blatant disregard for the halakhically proper times for prayer. Mitnaggedim, such as the author of Nefesh ha-Hayyim, would mock the Hasidim who “don’t say Minhah [the Afternoon prayer] until three stars have appeared” (while the halakha requires that it be recited before sundown, or at latest, under duress, during the twilight hour when there is still some daylight visible in the sky). Or else Hasidim would engage in lengthy preparations prior to the Morning Prayer, reciting it in the late morning hours after the proper time for reciting Shema, or even after midday. The Hasidim, for their part, defended their behavior by saying that the important thing was kavvanah, and that if they were not spiritually “ready” at the prescribed time, it was preferable to delay praying until one could do so with the proper spirit, rather than to do so mechanically. All this relates to an ancient tension within classical Judaism between keva (“fixity”) and kavvanah (“intention” or perhaps “inwardness”)—or, in modern idiom, discipline vs. spontaneity in worship or, even, institutionalized form vs. individual feeling (cf. Avot 2.18).

This conflict underlay an exchange I witnessed many years ago involving the late Reb Shlomo Carlebach (whose yahrzeit falls during this month, on 16 Heshvan). He had arrived at a certain college campus to “do” a Shabbat one snowy mid-winter Shabbat (the huge snow drifts and soft, constant snowfall seemed to create a world that was already utterly still and “shabbosdik”). After his Friday afternoon nap, he arrived at the campus synagogue when it was already pitch black. “All right, hevrah (gang), let’s daven Minhah!” The student gabbai (today a distinguished Judaic scholar) interrupted him: “I’m sorry, we’ve already said Minhah; we’re davening Ma’ariv now.” Shlomo countered this with the retort, “Are you a clock Jew or a neshama (soul) Jew?” The gabbai, quite unabashed, asserted that he was the former—but Shlomo nevertheless davened Minhah.

But here, in an earlier stage of Hasidism, being a “clock Jew” or a “neshama Jew” were not yet considered mutually exclusive. Moreover, the Besht here insists upon the ideal halakhic time for Morning Prayer, that known as vatikin, the practice of the pious men of old, in which one begins praying about dawn, reaching the Amidah precisely at sunrise. (Rambam brings this as the proper way to pray lehatkhila) But there is another twist: the Besht gives the reason for this, not as the halakhic consideration, but a spiritual-mystical one or, if you will, a theurgic concept. Prayer can affect change in the cosmos—but it is itself subject to certain law. There are certain times when Mercy or Judgment are more predominant. It is as if God Himself is hedged in by various metaphysical forces: “angels of anger” or His Own Attribute of Judgment.

Some interim conclusions: What are we to make of all this? How is the modern Jew, who seeks to deepen his ”spirituality” (however one understands that popular buzz word), and may even be committed to regular thrice-daily prayer, apply these ideas to his life? The questions often asked by many modern Jews are much more basic: Why pray at all? How can one believe in a God who answers prayer, or who intervenes in the acts and destiny of mankind? Even many Orthodox, observant Jews see loyalty to halakha and to Jewish community as the essence of their religious experience, enabling them to somehow bypass the hard questions of theology. Certainly, the concepts of word mysticism, of ascent through the four worlds, and all the other assumptions implied it much of the above, must seem very remote and even bizarre from the standpoint of a 21st century world-view.

For starters, perhaps these passages may be read, at least at first, less as direct instruction, than as models or examples of what an intensely lived prayer life could look like. The fact that there were or are people for whom prayer exists at such a level of intensity, for whom kavvanah was a central life-goal to which such intense was invested, may serve as a kind of model for us. Perhaps one can make an unexpected use of the centrality of story telling in Hasidism: if we cannot light the fire of prayer with the same conceptual structures that our ancestors did, if we cannot see prayer as an ascent through a four-tiered universe of spiritual worlds, or the letters literally as bearers of Divine potentcies, we can at least tell the story.

Or, to put it in another way: There are those for whom Maimonides serves as a central model for the synthesis an engagement of Judaism with the best of the philosophy and thought of his day, without these latter-day Maimonideans feeling the need to adopt his neo-Aristotelianism, specifically. In an analogous way, a modern approach to Hasidut may start by adopting its model of an emotionally intense, deeply engaging life of prayer and mitzvot, without necessarily adopting all of the specific contents of its Kabbalistic world-view. These and similar readings in the Besht’s teaching of prayer may then serve us as an inspiration to find our own new pathways in prayer.