Recently, a friend mentioned that she thought of prayer as a discussion, an opportunity to talk with God that did not require a stylized format. That got me thinking.

I like the idea of having a discussion with God. Setting aside time each day for this serious business of talking to God seems extraordinarily wise. What could be more important than telling HaShem what’s bothering us, what’s on our minds or what’s important to us? Listening for a reply can also be evocative. 

So the discussion format resonates with many of us.

But what should we do about ritualized prayer? What about our ancestors’ desire to set in stone the prayers and processes necessary for proper attention to our spiritual needs? Do we not also need to pay our respects to these precedents, to their tried-and-true systems?

According to the talmudic rabbis, biblical Hannah taught us that prayer must be from the heart and must involve a personal request. Prayer in that format is personal and individual. She stood in front of the holy altar and mumbled her words. God heard. Yet from this individual and very personal moment, the rabbis instituted a public pattern for prayer that is fully formatted and regularized. Three times a day we stand to utter the Amidah, the Standing Silent Prayer, as Hannah once did. Her discussion with God went viral, as it were. And I, for one, do not want to forget that. I proudly stand on her shoulders when I pray. 

Maimonides taught that every prayer moment must contain three factors: gratitude, praise of God and a sincere request. Again, I see the wisdom in this requirement and would not forgo the opportunity to follow it. 

Using the formal prayer book, then, guarantees that some of these requirements are met. It keeps us in touch with our ancestors and their heritage. We know we are following the tradition, and that allows our prayer to feel authentic. 

Additionally, praying in Hebrew keeps alive other parts of our ancient heritage. The ritual of language and word, of structure and poem, keep formatting our Jewishness as we utter the words and phrases themselves. The physical activity itself is part of the challenge of prayer. It is not just about cognition, about understanding the words or discussing elements of our lives with God or a friend. There is much more to prayer than that. 

In fact, according to some scholars, one purpose of prayer is to enable us to judge ourselves. Rather than await a decree from God, we are to stand in judgment of our own deeds and repair our lives. The discussion then is often between me, myself and I. Standing before God, I am awed by God’s gift of life and the created world. I must find a way to stand there and speak. Using the language of centuries-old prayer is perhaps the only way we can speak at that moment. 

The challenge of prayer goes far beyond discussion and my narrow understanding. It involves performance – singing, swaying, sitting, standing, remembering, smiling, crying, moving and being moved. All our senses are committed, as we should be. Each utterance binds the individual to community, a community of those present and those who are not present. There is something awesome at stake. And it is astonishing, if not overconfident, to think that we can communicate with God and our community this way. So the language must be judiciously developed and selected. 

The prayers of our history, then, provide us with foundation in the process of prayer. They are not to be thrown out. But private discussion – our own personal moments with God – are also valuable. How and in what ways we each find our own voice is what makes Jewish life so splendid.