This 111-word story tells of a man whose siddur is always near, but it’s really about passing the gift of prayer from one generation to the next. To listen along, click on the triangle in the bar below (website only). The text follows.
Pinchas haLevi
Pinchas haLevi carries his siddur in his coat, in a special pocket near his heart. He sewed the pocket himself, double stitching the fabric so it would never tear, never risk spilling its sacred cargo. He checks the pocket each week, before Shabbat, to make sure the stitches are still tight. He knows the prayers by heart, every blessing, every song, every word. But Pinchas haLevi’s siddur is always with him. It was his father’s and his grandfather’s and his great-grandfather’s before that. And one day, if G-d wills it, the siddur will ride in a special pocket of a special coat near the heart of a child yet to come.
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This unlikely 103-word story is about a vegetarian shochet, the ritual slaughterer. There’s a taste of ironic humor in this short piece. To listen along, click on the triangle in the bar below (website only). The text follows.
Menachem the Shochet
Menachem the Shochet wasn’t born to kill cows, wasn’t born to slaughter sheep, wasn’t born to butcher chickens. Menachem eats no meat. He can’t understand the value of taking a life for something so mundane as a meal, something so common as food, something so inconsequential as a morsel. He prepares the knife with care, praying for forgiveness on earth and in heaven. No one’s blade in sharper, no one’s stroke smoother, no one’s cut cleaner and he cries as if he has sacrificed his only child. Menachem the Shochet wasn’t born for the slaughterhouse, which is why all his meat is Kosher.
Postscript: My daughter Dana has been a vegetarian for 17 years. This story is in honor of her journey. Here are a few more of my favorite stories: “Sarah Rivkah: A Challah Baking Story” and “Obediah.”
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Here’s another short, short story (167 words), this one about prayer and righteousness. To listen, click on the triangle in the bar below. The text follows.
Bracha Simcha
Bracha Simcha recites her morning prayers at night. At dawn, they make no sense. At dawn, she’s already busy. At dawn, she’s already making her rounds. Some days, the baker hands her a slice of new bread, even though she can’t pay for a piece of old crust. Some days, the butcher leaves her a small parcel of cooked meat. When her coat rips, the tailor mends it. When her boots tear, the shoemaker repairs them. And when her stomach growls her open palm can hold any coin she’s given. On cold nights, the rabbi lets her sleep by the fading embers of the chedar stove. As she closes her eyes, Bracha Simcha remembers the morning blessings. “Praised are You, O G-d Our Maker, who gives strength to the weary. Praised are you, O G-d Our Maker, who provides for all my needs…” And Bracha Simcha drifts off to sleep satisfied with her sacred duty: giving others the chance to cloth the naked and feed the hungry.
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This story celebrates the love Torah and the great joy of passing that love from generation to generation. It’s great for Shavuot and Simchat Torah. To listen along, click on the triangle in the bar below. The text follows.
Obediah
One morning, after his father went to t’fillah, Obediah the sofer’s son snuck into Papa’s workshop to write his own Torah. The workshop was so tidy, the surface of Papa’s desk clean and ready. Obediah took a sheet of parchment from a large wooden drawer. He took a jar of ink and a quill off the shelf and climbed into Papa’s chair so he could reach the top of the desk. He poured some ink into a small glass just like his father. And as he dipped the quill into the ink a shiver of joy went through him. Obediah would write his own Torah! The Torah of his father and his father and his father, who received it from the rabbis, who received it from the prophets, who received it from the judges, who received it from Joshua, who received it from Moses himself, who stood in G-d’s Holy Presence at Mount Sinai. And for a moment Obediah was there, he was there at Sinai with Moshe and Aaron and Miriam. Obediah saw the pillar of fire and the pillar of cloud. He heard the blast of G-d’s shofar and the deafening silence that followed. He watched as G-d held the holy mountain over the people’s heads. And Obediah the sofer’s son said to no one in particular, “Na’aseh v’neeshma. I will do, and I will listen.”
So Obediah began to write. Bresheit. In the beginning. Barah. Created. Elohim. G-d. “Yes!” Obediah thought. What could be more true and perfect and full of love then G-d in the beginning creating us in order of give us the Torah? In order to give me the Torah?
Just then, Papa walked into the study. Obediah looked up at Papa and looked back at his work. Drips of ink on the desk. Smudges on the back of the parchment. And three beautiful words of Torah.
“Papa, I’m writing a Torah.”
Papa picked him up and scolded him and told Obediah never to do this again and that Obediah did a beautiful job and never to do this again and how proud Papa was of Obediah and never to do this again. Papa put Obediah back in the chair, a tear of joy in his eye. “We’ll clean this up together,” Papa said out loud. But in his heart Papa said, “Shecheyanu v’kiy’manu v’higyanu lazman hazeh.”
And G-d looked down at Obediah and Papa and all the work which in creating G-d had made. And G-d said, “Tov Me-od.” It is very good.
Postscript: Click here for a list of all of my short stories. Click here for a list of Shavuot prayers and stories.
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This 131-word story is about the joy of reading Torah. The story is named for my cousin Jon’s oldest son, David. I got the idea after attending his Bar Mitzvah. It’s similar in theme and texture to two other short, short stories: “Mendel Baruch” and “Motyl the Fool.” To listen, click on the triangle in the bar below. The text follows.
Hershal Dovid : A Torah Reading Story
When Hershal Dovid stepped up to read Torah for the first time, when he walked up to the bimah and took his place on the pulpit, when he held the yad in his hand and pointed it at the Sacred Scroll, the parchment gleamed before his very eyes. Hershal’s body began to tremble, his heart filled with a luminous flow of holy light, his voice filled with the radiance of Divine gifts. As he chanted in perfect pitch, in perfect cadence, with perfect inflection, the Torah itself joined in the song. Hershal Dovid and the Word of G-d sang a duet of everlasting love, of everlasting devotion, the song of the ancient and the new, of the finite and the infinite, of our longing for G-d, of G-d’s longing for us.
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This short, short story celebrates the pure, unbounded joy of loving Torah. It’s a favorite and great for Simchat Torah. Here are more stories and prayers for Simchat Torah, including a prayer “For The Gift of Torah Scholarship.” The image is from a poster created for my “Whispered Prayer” by sofer Jamie Shear. To listen along as you read, click on the triangle in the bar below. The text follows.
Motyl the Fool
Motyl doesn’t know a single word of Talmud. He can’t recite a single verse of Torah. But when he lifts the Sacred Scroll on Simchat Torah, when he holds the wood in his hand and the velvet brushes his cheek, when the song wraps itself around his heart, the parchment itself can feel his joy. Motyl dances, clutching the Torah to his chest and singing with all his might, “Torah orah, Torah orah, hallelujah!” One by one the words of the Law rise off the Scroll to dance with him. He dances with Breisheit and Shabbat, with Shema and Hineni. And Motyl the Fool can feel the fire of G-d’s Word. Motyl doesn’t know a single word of Talmud. He can’t recite a single verse of Torah. Motyl doesn’t need to. The words know him.
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From the time of the Temple until today, our spiritual leaders have trembled at the enormity of task of praying for forgiveness on behalf of the entire Jewish people. In all corners of the globe, whereever Jews assemble to pray during these Days of Awe, Hineni — the leader’s prayer for humility — is in the heart of our leaders. The melody is haunting and beautiful. To listen to the story, click on the triangle in the slider bar below. The text follows.
Cantor Cohen
The morning before Kol Nidre, Cantor Cohen is dressed by sunrise, covered by his talit, wrapped in hope and fear. The gates of heaven, still shut. The gates of repentance, still locked. The gates of forgiveness, unmoved. What will it take, O God, for my voice to reach You? What will it take, Our Maker, for our pleas to move You? Should we shake heaven with a mighty song? Or should we cry in whispers, hoping to be heard? The prayer, ancient. The longing, present. And Cantor Cohen prays to pray with a perfect heart.
Postscript: Click here for the full list of prayers for the Yamim Noraim, including brief descriptions and links to each. Use it list to look for prayers topically. To narrow your search, here are lists divided by holiday and topic: Elul, Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur and Sukkot. Here’s a link to yizkor and memorial prayers.
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I peeked. Yes, once I peeked open my eyes during the S’hema. The tradition is to focus one’s mind uniquely on this prayer. To do so, many people cover their eyes. So do I. This once, I peeked. I needed to see. What I thought I saw — could it have been real? — led to this short, short, 108 word story.
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Mendel Baruch
One Shabbat morning, Mendel Baruch recited a perfect S’hema. His mind clear, his heart pure, his very soul declaring the unity of G-d. The entire congregation called out to heaven in love with heaven’s own words.
“S’hema Yisrael…” The chant rising from the men and women…
“The Eternal our G-d…” Almost visible, like smoke forming the script of Torah…
“The Eternal is One.” Like calligraphy drawn with song rising to praise the Holy Name.
When the words touched both heaven and earth, the angels joined the prayer. In that moment, the space between here and beyond was filled with Torah. And nothing, nothing existed but G-d’s holy word.
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I like to belt it out in song. The Kahal Shabbat service at Beth Emet: The Free Synagogue bursts with energy and joy. It’s perfect for me. Then, one Shabbat, it struck me that I could also pray by listening. This story is the result of that lovely Sabbath in which I let my song be sung — and my prayers prayed — by this wonderful community, by listening to the prayer. I still belt it out most of the time. Once in awhile, I pray with my ears instead. To listen along as you read, click on the triangle in the bar below. The text follows.
Chava bat Chana Chava bat Chana doesn’t pray like you or me. We sing. We chant. We lift our voices to G-d Most High, but Chava doesn’t utter a single word. She sits in the back of the synagogue, her arms resting gently in her lap. She takes a deep breath, then another. Her eyes close, her pulse slows, her mind empties until everything that makes her Chava bat Chana is still and quiet and ready. She listens to the one voice woven of the many. Yitzchack, who’s just buried his wife. Deborah, who’s ready to give birth. Chaim, who’s destined to become a rabbi. And Miriam, who lost a leg to illness. And Chava hears it all. Grief and joy. Pride and fear. The one voice woven of the many. And tears, tears well up from heaven into Chava’s heart.
Chava bat Chana doesn’t pray like you or me. She prays the secret prayer of our mothers, and their mothers and their mothers before them.
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Is it possible to become a prayer? Dov Mendel did. To listen along as you read, click on the triangle in the bar below. The text follows.
Dov Mendel
One Shabbat morning, Dov Mendel’s prayer was answered. It wasn’t much of a prayer. It was more of a question, a question that came to him as he stood in silent devotion. “Do my prayers rise to heaven? Can my tired voice be heard on high?” A question from an old man to the Ancient of Days.
In that instant, in the instant between breaths and blinks and heartbeats, Dov Mendel felt his soul become a prayer. It rose gently out of his body. He could see prayers fill the synagogue as they began the journey toward heaven. The prayers were wind and light, song and tear, humility and compassion, and Dov Mendel could see them all. The prayers lifted each other, rising through the roof of the shul.
As he rose with the prayers into the sunshine, Dov Mendel could see from his body and soul at the same time as if he were in two places at once. He saw the treetops and villages and all the prayers rising with him. Dov Mendel, his soul a prayer, rose through the blue sky gaining strength from the other prayers, becoming a great roar of praise for the Almighty God, Creator of heaven and earth. Dov Mendel was a trumpet, the prayers a symphony, as if the Shechinah herself lent her voice to the song. And in the instant between breaths and blinks and heartbeats, Dov Mendel was back in his synagogue and back in his body, as if nothing had happened.
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“Alden has become one of Reform Judaism’s master poet-liturgists…" - Religion News Service, Dec. 23, 2020
“Mesmerizing, spiritual, provocative, and thoughtful, Alden was everything you would want in a guest scholar and teacher.” – Rabbi Denise L. Eger, Congregation Kol Ami, Los Angeles, and Past President, CCAR
"Alden Solovy has become one of the most revered liturgists of the last decade…" - Jewish Post & Opinion, March 29, 2023
“Alden left everyone feeling inspired.” – Cantor Jeri Robins, Shabbat Chair, NewCAJE6
