Avinu Malkenu
The origins of this prayer are assumed to be old, so old that the only history we have about this prayer is that of legend:
In the century following the fall of Jerusalem, there was a terrible and life threatening drought in the land. Rabbi Eliezer, a pious scholar known for his miracles was sought out by the community to intervene. Through prayer he once made a carob tree move. On another occasion he succeeded in making a river to flow upstream. Indeed, he had confidence that he could bring about the much needed rain. So, he meditated, prayed, fasted - went as far as to ordain a number of fast days upon the whole of the community - but to no avail. No rain fell.
But then, Rabbi Akiba stepped up and exclaimed, “ אבינו מלכינו, אין לנו מלך אלה אתה, אבינו מלכינו עשה עמנו למען שמך" (Our Father our King, we have no King but you; our Father our King, do for us for the sake of your name) whereupon, it immediately rained!
A wonderful counter to the Deuteronomic tradition: bring rain, God, bring reward - blessing, simply for the sake of your name. Not because of our deeds, simply because of who you are, and because we are in need. The Talmudic version underscores this important idea behind the midrash by emphasizing Akiba’s forbearance and his willingness to forgive as the reason behind his prayers being answered as opposed to his deeds or even greatness. (Tan 25b)
Over time different communities have added verses - thus explaining the modern litany of Avinu Malkenu that in some rites extends to 50 sentences, yet at the heart of this prayer is that repetitive opening motif: Avinu Malkenu.
אבינו מלכינו, a Divine paradox, or better yet as a colleague of mine, Rabbi Barry Block, in a High Holiday sermon delivered 2 years ago reflected, a “Divine Oxymoron.” This phrase incorporates two very different images of God. Avinu, literally our Father, our parent, who compassionately gives us life, nurtures us, protects us, and stays with us through thick and thin. Malkenu, literally our King, a sovereign ruler who establishes rules and metes out justice sternly and objectively. The God of Deuteronomy, who lays out the blessings and curses of this week’s parashat Ki Tavo is indeed that melech, but as we know from reading our entire cycle of Torah, God, Avinu, our parent, is just as present in Jewish tradition. Sir Jonathan Sacks, the head Rabbi and leader of Great Britain’s mainstream Orthodox United Synagogue, views the placement of these words together as a reminder of God’s role in history - God created the world and humankind as God’s children before becoming Israel’s King - as well as a reminder of the placement of our trust in a God whom we expect to draw on that parental love to temper the severity of the divine decree.
We need, we expect, God to be both, but more importantly, we need God to model a balance between these attributes. We want our world to be ruled justly. We want those who act badly to be punished appropriately, but we also want to live in a world where that justice is tempered with compassion and understanding. Where mistakes are not unforgivable, and where we have a chance to repair what is broken. Notice: Avinu malkenu. Avinu comes first. The strict retributive language of Deuteronomy troubles us not only because we know life doesn’t work that way, but it bothers us also because of its apparent lack of Avinu, of human compassion.
It is incumbent upon us to continually strike that precarious balance between Avinu and Malkenu. If we demand that God respond to us both as Avinu and Malkenu, then we must demand such balance of ourselves, not only in our dealings with others but also in dealing with our own self. Not so easy a task combining judgement and compassion (and maybe something at which the biblical editor could have worked harder at expressing). If we judge too harshly, set too many fixed boundaries, there is no room to grow. At the same time, if we are so compassionately forgiving that we allow chaos to replace rule and structure, then we also stagnate growth.
We must work to balance Avinu and Malkenu in our lives not just because it will make us better individuals but also because of the impact such work will make on our world. אבינו מלכינו, our father, our king. Throughout our entire confessional of Yom Kippur, we pray in the plural: אשמנו, בגדנו/, not “I have transgressed...” rather “we have transgressed....” על חטא שחאטנו not על חטא שחאטתי, ‘for the sins, we have committed’. Our mistakes have repercussions that extend beyond ourselves onto the community. No, we may not each as individuals commit all of the specific sins listed in our liturgical litany (or at least I certainly hope not); however, by confessing, for instance, to “keeping the poor in chains” even when as individuals we haven’t taken a key to lock those chains, we admit our complicity in the failure to put an end to such intransigent poverty in our world. By praying together as one community, we remind ourselves that we are in this together, and that none of us can escape responsibility for the betterment of our world.
Avinu Malkenu - originally the final sentence of our prayer, which incorporates the verses attributed to Rabbi Akiba in our Rabbinic folklore, were said silently as a private supplication. This custom was explained midrashic-ly by The Maggid of Dubno, Rabbi Jacob ben Wolf Kranz, a chasid who lived at the end of the 18th century. He compared the recitation of the many petitions of Avinu Malkenu to a retailer placing an order with a wholesaler for a large quantity of merchandise. When given the bill, the retailer realizes that he is unable to pay, and thus proceeds to quietly and humbly to petition to have the goods on credit - l’ma-an sh’mecha – no tangible collateral, rather l’ma-an sh’mecha. It is the ultimate petition, solely for the sake of your name, solely because of your utmost compassion and thoughtfulness, “be gracious and answer us...treat us generously and with kindness, and be our help.”
Today, this utmost petition is the most well-known sentence of the entire Avinu Malkenu prayer. No longer a silent recitation, the popular chassidic melody of unknown origin has made this one of the most universally sung refrains of our High Holiday liturgy. Perhaps God isn’t the only one who needs the reminder, perhaps we too need this public petitionary reminder to act compassionately and generously in the world for no other reason than, l’ma-an sh’mecha, for the sake of our names.
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