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Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses


2019, Vol. 48(1) 115–137
Dimensions of Worship ª The Author(s) / Le(s) auteur(s), 2019
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DOI: 10.1177/0008429819828670
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Theology

William S. Kervin
Emmanuel College, Toronto, Canada

Abstract: The centrality of the Shema in Jewish faith and life serves as a rich case
study for Christian liturgical theology. The role and significance of the Shema in
Jewish daily prayer, liturgy and performative ritualization points to dimensions of
worship in which text and action, liturgy and life, prayer and politics, converge.
Liturgical, historical, performative, biblical and theological aspects of the Shema are
interpreted in relation to Paul Tillich’s notion of “ultimate concern” and Walter
Brueggemann’s exegesis of “God-neighbour” to advance a more holistic Christian lex
orandi.

Résumé : La nature centrale du Shema dans la foi et la vie juive sert de riche étude de
cas pour la théologie liturgique chrétienne. Le rôle et l’importance du Shema dans la
prière quotidienne, la liturgie et la ritualisation performative juive suggèrent des
dimensions de culte dans lesquelles convergent le texte et l’action, la liturgie et la vie, la
prière et la politique. Les aspects liturgiques, historiques, performatifs, bibliques et
théologiques du Shema sont interprétés en rapport avec la notion de « préoccupation
ultime » de Paul Tillich et l’exégèse de « Dieu-voisin » de Walter Brueggemann afin
d’avancer une lex orandi chrétienne plus holistique.

Keywords
Shema, worship, liturgy, liturgical theology, performance, political, ultimate concern,
lex orandi

Corresponding author / Adresse de correspondance :


William S. Kervin, Emmanuel College, 75 Queen’s Park Crescent, Toronto, Ontario M5S 1K7, Canada.
Email: w.kervin@utoronto.ca
116 Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 48(1)

Mots clés
Shema, le culte, la liturgie, la théologie liturgique, la performance, politique,
préoccupation ultime, lex orandi

Introduction
One can hardly overemphasize the role and significance of the Shema in Jewish faith
and life. It has been called “the most important words of Judaism” (Johnson, 2009: 23),
its “cardinal expression” (Levin, 2002: 220), the “watchword” of the Jewish faith
(Cosgrove, 2010: 183). Scholars identify it as “the core of the Torah” (Anderson
et al., 2007: 346), and therein “at the core of the Old Testament faith” (Brueggemann,
2008: 121). Stefan Reif vividly illustrates the scope of its impact and influence by
contrasting the daily 5:59 a.m. broadcast of the chanted Shema on Israeli Radio’s
secular Station 2 with the fact that it is included in the oldest Hebrew papyrus in the
world, a 2200 year old manuscript housed at Cambridge University (Reif, 2006: 107).
The Shema is “an identifying mark of Jews through the centuries” (Bucke et al., 1962:
321), “the central text that has defined the identity and practice of the Jewish people”
(Krouse, 2010: 484). Contemporary efforts to explore “the foundations and future of
Jewish belief” continue to identify it as “the anthem for our people” (Cosgrove, 2010:
184). Thus, the Shema persists, like an eternal heartbeat, still alive in both ancient
archeology and popular culture, pulsating throughout age-old religious practices and
the longings of a new generation.
That all this is set in motion by its first six Hebrew words—really five, since YHWH
is repeated—makes it all the more compelling in its significance and dynamism.

She’ma Yisra’el YHWH Eloheinu YHWH Eh.ad.


Hear, O Israel: The LORD is our God, the LORD alone. (Deut. 6:4)1

When taken together with the additional verses that have come to make up the liturgi-
cal expression of the Shema—Deut. 6:4–9, 11:13–21 and Num. 15:37–41—what is
created is a world of meaning that reaches far beyond mere scriptural citation. Con-
sider, for example, how this description of the Shema pushes beyond the boundaries of
pedagogy towards testimony, beyond textual definition towards phenomenological
description.

The Shema is not a prayer in the ordinary sense of the word, but for thousands of years it has
been an integral part of the prayer service. The Shema is a declaration of faith, a pledge of
allegiance to One God, an affirmation of Judaism. It is the first “prayer” that children are
taught to say. It is the last utterance of martyrs. It is said on arising in the morning and on
going to sleep at night. It is said when one is praising God and when one is beseeching Him.
The faithful Jew says it even when questioning Him. The Shema is said when our lives are
full of hope; it is said when all hope is gone and the end is near. Whether in moments of joy
or despair, in thankfulness or in resignation, it is the expression of Jewish conviction, the
historic proclamation of Judaism’s central creed. (Donin, 1980: 144)
Kervin 117

In short, the Shema functions as a—if not the—central text in a tradition of texts. To use
David Tracy’s definition of “those texts that have helped found or form a particular
culture,” it is a “classic” (Tracy, 1987: 12). Similarly, it is a worthy candidate for Paul
Ricœur’s notion of a “root-metaphor,” for around it the content of a whole religious
tradition can be organized. But like all root-metaphors, to achieve this it must both
“assemble and scatter,” constructing an elaborate structure of supportive theologies and
practices into an architecture of concord, while resisting, critiquing or suppressing other
perspectives (Ricœur, 1976: 212). And as with all classics, it also “bear[s] an excess and
permanence of meaning, yet always resist[s] definitive interpretation” (Tracy, 1987: 12).
Consequently, “beyond the text” we can expect to find interacting complex dimensions
of history and theology, context and text, culture and cult (Hoffman, 1989).
Given the centrality of the Shema in Judaism—its theological, liturgical, cultural and
popular significance—it can seem curious that its status in Christian faith and practice is
more muted by comparison. Perhaps this is understandable insofar as “it would hardly have
served as an adequate creed for [an early Christian] community moving towards a Trinitarian
belief” (Bradshaw, 1981: 28). Nevertheless, Christians must contend with its bold appear-
ance on the lips of Jesus in the accounts of what is often called The Great Commandment. In
Mark’s account, the earliest of the gospels, Jesus quotes a fuller version of the Shema, while
in Luke’s version he easily elicits the text from a lawyer, whereupon it serves as a provocative
segue to the beloved Parable of the Good Samaritan.2 While I recall memorizing it for a
coveted gold star in the Sunday School of my childhood, it was only one in a long list of many
texts, and located rather far down in a list which began, of course, with John 3:16.
The function and force of the Shema in Judaism prompts me to wonder what it might
mean for Christians to cultivate a greater consciousness of the Shema as central to their
identity. Could a deeper appreciation of the Jewish context of the Shema support a more
robust expression of Christian spirituality and liturgical formation? In this paper I seek to
demonstrate that a re-examination of the Shema offers critical resources for a Christian
liturgical theology which values a holistic integration of worship and ethics, prayer and
politics, liturgy and life.

The Shema as Liturgy


In the tradition of naming prayers, liturgical texts or hymns according to their first words
or opening line—for example, in Christianity, the “Our Father,” “Sanctus,” or “Joyful,
Joyful We Adore Thee”—the Shema (or Shema Yisrael) gets its name from the first
Hebrew word(s), meaning “Hear” (or “Hear, O Israel”), or even “Listen!” The sense
evoked is that of an authoritative, almost interventionist, imperative, or in Walter Brueg-
gemann’s words, “a summons to Israel to radical obedience to the will and purpose of
YHWH” (Brueggemann, 2008: 121). Though perhaps more of a creed than a prayer, its
functional evolution has transposed it into a liturgical key and therein an interesting case
study for liturgical theology.
As already noted, Jewish tradition has come to understand the Shema as including all
of Deut. 6:4–9 as well as 11:13–21 and Num. 15: 37–41, a construction reinforced by
daily liturgical usage in evening and morning prayer (“when you lie down and when you
rise,” Deut. 6:7, 11:19) and set within a structure framed by a series of blessings.
118 Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 48(1)

However, one must take care to avoid assuming that the details of later Jewish practice
are identical to Old Testament liturgical contexts, usage in the New Testament period, or
even to usage in the second century and later. Most contemporary Jewish and Christian
scholars agree that the liturgical picture is more complicated, due to a variety of factors
(Bradshaw, 1981, 2001, 2002; Bradshaw and Hoffman, 1991; Hoffman, 1979).
For example, one must keep in mind that oral traditions of Jewish prayer persisted until
well into the Middle Ages. It wasn’t until at least after the destruction of the Second
Temple in 70 CE that systematic efforts to standardize the forms of prayers began to gain
momentum (Hoffman, 1979: 24; Penner, 2012). One can certainly appreciate the desire to
preserve traditions in the face of such devastation. But even this process was gradual, with
the first Siddur (Jewish prayer book) not being printed until the fifteenth century and mass
production and distribution not arriving until the nineteenth. As a result, evidence regard-
ing the liturgical function of the Shema needs to be placed in a dynamic developmental
context. In the absence of uniformly normative texts, liturgical variety—including both
local variations and emerging practices—was common (Steinsaltz, 2002: 6, 62, 66).
In spite of the complexities of the larger shape and details of Jewish liturgical prac-
tice, the Shema itself remains a compelling touchstone. Generally speaking, its twice-
daily recitation is “well attested as the fundamental daily devotion of Jews in the first
century, both in Palestine and in the Diaspora” (Bradshaw, 1981: 1), and was “widely
practiced prior to the destruction of the Temple” (Bradshaw, 2002: 40), even though
there did not yet exist a “general obligation” to do so (Bradshaw, 2001: 1).
In Lawrence Johnson’s translation of a well-developed liturgy of the Shema and its
blessings, he dates the liturgical source as being in “the pre-Christian era” (Johnson,
2009: 23). While we cannot be certain if it was always said in full or in part, only by
individuals or with others in the synagogue, for popular usage or only among the pious, it
nevertheless points to a developing liturgical form which would become normative in
morning and evening prayer (Hoffman, 1979: 24–29). The basic shape, consisting of
blessings before and after the Shema, can be summarized as follows (Johnson, 2009: 23–
26; Hoffman, 1997a; Stern, 1975):

Blessings
Yotser (“forming”)
blesses God, the former/maker of light, the universe and all creation

Ahabhah Rabbah (“with great love”)


blesses God who, in love, gave the covenant and the Torah

Shema

(She’ma Yisra’el, “Hear, O Israel”)


Shema (“Hear”) and V’ahavta (“you shall love”): Deut. 6:4–9
Hear, O Israel: love God alone and keep God’s commandments

Vehayah (“And if you will”): Deut. 11:13–21


the consequences of keeping God’s commandments
Kervin 119

Vayyomer (And the Lord “spoke/said”): Num. 15:37–41


make fringes/tassels on garments as a reminder of God’s commandments
and deliverance

Blessings
Emet We-yatsibh (“true and strong”)
blesses God for the true, strong and everlasting Word, liberation and redemption

This is the basis of the liturgical setting of the Shema when praying both Shaharit
(“Dawn”) and Maariv (“Nightfall”), morning and evening prayer, respectively.3 In
morning prayer, the Shema and its blessings can be preceded by individual preparatory
prayers and blessings upon rising, followed by a series of morning blessings, readings
from biblical and rabbinic sources, prayers, psalms and more blessings. The more
public and formal liturgy begins with the Barechu (“Bless”) followed by the form
outlined above. Then there also follows the iconic Amidah (“standing” prayer), also
known as the Shemoneh Esre (“eighteen blessings”).4 Depending upon the calendar,
custom and tradition, the service then continues with a series of supplications, some-
times more biblical readings, followed by concluding prayers and blessings. Evening
prayer is typically introduced with verses from the Psalms before the Barechu, fol-
lowed by the Shema and its blessings as outlined above. Some traditions add still more
blessings after this, before continuing with the Amidah, followed by psalms and
closing blessings.
The Shema makes other significant appearances in the liturgical life of Judaism, both
in weekly Sabbath services and at high festivals. For example, its first sentence is recited
by the prayer leader when the Torah scroll is removed from the Ark on the Sabbath. It is
heard at the beginning of the New Year (Rosh Hashanah), on the holiest day of the
Jewish year (the Day of Atonement or Yom Kippur), and at the climactic circling of the
bimah (the elevated reading platform) on the last day of the Feast of Booths/Tabernacles
(Sukkot). It is frequently the first words heard by a newborn baby and the last words
spoken by one who is dying (Donin, 1980: 145; Klassen, 2001: 62–66; Nulman, 1993:
294–298). It is often recited by individuals upon going to bed, some repeating select
phrases until they fall asleep. “Thus Jews are taught to have the name of God on their lips
from early childhood to the moment of death” (Bromiley, 1979: 470). It is no exaggera-
tion to suggest that the Shema embraces the whole of Jewish liturgy and life, from
beginning to end.
Given the breadth and depth of the Shema in Jewish life and liturgy, it should come as
no surprise to discover complex socio-political dimensions to its history. Recent inves-
tigations into the textual-exegetical, religio-political and historico-cultic dimensions of
the Shema bear this out. For example, Tzvee Zahavy has shown that the “politics of
piety” associated with the Shema and the Amidah is a story of “prototypical liturgies
of competing social factions” (Zahavy, 1991: 59). In his reconstruction, the Shema was
the “primary rite of the scribal brotherhoods,” emphasizing their preferred theme, the
Exodus, while the Amidah was “the main liturgy of the deposed priestly aristocracy,”
reflecting their Davidic lineage and priestly ethos (Zahavy, 1991: 50, 61). Even today
one can sense the contrasting character of the texts: the serious commandments of the
120 Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 48(1)

Shema from Deuteronomy and Numbers can seem juridical; the ecstatic blessings and
passionate petitions of the Amidah seem more liturgical. However, in the period follow-
ing the destruction of the Second Temple until about 220 CE, these competing factions
were forced to find a way to consolidate their rabbinic politics and liturgical preferences
for the sake of both mutual survival and popular support. As with all such power
struggles and compromises, there were both gains and losses. Zahavy concludes that
“the scribal faction triumphed,” securing support for the centrality of the Shema, but
what was lost was a measure of ritual engagement with “meaningful national political
structures” (Zahavy, 1991: 62).
For our purposes, one additional result is worth noting. Also significant is how
both factions and the ritual forms they championed were transformed through the
resulting dialectic of liturgical convergence. As Reif has put it: “The essence of
Jewish liturgy is that it carries within it all these competing tendencies and success-
fully absorbs them all” (as quoted in Zahavy, 1991: 61). The Jewish liturgical
tradition in general, and morning and evening prayer in particular, contain both the
Shema and the Amidah, each transformed by the presence of the other. In short, the
same forces which allowed the Amidah to become popularized allowed the Shema
to become liturgical.5
Similar phenomena can be observed from other angles. One can conceive of this as an
expansive and integrative phenomenological process, one that was already at work in
scripture and has expanded into liturgical practice. The function of the Shema extends
beyond that of a catechetical summary of the Decalogue. Note, for example, how biblical
allusions to the Shema employ more than a didactic reiteration of the commandments.
They display dynamics of creative interpretative influence and contextual theological
reflection (e.g., Zech. 13:9; Jer. 32:39–41; Job 23:12–13). In addition, the insertion of
blessings and phrases into the liturgical form of the Shema indicates that the text was
“being treated as adjustable rabbinic liturgy rather than pure Scripture” (Reif, 2006:
124). Finally, we also find portions of both the Decalogue and the Shema in tefillin
(phylacteries) and mezuzot (containers on the doorposts) among common liturgical and
ritual artefacts.
The point of this cursory liturgical survey of the Shema in Judaism is not
simply to rehearse what others have studied in more detail, but to draw particular
attention to the Shema as liturgy. Christians, and perhaps even some Jews, may be
inclined to think of the Shema first as a text—and it is that, to be sure—but how it
functions in Judaism is much more complex, and this has been accomplished
liturgically. To argue this is not to romanticize its place in the ethos of Judaism
but, on the contrary, to complexify it. If the foregoing suggests anything, it is that
the role and place of the Shema in Jewish history, spirituality and theology are
complex indeed. At the very least, this much needs to be said: the Shema is
liturgy, with all that this implies (Kimelman, 1993: 112). And to read this text
liturgically is to comprehend it—along the lines of Ricœur’s hermeneutics
(Ricœur, 1991: 144–167)—as action, as an event, an act of worship which is
constructed, enacted, ritualized, embodied, performed.
Kervin 121

The Shema as Performance


The liturgical traditions associated with the Shema contain a wide range of “moving”
(pun intended) performative practices which can “thicken” and deepen our understand-
ing of its dimensions of meaning-making.6 To view such practices from the perspective
of performance theory is to understand them as fundamental to how individuals and
communities construct their shared identity, or as Richard McCall summarizes it, as
“a basic human social way of being.” Elaborating, McCall continues:

To whatever end, human beings enact both their presence to each other and their rela-
tionship to the natural, social and spiritual world. Worship, then, becomes neither theatre
nor political praxis, but a form of symbolic action through which the community performs
itself in its relationship with God. The gestures of the rite take on equal importance with
the texts of the prayers, the words of which are understood not as statements but as
“speech-acts,” vocal gestures by which the worshipping community enacts its relationship
with each other and with God. Performance in this sense is not the theatrical performance
of the virtuoso for an audience, but rather the enactment of a community by its members
playing various roles according to the particular ordering of each [religious tradition].
(McCall, 2002: 156; 2007)

In the case of the Shema, this can be seen as arising from its status as a mitzvah, a
religious obligation or commandment which one is required to perform and enact. While
diverse liturgical practices can be found in the traditions which observe the twice-daily
recitation of the Shema, it remains a universally acknowledged mitzvah in Judaism.7 One
notable exception regards Orthodox women who, though exempt from this requirement
due to domestic and familial obligations, are nevertheless expected to pray daily, though
they need not follow a prescribed liturgy. Note, however, that the recitation of the Shema
can fulfill this obligation (Hoffman, 1997a: 35). This is the exception that proves the
rule—the rule being the mitzvah of the Shema.
Further testimony to the force of this imperative is evident in the range of detailed
rabbinic and halakhic (legal) commentary associated with the performance of the
Shema.8 For example, tradition gives much consideration to the appropriate time for
morning prayer, the precise meaning of the Shema’s reference to “when you rise up”
(Deut. 6:7, 11:19). Halakhah holds that

the proper time for reciting Sh’ma—“when you rise up”—is subjectively experienced as
beginning when one can recognize a slight acquaintance from the distance of four amot
( . . . 7.5 feet, approximately); or when one can distinguish between the white and royal blue
of one’s tallit [prayer shawl] and tsitsit [fringes or tassels]. Objectively, this is understood as
starting either from the actual appearance of the sun on the horizon, or . . . the lightening of
the eastern sky. (Hoffman, 1997a: 29, 34)9

Halakhah goes on to detail the implications which follow for the timing of specific parts
of the Shema and its blessings—for example, that Yotser (the first blessing) is ideally
said when “some actual light is visible” so that the Amidah may begin as the sun literally
rises. Attention is also given to: how late in the morning the liturgy can be said; how and
122 Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 48(1)

under what circumstances it can be abbreviated or said on one’s own; which parts require
a minyan;10 the fact that communal recitation is preferred. There is also careful rationale
for what parts of the liturgy are to be said loudly or softly, enunciated carefully or given
an intentional pause, and said while standing or sitting (often a hotly debated subject in
ancient rabbinic literature).
While “conversation, including body language like winking or gesturing, is forbid-
den during Sh’ma and Its Blessings” because “God’s unity must be affirmed with full
consciousness, no distraction and deep intent” (Hoffman, 1997a: 35), a kinesthetic
vocabulary of traditional actions has long been used to perform specific parts of the
text. For example, in the second blessing, Ahabhah Rabbah (“with great love”), as the
words “bring us to peace from the four corners of the earth” are prayed, it is customary
for worshippers to gather the four tsitsit (tassels/fringes) of the four corners of their
tallit (prayer shawl) in the left hand (Steinsaltz, 2002: 342–343; Donin, 1980: 148).
Further, the opening words Sh’ma Yisra’el are often said with the right hand covering
the eyes, to embody one’s intentional “hearing” of “Hear, O Israel” and guard against
anything which might distract from focus on God “alone” (Nulman, 1993: 298); at “tell
them to make fringes on the corners of their garments” (Num. 15:38) the tsitsit are
kissed; at “when you see it, you will remember all the commandments” (Num. 15:39)
the tsitsit are passed before one’s eyes, thus enacting the seeing and remembering of
which the text speaks; in the blessing which follows, Emet We-yatsibh (“true and
strong”), the tsitsit are kissed another three times—once at each of two mentions of
the word “true” and once at the reference to God’s words as “steadfast and desirable
forever” (Steinsaltz, 2002: 336–339).
As dramatic as they are, such performative gestures are only the tip of the halakhic
iceberg. Beneath the surface lie additional depths of multivalent ritualization. Other
liturgical texts can also be invoked in the performance of intratextual numerological
symbolism. For example, specific words are often added to the beginning of the biblical
text of the Shema when said privately in order to bring the word count to 248—the
number of positive commandments in Judaism and, according to ninth-century mid-
rashic teaching, the number of parts in the body. As the midrash puts it, “God says,
‘If you guard the 248 words of the Sh’ma by reading them right, I will guard your 248
anatomical parts” (Hoffman, 1997a: 92). In these, and in more ways than space here
permits, the ritualization of the Shema performatively enacts how the whole body, the
whole person—“all your heart, . . . soul, . . . might”—is to be engaged in this all-
encompassing love of God.
There are also forms of ritualization associated with the Shema that can be understood
as extending beyond the body, expanding the scope of kinesthetic engagement to geo-
physical dimensions, transcending the particular to reveal the universal. Consider two
other well-known traditional practices explicitly mandated in the biblical texts of the
Shema: the tefillin (phylacteries) and mezuzah (doorpost containers).11 With tefillin the
Shema is literally put on, worn on one’s body, to become a kind of portable technology
of faithfulness, head- and hand-held devices equipping one for prayerful movement
through the world. With the mezuzah the sign is perhaps even more explicitly spatial
and geographical. When, for example, at every “coming in and going out” (e.g., Deut.
28:6; Ps. 121:8) of the home, the mezuzah is touched by the fingers of the right hand and
Kervin 123

the fingers are kissed (often with accompanying words of scripture and/or prayer), one is
performing an anamnesis of the scope of God’s blessing as embracing the whole of one’s
journey in the world. Thus, performing the Shema bears witness to God’s law of cove-
nant love as written on the heart, inscribed on one’s very body, and circumscribing the
whole of creation.
Before concluding this overview of some of the performative dimensions of the
Shema, a further comment on the significance of halakhic concerns is in order, lest one
be tempted to conclude that our interest in ritual and performance has devolved into
liturgical legalism. While halakhah has to do with Jewish law generally and, for our
purposes, ritual and liturgical practices in particular, it would be a mistake to equate
faithful religious observance with legalism. At its best, halakhic diligence has to do
with a kind of performative care that takes seriously the formative and meaning-
making significance of embodied religious practices. One popular Jewish blogger has
put it this way:

when properly observed, halakhah increases the spirituality in a person’s life,


because it turns the most trivial, mundane acts, such as eating and getting dressed,
into acts of religious significance. When people write to me and ask how to increase
their spirituality or the influence of their religion in their lives, the only answer I can
think of is: observe more halakhah. Keep kosher or light Shabbat candles, pray after
meals or once a day. When you do these things, you are constantly reminded of your
relationship with the Divine, and it becomes an integral part of your entire existence.
(Rich, 2018)

In a similar spirit, Hoffman notes that halakhah is “from the Hebrew word meaning ‘to
walk, to go,’ so denoting the way or path on which a person should walk through life”
(Hoffman, 1997a: 143). In this sense, the ultimate goal of halakhah is to shape and form
a whole way of life directed towards fulfilling God’s will, a way of faithfulness and
integrity in which nothing is untouched by the God who is God alone—that is, to make
all of one’s life an act of worship.
What halakhah is to the external manifestation of such performance practice, Kava-
nah is to its internal dimension. Kavanah, from a Hebrew word meaning “to direct,” is
“used technically to denote the state of directing one’s words and thoughts sincerely to
God, as opposed to the rote recitation of prayer” (Hoffman, 1997a: 144). Like halakhah,
Kavanah is also the subject of a rich tradition of rabbinic commentary. In this case the
focus is on the practice of mindfulness in prayer, so much so that rabbinic tradition
debates whether one has properly fulfilled any given mitzvah if the proper degree of
concentration and intentionality is not present. Notably, this is emphasized especially in
regard to the first words of the Shema (Deut. 6:4): “this mitzvah which affirms God’s
unity presupposes thoughtfulness, so must be accompanied by kavvanat halev, ‘heartfelt
intentionality.’ If we fail to achieve this full intentionality, we do not fulfill the mitzvah,
and must wait a moment—so as to avoid the semblance of affirming two gods—and then
repeat the Sh’ma with proper intention” (Hoffman, 1997a: 95). Or, as an oft-quoted
medieval source puts it, “prayer without Kavanah is like a body without a soul” (Israel,
1975: 162).
124 Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 48(1)

Hoffman offers a particularly intriguing interpretation of Kavanah, likening it to


musical improvisation. In his view, when the oral performance of Jewish prayer was
the norm, improvisation prevailed, resulting in a wide range of liturgical diversity,
though within generally shared structures and themes. What gave the content of the
prayers their integrity “was not whether people said the right blessing, but whether they
said it the right way” (Hoffman, 1997a: 3). This was the origin and function of Kava-
nah—“a word we usually translate as inner directedness of the heart, a proper balance,
we believe, to the numbed rote that mumbling through the prayer book can become”
(Hoffman, 1997a: 3). One could argue that the continuing relevance and function of
Kavanah is evident—to stay with the musical metaphor—in the transposition from one
mode (or key) to another. What was once a means of giving the spirit of oral improvisa-
tion its substance is now a means of giving the substance of a textual tradition its spirit. It
has to do with that somewhat intangible “feel” within the performance which lifts the
notes off the page or gives the text of the liturgy its life. This is not to deny the equally
important inverse of improvisation—the carefully notated score or text—but to acknowl-
edge the dynamism involved.
Similarly, in Jewish tradition there also exists a counterpoint to Kavanah in
keva—from a Hebrew word meaning “fixity” or “stability,” having to do with those
liturgical practices that are fixed or unchangeable, including such things as the
“words on the page” or even “the time at which the prayer must be said” (Hoffman,
1997a: 144–145). Faithful liturgy requires both Kavanah and keva, improvisation
and repetition, innovation and tradition, freedom and order. The theatrical analogy is
also appropriate here: in order to fully embody a part, all good actors must perform
the script (keva) by enacting its external dimensions of bodily gesture (halakhah)
and animating its internal motivation (Kavanah). In the same manner, liturgical
leadership and communal participation do well to be equally attentive to text, action
and intentionality.
This brief foray into some of the performative dimensions of the Shema in Jewish
liturgy stops short of a broader engagement with the resources of performance theory.
A more thorough analysis could benefit from the use of such analytical tools as the
communally transformative embodiment of Richard Schechner (Schechner, 2003),
Talal Asad’s use of Michel Foucault’s “technology of the self” (Asad, 1993), Catherine
Bell’s post-modern methodological reflexivity (Bell, 2009), and Ron Grimes’ work on
improvisation and ritual creativity (Grimes, 2018). For the purpose of this study the
goal has been to evoke, invoke and provoke—to evoke an awareness of the Shema as
liturgy; to invoke the force of its meaning-making performative dimensions; and to
provoke the need for an approach which extends beyond more narrowly defined exe-
getical methods.
This more thick description of the Shema as performative liturgical praxis, under-
stood as a means by which the community performs itself into all-embracing rela-
tionship to God and God’s world, also suggests that Christians must resist any kind
of hermeneutical supersessionism, which would read the Shema as though it was a
“text” devoid of “action,” a lex credendi ungrounded in lex orandi. To put it bluntly,
for Christians: the Jewishness of the Shema did not die with the birth of Christianity.
Neither was it supplanted by Jesus’ utterance of The Great Commandment, nor does
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it cease to live on, performing God’s people into faithful living in its own right and
by its own rite. That the Shema continues to be enacted today in richly relevant and
instructive ways by their Jewish siblings demands ongoing interpretative rigour
and familial high regard by Christians.

The Shema as Liturgical Theology


Having considered some liturgical and performative dimensions of the Shema, we now
turn to more explicitly theological considerations. Of course, liturgical and performative
features are not without theological dimensions. On the contrary, as is, hopefully,
becoming amply clear, liturgical and performative facets of the Shema each reflect
something of their own band of light on its theological meaning-making. All such
dimensions overlap, like colours bleeding imperceptibly into one another across a spec-
trum of light. Our analytical delineations are somewhat abstract, necessary methodolo-
gical and hermeneutical constructs, sometimes even simply heuristic. Nevertheless, to
the extent that it has been possible to glean some measure of theological meaning from
the performative and liturgical aspects of the Shema, to glimpse some particular dimen-
sions of meaning-in-motion not otherwise visible, we have already been engaging in
liturgical theology.
Notwithstanding the ongoing discussion regarding the methodological presuppo-
sitions of liturgical theology, most scholars would agree with Alexander Schmemann
that liturgical theology is, at the very least, “the elucidation of the meaning of
worship” (Schmemann, 1975: 14; Lathrop, 1993: 3) and, further, that such work
seeks to take lex orandi seriously as a source of lex credendi. To speak of the Shema
as liturgical theology is to view it as liturgically generative of theological meaning.
To employ Gordon Lathrop’s use of Kevin Irwin’s Latin taxonomy, the liturgical
praxis of the Shema is “primary liturgical theology” (lex orandi), and this paper’s
theological reflection on its significance is “secondary liturgical theology” (lex
credendi), which now seeks to turn “towards specific problems of our time” in
“pastoral liturgical theology” (lex agendi) (Lathrop, 1993: 4–8, 7n9). David New-
man puts it in terms that have particular resonance with the approach taken here
when he describes liturgical theology as “a hermeneutics of word, symbol and
action” which “follows” the dynamic movement of the liturgy (Newman, 1983:
379, 381). He also suggests that Ricœur’s oft-quoted maxim, “the symbol gives
rise to thought” (Ricœur, 1969: 347), “could be a motto for liturgical theology”
(Newman, 1983: 381).
In this case, the first symbol which gives rise to theological thought is the first word
itself: She’ma. A member of my former youth group once memorably suggested that a
contemporary rendering could be “Yo! Listen up!”—which we all agreed was a pretty
good translation, especially upon comparison with its other key appearances in Deuter-
onomy (e.g., Deut. 5:1, 9:1, 20:3). As an exhortation and command, the Hebrew carries
connotations of “consent,” “agree,” “obey,” even “understand” or “let it be known.”
Given its liturgical evolution, it can also be understood as a call to worship (Krouse,
2010: 485), albeit with some qualification. While it likely served as the very first words
of morning and evening prayer in the early stages of its liturgical development, the
126 Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 48(1)

Barechu (“Bless Adonai who is to be blessed”) eventually came to precede it as the


“formal call to prayer” (Hoffman, 1997a), led by the prayer leader. In light of
the Shema’s continuing resonance and centrality, the net effect is that the Barechu is
the functional call to prayer while the Shema is a theological call to worship. Having
been called to gather and bless God in prayer with the Barechu, the She’ma Yisra’el at
the centre of the liturgy calls the community ever more deeply to the substance of what a
life of such worship entails (Kimelman 1993: 144).
Note also that this is a vigorously collective call to worship, a call to Yisra’el, a
people, not the solitary rugged individual of modernity whom we have come to assume is
the fundamental social unit. The communal premise is obvious from its location in the
covenantal context of the larger Decalogue narrative, which includes Moses’ extended
exhortation to the people of Israel (Deut. 5) followed by the richly relational content of
the Shema itself, which evokes the ethos of lives lived out with children and ancestors,
livestock and land, at work and at rest, at home and away, all marked by liturgical
symbols and gestures of remembrance. Jewish individual identity cannot be separated
from the communal–covenantal character of Israel. What Anderson et al. argue in
relation to the “cultic” character of the Psalms is applicable here as well. “Modern people
often assume that worship is a private affair between a person and God and that God is
accessible apart from the established means of public worship. This premise creates
serious difficulties in a study of the Psalter.” For example, “even when the pronouns I
and My are used, as in the well known Shepherd’s Psalm (Ps. 23), one must think of the
whole community joining to express its faith” (Anderson et al., 2007: 493). In our age of
individualism, the Shema’s call to worship, understood as a summons to a fundamentally
collective undertaking, and identity as something communally constructed from the
breadth and depth of our shared living and liturgy, is a radical countercultural claim.
The tetragrammaton (Greek for “four letters”), YHWH, the name for God and third
Hebrew word of the Shema, is also helpfully viewed as a definitive symbol of Jewish
theology and worship, a paradoxically performative speech-act which is itself an instruc-
tive praxis of liturgical theology. As a form of the verb “to be,” originating from the story
of God’s revelation to Moses in the “burning bush” as “I AM WHO I AM” (Exod. 3:1–
4:17), it is understood as sacred, not to be pronounced, but to be replaced with either
Adonai (Hebrew for “Lord”), or Hashem (Hebrew for “The Name”), or written as “G-d.”
Thus the silence (or substitution) speaks volumes. In accord with its unique status, in
Christian translation it has been rendered as Kyrios (Greek for “Lord”) in the Septuagint,
Dominus (Latin for “Lord”) in the Vulgate, “LORD” in the AV and NRSV, and
“Yahweh” in some modern translations and scholarly publications (Cross and Living-
stone, 2005). Also interesting to note is the fact that in Jewish tradition, recalling the
spirit of halakhah practices and Kavanah intentionality discussed above, the preparation
of a Torah scroll by a specially trained scribe requires rigorous artisanal standards, ritual
immersion in a Mikvah (ritual bath) with a blessing in preparation for the work, and an
additional blessing offered prior to each and every writing of The Name (Chabad.org,
2018). Against this background of ritual and liturgical practice, The Name is never just a
name; a recitation of the Shema is never just a reading. For observant worshippers, every
encounter with God’s Ineffable Name is an anamnetic performance of the first and
Kervin 127

decisive “Primal Revelation of God” (Brueggemann, 2008: 23)—YHWH, God’s “name


forever,” God’s “title for all generations” (Exod. 3:15).
What might it mean for Christians today to practice something akin to what Jews
observe in relation to the Divine Name and its significance? This Name can be seen as a
critical symbol of a radically prophetic stance of worship in God’s world today. To that
end, more Christian denominations might seriously consider the practice now advocated
by the Roman Catholic Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the
Sacraments, which directs that in liturgical and biblical usage, “the name of God in the
form of the tetragrammaton YHWH is neither to be used or [sic] pronounced” (Arinze,
2008). Not only could this be a step towards restoring the rich Hebrew multivalency of
this shared symbol of primary liturgical theology, it would also more vividly enact with
more integrity the lex agendi of Jewish–Christian dialogue—which needs always to be
made manifest in liturgy and worship if it is to take root and have formative and lasting
effect.12
The point of the Shema’s collective call to radical worship and communal iden-
tity has to do with its focus on YHWH “alone” (Deut. 6:4). Popular and scholarly
commentators alike are often quick to conclude that the Shema’s first line is pri-
marily a creedal confession of monotheism (Bromiley, 1979: 469; Bucke et al.,
1962: 321; Douglas et al., 1989: 348). Indeed, everyone’s favourite go-to source,
Wikipedia, perpetuates this claim with characteristic lack of nuance (Wikipedia.org,
2018). To be fair, the reasons for this are understandable. The NRSV signals the
ambiguity by footnoting its rendering of “The LORD is our God, the LORD alone”
with four additional options: “‘The LORD our God is one LORD,’ or ‘The LORD
our God, the LORD is one,’ or ‘The LORD is our God, the LORD is one’” (Deut.
6:4n). Significantly, while the preference of the NRSV for “the LORD alone” agrees
with the New Jewish Publication Society [NJPS] version, both the RSV and JPS had
previously opted for the translation, “The LORD our God is one LORD” (Berlin
et al., 2004: 380).
At issue are both text and context—specifically, the Hebrew word eh.ad, readily
associated with the cardinal number “one” in relation to the implied verb “to be,” and
the religio-cultural setting of the Decalogue, a context marked by the presence of other
gods. The nuances of contemporary translation are worth detailing here, for it establishes
the critical foundation on which is built the liturgical theology of worship that the Shema
calls forth. The commentary of the NJPS translation summarizes it most effectively and
is worth quoting at length:

The LORD . . . alone: NJPS correctly departs from the more familiar translation. “The
LORD . . . is one” . . . Each of the two interpretations is theoretically possible because, in
Hebrew, it is possible to form a sentence by simply joining a subject and predicate,
without specifying the verb “to be.” The Hebrew here thus allows either “YHVH, our
God, YHVH is one” or “YHVH is our God, YHVH alone.” The first, older translation,
which makes a statement about the unity and the indivisibility of God, does not do full
justice to this text (though it makes sense in a later Jewish context as a polemic against
Christianity). The verse makes not a quantitative argument (about the number of deities)
but a qualitative one, about the nature of the relationship between God and Israel. Almost
128 Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 48(1)

certainly, the original force of the verse, as the medieval Jewish exegetes . . . recognized,
was to demand that Israel show exclusive loyalty to our God, YHVH—but not thereby to
deny the existence of other gods! In this way, it assumes the same perspective as the first
commandment of the Decalogue, which, by prohibiting the worship of other gods, pre-
supposes their existence . . . NJPS thus properly understands “‘eh. ad” to mean “alone,” i.e.
“exclusively.” (Berlin et al., 2004: 380)

Recent Christian exegetes agree. Anderson et al. are clear that this is not a question of
monotheism or “the abstract issue of whether or not other gods existed”—these were
later debates. After all, the commandment alluded to here “does not say, ‘There are no
other gods,’ but ‘You shall have no other gods’ [before me]” (Anderson et al., 2007:
98–99). John Gibson, in his study of Old Testament language and imagery, notes that the
Hebrew for “before me” can also be translated “in front of me,” but not “except me.” The
result is a conspicuously “spatial description which seems to draw unnecessary attention
to the presence of other deities” (Gibson, 1998: 28–29). Thus it was precisely because of
the context of the surrounding culture that both the Decalogue and the Shema constituted
such “a revolutionary view at the time” (Anderson et al., 2007: 100). As Brueggemann
puts it with characteristic directness, “this is not a statement of monotheism; exactly the
opposite. This is . . . a declaration for YHWH in the context of polytheism” (Bruegge-
mann, 2008: 214). If any label is to be applied to this stance it would have to be
henotheism, in which one grants the reality or possibility of other gods while practicing
devotional exclusivity to one alone (Gibson, 1998: 27; Metzger and Coogan, 1993: 693).
To invoke the comprehensive rhetorical approach of Reuven Kimelman and others, it has
to do with affirming God’s sovereignty (Kimelman, 1993: 143, 148; Hoffman, 2015). In
other words, “other gods might exist, but for Israel only one God mattered” (Gibson,
1998: 27). To reduce the Shema to a confession of monotheism is not only reductionist
but also anachronistic (Berlin et al., 2004: 380). In a polytheistic context, other gods are a
fact. The question is: Which god will be our God? Which god will we worship?
Paul Tillich’s notion of faith as “ultimate concern” provides a helpful theological
framework within which to understand the Shema’s call to the exclusive worship of
YHWH. The first line in his slim but weighty work, Dynamics of Faith, asserts his thesis:
“Faith is the state of being ultimately concerned: the dynamics of faith are the dynamics
of [humanity’s] ultimate concern” (Tillich, 1957: 1). He then proceeds by observing how
human beings have many concerns, from the physical (e.g., food) to the spiritual (e.g.,
political). But, he argues, the ultimate concern of any individual or group is that which
rises above all other lesser and more preliminary concerns, calling forth absolute alle-
giance, promising complete satisfaction, and orienting all other concerns in relation to it.
“If it claims ultimacy it demands the total surrender of [the one] who accepts this claim,
and it promises total fulfillment even if all other claims have to be subjected to it or
rejected in its name” (Tillich, 1957: 1). Moreover, such ultimate concern “is an act of the
total personality. It happens in the center of the personal life and includes all its
elements” (Tillich, 1957: 4).
If echoes of the Shema begin to be heard at this point, it is no mere coincidence. While
Tillich’s concept of ultimate concern is frequently understood as a product of his
Kervin 129

existentialist approach to theology, history, and the philosophy of religion, often over-
looked is how explicitly it is derived from the Shema.

[God] is the ultimate concern of every pious Jew, and therefore in his name the great
commandment is given: “You shall love the Lord [sic] your God with all your heart, and
with all your soul, and with all your might” (Deut. 6:5). This is what ultimate concern means
and from these words the term “ultimate concern” is derived. They state unambiguously the
character of genuine faith, the demand of total surrender to the subject of ultimate concern.
(Tillich, 1957: 3)

Similarly, in the opening pages of his Systematic Theology he points to the Shema’s New
Testament counterpart as central to his theology.

Ultimate concern is the abstract translation of the great commandment: The Lord, our
God, the Lord is one [sic]; and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and
with all your soul and with all your mind, and with all your strength” [Mark 12:29]. The
religious concern is ultimate; it excludes all other concerns from ultimate significance; it
makes them preliminary. The ultimate concern is unconditional, independent of any
conditions of character, desire, or circumstance. The unconditional concern is total: no
part of ourselves or of our world is excluded from it; there is no “place” to flee from it [Ps.
139]. (Tillich, 1951: 11–12)

In Tillich’s theological system, the Shema expresses his “first formal criteria of theol-
ogy: The object of theology is what concerns us ultimately” (Tillich, 1951: 12). Further-
more, “revelation is the manifestation of what concerns us ultimately” (Tillich, 1951:
123)—recall the burning bush—and “‘God’ is the name for that which concerns [us]
ultimately” (Tillich, 1951: 234)—recall the Ineffable Name.
Tillich’s adjectives—ultimate, unconditional, total, absolute—help to express what it
means to love God with all your heart, soul, mind, strength and might. And, again, in
the Jewish understanding of the covenantal context, such love “does not refer to
internal sentiment or to private emotion,” but to “loyalty of action toward both deity
and neighbor” (Berlin et al., 2004: 380). Moreover, according to rabbinic commenta-
tors, to love God with all your soul “meant that one should be willing to give one’s life
for God. This interpretation led to the practice of reciting the Shema on one’s deathbed
or in the midst of acts of martyrdom” (Berlin et al., 2004: 380). As we have seen, for
observant Jews such ultimate concern is not a matter of abstract theological concep-
tualization. Enacted in a comprehensive range of liturgical and performative ritualiza-
tions accompanied by deep, self-conscious intentions, it is embodied in such a way as
to bear witness to the fact that nothing in life and living is to be left untouched by such
devotion and allegiance.
The Shema’s language of command and consequence—for example, “You shall . . . ”
and “Then he will . . . ” (e.g., Deut. 6:5, 11:14)—also expresses the content of a covenant
relationship characterized by absolute fidelity and surrender to the will of YHWH. “The
Old Testament is full of commands which make the nature of this surrender concrete, and
it is full of promises and threats in relation to it. Faith, for the [people] of the Old Testament
130 Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 48(1)

is the state of being ultimately and unconditionally concerned about Jahweh [sic] and about
what he represents in demand, threat and promise” (Tillich, 1957: 3). A linguistic inven-
tory of the whole of the Shema reveals a compelling rhetoric characterized by performative
speech-acts, from the imperative to the promissory (Austin, 1965; Gunderson, 1975).
There is demand: hear; you shall; keep; recite; bind; fix; teach; write; heed; tell; make;
put; remember; do; be holy. There is threat: if you will; take care; then; he will; there will
be no. And there is promise: then he will; you will gather; he will give; you will eat.
Such rhetorical dimensions evoke the political and ethical implications of the Shema.
For Tillich these turn on the dynamics of idolatry. “Idolatry is the elevation of a pre-
liminary concern to ultimacy. Something essentially conditioned is taken as uncondi-
tional, something essentially partial is boosted into universality, and something
essentially finite is given infinite significance” (Tillich, 1951: 13). Or, to put it another
way, “whatever concerns a [person] ultimately becomes god for [that person], and
conversely, . . . [a person] can be concerned ultimately only about that which is god for
[that person] (Tillich, 1951: 234). Speaking with first-hand experience of both Nazi
Nationalsozialismus and the meteoric rise of post-war Western capitalism, Tillich is
quick to identify two concrete examples of idolatry—which are particularly noteworthy
insofar as they continue to hold powerful sway to this day. First, he suggests, “the best
example is the contemporary idolatry of religious nationalism” (Tillich, 1951: 13).

If a national group makes the life and growth of the nation its ultimate concern, it demands
that all other concerns, economic well-being, health and life, family, aesthetic and cognitive
truth, justice and humanity, be sacrificed. The extreme nationalisms of our century are
laboratories for the study of what ultimate concern means in all aspects of human existence,
including the smallest concern of one’s daily life. Everything is centered in the only god, the
nation—a god who certainly proves to be a demon . . . (Tillich, 1957: 1–2)

His second example of contemporary idolatry is “success.”

Equally revealing . . . is the ultimate concern with “success” and with social standing and
economic power. It is the god of many people in the highly competitive Western culture and
it does what every ultimate concern must do: it demands unconditional surrender to its laws
even if the price is the sacrifice of genuine human relations, personal conviction, and
creative eros. Its threat is social and economic defeat, and its promise—indefinite as all
such promises—the fulfillment of one’s being . . . . When fulfilled, promise of this faith
proves to be empty. (Tillich, 1957: 3–4)

To such examples we could easily add others, including the gods of specifically ethnic
nationalism and consumerism, the misplaced concerns of which are becoming increas-
ingly apparent as the cause of the forced migration or violent destruction of many
peoples, and the health and sustainability of the planet (Yip, 2010). To understand
worship in its basic etymological sense as “to ascribe worth” (Duck, 2013: 3; Kervin,
2010: 66; White, 2000: 27)—to take worship at its word, so to speak—is to make a
critical connection between ultimate concern and worship, between Tillich’s formal
Kervin 131

criteria for theology and the Shema’s liturgical theology, a liturgical theology in which
text and action, liturgy and ethics, cannot be separated.
Brueggemann makes an analogous argument, lending further credence and contem-
porary content to this approach. Because, as noted at the outset, the Shema “stands at the
core of Old Testament faith” (Brueggemann, 2008: 121), we can expect to look outward
from it to find the sources of its multivalent, referential allusions. For example, in the
first “Primal Revelation” of the burning bush at Horeb (Exod. 3:1–4:17), we find not
only the obvious use of the tetragrammaton, but also the characteristic summons of the
God of holiness joined with a notable measure of materiality and embodied response—
for example, a bush is aflame; the ground is made holy; Moses takes off his sandals. And
all this is given in the context of a deeply communal identification by God with Israel and
its ancestors. Further, God’s revelation is not simply the result of divine initiative, but in
response to human utterance and need. What Brueggemann identifies as a “cry–save
dialogic structure” is typical of covenantal revelation in general and—important for our
purposes—a key dynamic of Israel’s prayer practice (Brueggemann, 2008: 27).

In sum, this originary narrative makes clear that YHWH, for all of YHWH’s self-regard, is
not a God who exists for God’s self. This God is known from the outset to be deeply
resonant with the human-historical reality, deeply responsive to human need, and deeply
passionate for human capacity in a transformation of the historical environment of the
world. This motif of God-for-the-world, God-for-Israel, God-for-freedom, God-for-us dis-
tinguishes this God from those of the surrounding religious environment. Thus, at the same
time, the God who is glorified in holiness is also engaged in and for the historical process.
The narrative form of Israel’s faith manages to articulate both these claims at the same time.
It is evident that the themes encountered in this dramatic and dialogic self-revelation
become the themes that pervade the Old Testament, including YHWH’s narrative art, the
prophets, the kings, wisdom, and Israel’s hymnody in both doxologies of praise and laments
of pain. (Brueggemann, 2008: 40)

We can go even further. There is also a very real sense in which this narrative form is itself
cultic; the mode of this revelation is liturgical. Brueggemann identifies the “Second Primal
Revelation” as the Decalogue at Sinai (Exod. 19:1–24:18), where the giving of the com-
mandments takes place, while remembering YHWH in the context of the cult, where ritual
preparations are made and the consecrations of the people and priest are undertaken. Thus,
even the giving of the commandments is a liturgical event. “Theophanic rhetoric” gives
way to “cultic practice” (Brueggemann, 2008: 44–45), theophany tends to cult, God’s
revelation and the worship of God are dialogically inseparable.
But there’s more. The Decalogue revealed here is by no means an insular ethic born in
myopic liturgical practice. Like the Shema which functions as its anamnesis, its “two
points of accent” (or “two tablets”) encompass dual emphases: first, “the distinctive
claim of YHWH to be the sole subject of Israel’s worship” and therein its ultimate
concern (Exod. 20:1–7); second, YHWH’s will and directions for ordering a just and
flourishing community (Exod. 20:12–17); and each of these hinges on the cultic/ethical
link represented by the practice of Sabbath keeping (Exod. 20:8–11). Together they
encompass both “the rules of emancipation by the redeemer God and, at the same time,
132 Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 48(1)

the rules for a viable order of life by the creator God.” While the “second tablet” has
traditionally tended to garner the most ethical attention, it is the ultimate concern of the
“first tablet” and its “requirements concerning YHWH that fund and ground the neigh-
borly vision that follows.” And while the ancient Eastern sapiential (wisdom) tradition
may have “developed separately” from the covenantal (ethical) tradition, in the Old
Testament canon they are together (Brueggemann, 2008: 45–54). In the Decalogue they
are inseparably linked, and in the Shema they are remembered as such.
To the extent that this covenantal vision of a “neighborly ethic is . . . decisive of Old
Testament faith” (Brueggemann, 2008: 46), it should come as no surprise to find the
rabbi Jesus associated with linking the spirit of the Decalogue to the neighbor command-
ment of Lev. 19:18 (“you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the LORD”), while
invoking the Shema of Deuteronomy. The connection is familiar beyond the Gospel
accounts as well, as in: “Those who say, ‘I love God’, and hate their brothers or sisters,
are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love
God whom they have not seen. The commandment we have from him is this: those who
love God must love their brothers and sisters also” (1 John 4:20–21). And it is in
Deuteronomy that we find detailed “rules . . . for the protection of the vulnerable and
the economically needy” (Brueggemann, 2008: 46). “Deuteronomy is Israel’s neighbor
book, a most revolutionary social vision” (Brueggemann, 1999: 77). Indeed, Bruegge-
mann goes so far as to argue that “you cannot in this tradition say ‘God’ without saying
‘neighbor,’ nearly hyphenated, ‘God-neighbor’” (Brueggemann, 1999: 79).

Conclusion
By way of conclusion, let us consider a kind of thought experiment in response to the
foregoing Christian appreciation of the Shema and its resources for liturgical theology.
Let us refer to the God of the Shema, the Ineffable YHWH, as God-Neighbour—or, in
the spirit of the Jewish use of G-d, “G-N”—to emphasize the point that a Christian
liturgical theology which takes the significance of the Shema seriously must assert the
dynamic fusion of text and action, worship and ethics, prayer and politics. With G-N as
our ultimate concern, we cannot separate our absolute devotion and obedience to G-N
from our radical love and care for all G-N’s creatures and all G-N’s creation. Just as we
cannot divorce the liturgical from the performative, in our worship of G-N neither can we
(in the language of the Great Commandment) cleave the soul from the heart, nor the
mind from our might (or strength). Not unlike the rallying cry of the sixties and seven-
ties—“the personal is political” (Hanisch, 1969)—the liturgical is also political, pre-
cisely because it is a call to worship G-N. As the implications of this particular mitzvah
called the Shema make clear, the boundaries between religious observance and ethical
conduct blur in the matrix of a liturgical performance, which is the worship of G-N. Not
unlike the government’s prohibition against singing the Magnificat (Luke 1:46–55) in
British colonial India for fear that it might incite revolution, Jews were prevented from
reciting the Shema by the sixth century Byzantine Emperor. Their response was to have
the first verse intoned by the prayer leader—a subversive “call to worship,” as it were—
followed by a period of solemn quietude during which the congregation would recite the
remaining verses in silence (Nulman, 1993: 296). At its best, the Shema’s embodied
Kervin 133

enactment of faith in G-N alone is always a performative act of radical resistance to the
other gods of the age.
How have so many Christians come to so readily suppress the political and ethical
dimensions of their liturgical life? While the likes of Schmemann and Lathrop have
issued the call to worship with holistic integrity, too many popular worship practices
suffer from a performance more akin to idolatry than a radical devotion to G-N. As the
liturgical theology of the Shema demonstrates, the dialectic of holiness and justice is
fundamental to Judaism and Christianity but—speaking of my own tradition—is all too
readily bifurcated in Christian worship. To extend Brueggemann’s assessment of the
“current ideological mapping of Christianity in the United States” to the global North
and affluent West: holiness too often tends to be appropriated by insular conservatism,
while justice is frequently co-opted by bourgeois liberalism (Brueggemann, 2008:
214). Reminiscent of the Epistle of James on the relationship between faith and works,
holiness without justice is dead, and justice without holiness is empty (cf. James
2:14–17).
Much more needs to be said, including a more liturgically specific lex agendi. Jewish
traditions of belief and practice associated with the Shema offer rich resources for
Christian liturgical theology. While its New Testament expression is sometimes evoked
as a “Summary of the Law” in the penitential rite of the Roman Catholic and Anglican
traditions (Bradshaw, 2001: 103, 111–113, 145; Bradshaw, 2006: 138–139), it tends to
remain a largely didactic device for most Christians, especially Protestants, without
much awareness of its Jewish liturgical and ethical import. That some scholars find
in the Shema the roots of our Eucharistic praying suggests that it may also be tailor-
made to offer deep structures in support of the integration of our thanks and our giving
(Bradshaw, 2004: 128–130; Bradshaw, 2002: 128). The Shema calls us to worship, in
all its performative and formative dimensions. It calls us to a life of worship and prayer
“without ceasing” (1 Thess. 5:17) and challenges us to consider more intentional and
embodied practices of daily prayer to that end. The Shema carries within its liturgical
genealogy the identity-forming power of a classic, to which a people can return, again
and again, for instruction and inspiration, contemplation and action, witness and
resistance.

Acknowledgements
I acknowledge with gratitude the hospitality of Gladstone’s Library in Hawarden, Wales, during a
recent research leave. Sincere thanks also to Judith R. Newman for her comments on an earlier
draft, to Jennifer Pfenniger for her guidance with Hebrew exegesis, and to Carmen Palmer for her
expertise in French translation.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests


The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship,
and/or publication of this article.
134 Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses 48(1)

Funding
The author disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or
publication of this article. Research for this article was supported in part by the Academic Initia-
tives Fund of Emmanuel College and Victoria University, Toronto.

Notes
1. Issues of translation and exegesis, especially the rendering of “alone” vs. “one,” are taken up
in more detail in the penultimate section, “The Shema as Liturgical Theology,” below.
2. It is also known as “The Greatest Commandment” (Matt. 22:34–40) or “The First
Commandment” (Mark 12:28–34), as indicated by the subheadings in some editions of the
NRSV. Compare with Luke 10:25–37, where the text seems easily prompted by Jesus and
readily provided by the lawyer, suggesting its familiarity.
3. In Jewish timekeeping the day begins at sundown, so evening prayer is, strictly speaking, the
first service of the day. Afternoon prayer or Minhah (from the Hebrew meaning “present,” as
in the presentation of an offering) is shorter, does not include the Shema, and is often
combined with evening prayer, for the sake of convenience.
4. Due to the division of the blessings and petitions, it now numbers nineteen. The history and
significance of the Amidah is worthy of its own study, as evidenced by the fact that it is often
referred to simply as Tefillah (“prayer”).
5. Admittedly, here I am employing Reif’s research to a slightly different purpose. He is making
a historical and theological point where I am making a liturgical one. Reif (2006: 107–126).
6. While this is not a systematic effort in anthropologically “thick description,” the allusion to
Clifford Geertz’s development of Gilbert Ryle’s approach is intentional, evoked here in an
effort to describe the many dimensions of the Shema. Geertz (1975: 3–30).
7. Mitzvah is “a Hebrew word used commonly to mean ‘good deed,’ but in the more technical
sense, denoting any commandment from God, and therefore, by extension, what God wants us
to do. Reciting the Sh’ma, morning and evening, for instance, is a mitzvah” (Hoffman, 1997a:
145–146).
8. “Halakhic” or “legal” is an anglicized form of the Hebrew halakhah meaning “Jewish law”
(Hoffman, 1997a: 143).
9. “Morning” is also defined as having dawned at the point at which colours are visible;
“evening” is defined as that point at which three stars are visible in the sky. These and other
halakhic examples to follow draw on Daniel Landes’ contemporary commentary on “the
halakhah of prayer” found throughout Hoffman’s text (e.g., Hoffman, 1997a: 35, 75, 81,
87, 92, 95, 111, 115).
10. Minyan, “a quorum, the minimum number of people required for certain prayers . . . from the
Hebrew word meaning ‘to count’” (Hoffman, 1997a: 145). Depending upon the tradition of
observance, a minyan could be ten adult males or, in more modern interpretations, ten adults,
regardless of gender.
11. Tefillin are “two cube-shaped black boxes containing biblical quotations (Exodus 13:1–10, 13:
11–16; Deuteronomy 6:4–9, 11:13–21), and affixed by means of attached leather straps to the
forehead and left arm (right arm for left-handed people) during morning prayer.” A mezuzah,
Hebrew for “doorpost,” is “a small casement that contains the first two sections of the Sh’ma
(Deuteronomy 6:4–9, 11:13–21), and is affixed to the doorposts of Jewish homes” (Hoffman,
1997a: 146, 148). Thus, tefillin physically “bind” God’s Word, words and commandments to
Kervin 135

one’s arms, hands and forehead, in performance of Deut. 6:8 and 11:18 (“bind them as a sign
on your hand, fix them as an emblem on your forehead”), while the mezuzah denotes a similar
obedience to Deut. 6:9 and 11:20 (“write them on the doorposts of your house and on your
gates”). Strict artisanal regulations also govern its construction and calligraphic preparation.
See, for example, Bar-Yitsh.ak. and Patai (2013: 362–364).
12. To support the Holy See’s 2008 Directive on the specific question of the tetragrammaton is not
necessarily to agree with all other aspects of its 2001 Instruction on translation, Liturgiam
authenticam. In addition, such efforts need not jeopardize progress made in relation to inclu-
sive language with respect to God since, by extending this logic, circumlocutions and more
inclusive terms such as “The Holy One,” “The Most High,” and “Sovereign One” are to be
preferred over both the ritually inappropriate YHWH or the sexist and classist alternative
“LORD.” Compare, for example, with Priests for Equality (2007: vi–vii).

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