In our learning and teaching, we have encountered many students who begin with the assumption that “spirituality is just not for me.” There may be a variety of reasons why some may feel as if they are intuitively turned off or alienated by anything labeled as spiritual, e.g., the association of spirituality with flightiness and lack of grounding; or associations of spirituality with specific individuals with whom the learner does not wish to identify with or emulate. Yet we’ve found it possible to overcome these predispositions, especially if spirituality is taught in accessible ways. In fact, some of Alison’s favorite meditation students are those that begin by saying, “My mind is too busy to sit still,” and “I’ve tried meditation before, it’s not for me.”

The term spirituality conjures associations of crystals, meditation mats, soothing music, transcendental wind chimes, and calm voices. When we add the term Jewish to spirituality, we might imagine a Safed-soaked environment, where spiritual seekers are entranced by kabbalah, niggunim, and gematria, and are dependent on others to unlock the spiritual inside of us.

As a teacher entering the davening space on any particular morning in my Modern Orthodox high school, I have a long wish-list of what I want for my students. I want them to understand the words they recite. I want them to connect with the community of mitpallelim (pray-ers) present in the room. I want them to see themselves as part of a community of mitpallelim stretching throughout Jewish history.

I remember, years ago, walking into an elementary Jewish day school classroom for tefillah. I witnessed joy, enthusiasm, song, and inspiration and the visit made an indelible impression on my personal adult tefillah experience. Participating in a middle school minyan elicited a sense of purpose as I was reminded of the bright future that our Jewish youth will usher in. I sense that something significant has changed.

I was experiencing a challenging staffing situation in one of my earlier years as Head of School. A veteran educator and colleague, new to deepening her Jewish practice, suggested that I might be guided through the situation using Mussar, accent on last syllable. I was puzzled. What is MuSSAR? She explained, you know, MuSSAR. Something clicked, I blurted out unguardedly, “you mean, MUsser!” The Ashkenazic Yiddish pronunciation, as in, what I grew up experiencing in my Orthodox Jewish day school as a child.