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Israel Affairs
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Why did poetry and piyut

disappear from the religious-
Zionist High Holy Day prayer
book, and what prompted their
return?
a
Shimon Fogel
a
Goldstein-Goren Department of Jewish Thought, Ben-
Gurion University of the Negev, Israel
Published online: 04 Apr 2014.

To cite this article: Shimon Fogel (2014): Why did poetry and piyut disappear from the
religious-Zionist High Holy Day prayer book, and what prompted their return?, Israel
Affairs, DOI: 10.1080/13537121.2014.889887

To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/13537121.2014.889887

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 Israel Affairs, 2014
http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/13537121.2014.889887

Why did poetry and piyut disappear from the religious-Zionist

High Holy Day prayer book, and what prompted their return?
Shimon Fogel*

Goldstein-Goren Department of Jewish Thought, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev,

Israel
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This article reviews the process by which the presence of piyut – liturgical
poetry – in (Ashkenazi) Religious-Zionist High Holy Day prayer books
was curtailed. Piyut is examined here, in part, as a representative of
non-institutionalised prayer reflecting grassroots tradition (and varying ethnic
custom) as opposed to the letter of halakhic law. From this perspective, the
process of decreasing the use of piyutim will be examined as the result of both
the Orthodox movement and modern literary critique of piyut poetics.
Keywords: Israel; liturgy; poetry; piyut; synagogues; religion; ethnic
identity; prayer books

Prayer as an identity builder

The subject of the synagogue in the State of Israel has not been properly
researched, on the liturgical or sociological levels,1 and this article seeks to fill
some of this lacuna.
The synagogue is unique in serving as the religious centre for the entire
Jewish community. It is there that all adult male members partake in religious
activity without regard to varying levels of literacy, and no one – at least on a
formal level – is completely excluded. This unique feature of the synagogue
leads to a two-directional process of influence: influence of the community on the
rabbinic strata and vice versa. The influence the synagogue imparts on the
community is clear: as a space intended for the use of the entire community, and
not exclusively the learned elite, the synagogue, in many ways, embodies a sort of
alternative to the accepted religious tenets, the side of religion which emphasizes
different aspects of the prayer’s life.
In the synagogue, and particularly in Ashkenazi synagogues, a broader swath
of the population is empowered to lead the community;2 the power of communal
hierarchy is thus lessened and the criteria for religious excellence are widened
beyond those of Torah knowledge. Accordingly, the relation of synagogue
practice towards minhag (religious custom) is notably different than that of
normative halakha. Whereas the world of Jewish law is ultimately determined
primarily by halakhic literature, in the synagogue the role of custom is greatly

*Email: skfogel@gmail.com

q 2014 Taylor & Francis

 2 S. Fogel
bolstered. Liturgical customs often derive from oral tradition, not written texts,
and the ultimate authority regarding their implementation is reserved not for
those possessed of religious learning but rather for the elders of the praying
community.
From this description of the synagogue – as well as from additional
characteristics not listed here – its central role in the processes of identity
creation among community members is evident. Participation in the community
creates a Jewish identity that is dependent on belonging to a distinct group, and
not on normative behaviour, literacy or even a shared history. The importance of
the praying community was greatly diminished in the modern era, and even more
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so in the State of Israel, with its diverse options for belonging and identity;
however, participation in synagogue ritual remains a factor in the shaping of the
prayer’s identity, and it is the primary religious act undertaken within the family
framework, involving, at times, several generations in the activity.
The process described above develops from the ground up and introduces
popular elements to the standards and behaviours on the religious and communal
levels. However, as mentioned above, the centrality of the synagogue in shaping
a congregant’s identity is a two-way process which includes attempts on the part
of ‘official’ agents of cultural power (rabbis and others) to shape the religious
identity of community members. The clash between halakha and custom is
likewise bidirectional, and the rabbinic elite invest considerable effort in
grounding formal halakhic norms, even at the cost of widespread communal
practices. Of course, this conflict is not limited to the realm of synagogue
practice,3 but synagogues do appear to be one of its focal arenas, due apparently
to the unique characteristics described above.
Given this understanding of the synagogue as a site representing a popular
component of religious identity, we can examine particular meanings that it has
been imbued with in our times. The religious world, to a great extent, preserves
ethnic identity. This is due to its inherent and significant traditional component
and to the fact that halakha and custom are both perceived as a consequence of
ethnic belonging. The synagogue preserved the worlds of custom and tradition,
and therefore emphasizes the ethnic element. When a synagogue-goer uses a
siddur (prayer book) written according to a certain ethnic tradition, he is aware
of his belonging to the group which embodies this tradition; and when he
acts according ‘to our custom’ and counter to the official halakhic standard all the
more so.
To this one must add the tension that exists between the preservation of ethnic
identity and its blurring, which is achieved, among other routes, through the
medium of a non-ethnic, ‘Israeli’ identity. Given this tension, any change in
synagogue practice must be examined in light of its place in the tension between
these two elements and its effect on the process of identity formation.
The changes in the field of piyut (liturgical poetry) are a clear example of a
case in which the various elements we have pointed to collide and create
changes which bear witness to the cultural function of liturgical poetry, and I will
 Israel Affairs 3
attempt to demonstrate this later on in the article; first, however, and by way of
introduction, I will examine the place of piyut in prayer and its central cultural
function.

Historical introduction: piyut in Ashkenaz and the East

Poetry and prayer have been linked together since their earliest days. Beginning
at the end of the Middle Ages, however, Ashkenazi and Eastern tradition
began preserving the poetic tradition in markedly divergent ways. The Jews of
Ashkenaz, who in several areas of liturgical practice preferred the Palestinian
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tradition, preserved their ancient piyutim and added Italian and Ashkenazi
piyutim. These communities did indeed lose the freedom exercised by the
poets-cantors of previous generations, but the place of liturgical poetry remained
intact and, at least as regards the prayers of the High Holy Days, it continued to
play a central part in – or even a replacement for – the cantor’s repetition of
prayers, as well as some of the blessings of the Shema.4
The dispute over the halakhic legitimacy of piyutim began in the Middle
Ages;5 however, it continued to surface periodically, despite the supposed
decisions made regarding it – as the various references to the question in
responsa material from different periods (to this day) demonstrate.
In the Eastern tradition, however, the majority of ancient piyutim was
replaced, over time, with newer poems penned by the leading poets of the Golden
Age of Spanish Jewry. Concomitantly, the place of these poems in the liturgy
changed, and instead of being incorporated into the main prayer texts as before,
they migrated, in most cases, to the transitional points between various prayer
units. This change was the result of an artistic – religious critique of the content of
the piyutim, which was the product of the philosophical, religious and aesthetic
values which held sway during this time.6 One camp of the critique-bearers
adopted the same halakhic arguments which had been rejected by Ashkenazi
sages.
As a result, liturgical poetry – and in its wake the entirety of the High Holy
Day prayer services – should be considered a significant differentiator between
East and West.

Piyut as a shaper of identity

The previous sections laid out the central role played by the synagogue in shaping
Jewish religious identity and the different place piyut holds in the two main
concentrations of the Jewish diaspora. We can now begin to examine the special
place piyut, i.e. poetry, holds in the process of Jewish identity-formation and
examine the political import of the various changes it has undergone.
Until the changes wrought on prayer in the modern era, piyut held a central
place in the prayer traditions of almost all Jewish ethnic groups, and was an
important component of the prayer services of any special occasion – from
 4 S. Fogel
important Sabbaths and holidays through circumcision and marriage ceremonies.
The prayers on these special days included many religious poems in both Eastern
and European Jewish communities, with local variations as to the particular
poems used and their place in the prayer service.
Three interconnected aspects of the piyut enhanced its importance in the
identity-formation process of synagogue-goers:
. The structure of prayer service;
. The method of implementation of piyut;
. The characteristics of piyut itself, its content and shape.
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The incorporation of liturgical poetry in prayers breaks their conventional

structure, the one that is used throughout the year, and introduces a dynamic
element into synagogue worship. In the early Palestinian model, many of the
piyutim were ad hoc creations, introduced to the community when the cantor
performed them on special occasions. This practice was severely curtailed over
time, and a certain canon of liturgical poetry was established (although it was far
from final, and continued to be added to, edited and otherwise changed); but even
when piyutim are read from a text included in prayer books, it is clear to any
participant that they are dealing with a significantly different element of the
prayer service. To this basic anomaly of the piyut we must add also the influence
it has, at the very least, on the margins and transitional segments of the prayer
service. It is important to note that these changes, even when they win the
approval of halakhic authorities, often deviate from the official halakha regarding
pauses in blessings, etc. In other words, piyut is most certainly one of the routes
through which custom and halakha contend with one another; and the synagogue
is one of the central arenas in which the latter often finds itself on the losing side.
It is very difficult to accurately describe the manner in which piyut is carried
out in practice, and there are of course significant variations in this matter
between different communities and in different historical periods. It appears that
piyutim were not originally performed by members of the community at all, and
their implementation was limited to the cantor, or, at the most, included the
congregants as responders only. This changed significantly with the invention of
the printing press, following which many congregants had copies of the
complicated text and were able to participate in its recitation. Nowadays, one
can often see the community participating in singing various piyutim. This
participation of the congregation is of course connected to what we described
above – the relatively alien nature of the piyut within the framework of
tefillah – and it strengthens this alienation by means of the different way in which
it is carried out. In this way a closed circuit is created, in which the textual
alienation of the piyut leads to a difference in performance, which, in turn, leads
to a heightened awareness of those occasions on which poetry is added to the
prayer service. The fact that the congregation takes an active part in the service,
and particularly in its special elements, bolsters the non-hierarchical nature of the
synagogue.
 Israel Affairs 5
By way of underscoring the difference between the content of piyutim from
everyday prayer, this article highlights several central characteristics shared
by many of the piyutim widely used in contemporary prayer books. To begin
with, the piyut gives place to many topics that do not appear in the regular prayers
such as anthropomorphic ideas, angelology, and topics grounded in particular
historical realities surrounding the poets’ lives.7 Piyut also relies heavily on
midrashic traditions, unlike the more conservative roots of standard prayer.
Piyut also allows for topics which diverge from the central themes of prayer
(e.g. the addition, through piyut, of the theme of sin and atonement to the central
theme of judgement and sovereignty in the Rosh Hashanna prayers). This last
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places piyut squarely in the world describes above as the world of the synagogue
– a more flexible religious arena, unlimited to the canonical text, but rather
allowing various deviations, such as the reflection of private, time-bound ‘voices’
through poetry, as opposed to the public and timeless nature of prayer.
While it is true that, at times, piyut itself becomes canonized and set, its
inferior halakhic status and the fact that its canonization has its roots in traditional
practice still tie it strongly to the popular elements of the community. The piyutim
themselves, of course, were written by scholarly elements of the congregation,
but their widespread acceptance leads to the necessary assumption that they were
extremely popular among much wider layers of the praying community.8
The poetic structure itself is also different than the language of everyday
prayer, which is primarily prosaic and simple in nature. Many words used in piyut
are taken from less familiar verses of the Bible, and many liturgical poets are
famous for their tendency to create new and innovative grammatical forms.
To this one must add the poetic tools prevalent in piyut, which emphasize the
artistic aspect of this prayer component, an element which is relatively obscure
in regular prayer. This notable artistic element introduces a sort of ‘playful’
element to prayer. Although piyutim fit in well with the religious sentiment of
standard prayers, there is no doubt that their added qualities make them more
easily accessible to the public and thus increase the popular character of prayer
altogether.
If piyut does indeed strengthen the popular elements of prayer, it is
unsurprising to discover a parallel process regarding the ethnic identity-formation
of congregants in a multi-ethnic reality. Piyut is among the divisive elements
between different prayer traditions and it strengthens the role of prayer as a definer
of ethnic identity and of ethnic components of religious identity. Differences in
the performance of piyutim add to this process: the balanced rhythm of Eastern
piyut, derived from the Spanish tradition, renders it accessible to synagogue goers.
The piyutim of the Ashkenazi tradition, on the other hand, are far less balanced
poetically, and their tendency to make use of innovative grammatical forms and
complex midrashic allusions leads them to be much less accessible to the standard
congregant.
The synagogue, then, serves as an arena for the struggle between two
elements, which may be described roughly as ‘popular’, on the one hand, and
 6 S. Fogel
‘institutional’ on the other. Since piyut belongs to the more popular of these
elements, one can view its acceptance or rejection as a reflection of political
power struggles in times of conflict. To put it more plainly, different groups
might make use of piyut in order to influence community life and point it in a
certain direction. Through a bolstering, weakening or revival of piyut one can
affect the very nature of the synagogue, and, through it, the functioning or
behaviour of the community. The extent to which piyut is used in prayer, and its
place in it, are therefore more relevant to the life of the congregation than the
specific content of any given poem. It is the actual use of this medium in the
synagogue through which a community emphasizes and strengthens either its
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popular and traditional elements, or the halakhic, authoritative components of the

community.

Changes in piyut in religious-Zionist prayer books

The religious-Zionist prayer book as a meeting-place for modernism,
institutionalism and tradition
There is no question that the realm of piyut has undergone many changes over
time. One can easily derive this fact from the abundance of piyutim intended as
substitutes for each other, but the dynamic nature of this area of prayer is not
limited to the time of composition.9 In what follows the article will focus on
changes which have taken place in the more recent past, particularly in prayer
books intended for use in Ashkenazi, religious-Zionist communities in Israel.
Religious-Zionist communities, despite various internal differences, are
relatively cohesive, both ideologically and socially. One can attribute this relative
homogeny to the ideological/sociological distinction which stands at the base of
this community: its difference from the ultra-orthodox community, on the one
hand, and the secular one, on the other. This shared differentiation forms the
basis for the shared synagogue experience. To this must be added one component
of the religious-Zionist community – its self-identification as participating in
modernism.
Modernism is characterized, among other things, by a distance from popular
customs and beliefs in favour of behaviour seen as rational and cultural. On the
other hand, the belittling of the value of custom can also be seen as connected to
Orthodoxy, which is therefore a response to modernism which adopts some
modern elements as well.10 One would, therefore, expect to find a diminishing of
the value of custom – and popular elements in general – in the religious-Zionist
arena, a meeting-point of tradition, Orthodoxy and modernism. This trend, if it
can be identified, must be linked to the tendency of religious-Zionist communities
to base themselves on ideological, rather than familial or ethnic, bonds. It is
therefore intuitive that the popular element in these communities should be
relatively weak. All of this is strengthened in the wake of the meeting of
ideologies, which invited the clash of divergent familial traditions. A community
interested in relative stability and peace can attempt to neuter such conflict
 Israel Affairs 7
through the authority of books, i.e. the institutional, halakhic element. We must
therefore, first and foremost, examine the changes in attitudes toward prayer and
piyut which take place in those prayer books that function as ‘representatives’ of
the rabbinic elite.
In the absence of comprehensive field work on this matter, we must attempt a
description of the synagogue through the window of the printed prayer books.
We might even claim that it is almost impossible to tell when a prayer book
reflects changes in custom (i.e. the popular element) and when it is itself the
implementer of these changes (i.e. is serving as a tool for rabbinic-institutional
authority.)
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The examination of a community through the lens of its prayer books must be
predicated on two elements: its wide circulation among the congregants and its
having been printed according to their needs. If we seek to examine the place of
piyut among congregants of the religious-Zionist camp, it is not sufficient to look
at the most widely used prayer book, since its popularity may derive from
different sources.11 We must seek out prayer books that are both popular and in
wide use, but which were also were created in order to respond to the particular
needs of the community and their ideology.
There is almost no doubt that the most widely used and influential prayer
book in religious-Zionist synagogues is the ‘Rinat Yisrael’ (‘The prayer/song of
Israel’).12 This prayer book, first printed in the 1970s with government funding, is
perceived as one which reflects the ‘central stream’ of religious Zionism, at least
until the last decade. Its cultural importance as the central shaper of religious
Zionism is expressed, among other things, in the lively argument that arose upon
its publication. Shmuel Weingarten, a scholar and Jerusalemite politico of
Eastern extraction, criticized the new prayer book, claiming, among other
things, that it was intended to force the ‘Sephardi’ – i.e. the Chassidic – prayer
framework on everyone. The ending of Weingarten’s statement betrays his
traditional-ethnic concerns: ‘every ethnic group and tribe of Israel must conserve
their own prayer traditions . . . in all their varieties, and through this combine to a
wonderful symphony’. The compiler of the prayer book, Shlomo Tal, responded,
saying that the imposition of Sephardi prayers on everyone was not the purpose of
the prayer book; however, he did ideologically believe that there was a halakhic
imperative to unify the various prayer traditions used in Israel, particularly
following the establishment of the State of Israel.13 That is, according to Tal the
Zionist movement and the establishment of the State of Israel (as a lead-up to the
messianic age) are processes which override the different traditions created over
years of Diaspora existence and cancel them out. Tal’s historical consciousness,
which perceives his prayer book as particularly tailored to the generation of
Jewish statehood, is well expressed in his introduction to the book (present in all
later printings since 1970): ‘to each generation its prayer book . . . the Rinat
Yisrael prayer book is a need of this generation and of this time. There is a need
for a prayer book appropriate to our generation, which is living a life of political
renewal in its land’.
 8 S. Fogel
It is worth mentioning in this context that Tal’s attempt to unify disparate
prayer practices through a new prayer book, out of a Zionist sensibility and under
official patronage, was not the first of its kind. In the IDF, too, Rabbi Shlomo
Goren attempted the dissemination of a ‘unified’ prayer book, based on the
Chassidic tradition;14 this attempt, too, led to bitter criticism in the name of
conserving ethnic traditions.15 The very first prayer book of this kind – the ‘Mipi
Olelim’ (‘From the mouths of children’) prayer book of 1930 – was published
prior to 1948 by Rabbi Yakov Berman, a Mizrahi member.16
The Rinat Yisrael prayer book thus carries the banner of relinquishing
popular-traditional synagogue elements in favour of norms instituted by rabbinic
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and political authorities, to be disseminated through prayer books. It is therefore

unsurprising that this approach characterizes the ‘central stream’ of religious
Zionism, in its Ashkenazi version. We can perhaps find in this the explanation for
Rinat Yisrael’s failure to obtain a central place in Eastern synagogues.17

Piyut in the religious-Zionist prayer book

In light of the above, we will now examine the changes in the realm of piyut
among communities that use the Rinat Yisrael prayer book and those similar to it;
this prayer book, in both its Sephardi and Ashkenazi manifestations, is almost
completely devoid of piyutim. There is, for instance, no mention of the custom of
saying ‘yotzerot’ on special Sabbaths, such as those on which the ‘four portions’
are read, and there is likewise no mention of the slichot said on public fast days,
most of which are piyutim. Rinat Yisrael (and its derivative prayer books, such as
‘The Klal Yisrael Prayer Book’)18 is different in this matter from the prayer books
targeted primarily at the ultra-Orthodox community (such as ‘Tefillat Shai’);19 or
those unaffiliated with a particular religious stream (e.g. ‘Tefillat Kol Peh’, a very
popular one20).
Another popular prayer book targeted at the religious-Zionist population is
the ‘Koren’ prayer book.21 In this prayer book the slichot appear, but the
‘yotzerot’ are left out. This testifies to the relationship between actual practice
and the printed prayer books – despite the editing undertaken by Rinat Yisrael,
many people still say the slichot on fast days, whereas the place of the special
‘yotzerot’ for the special Sabbaths has been completely eroded.
It is worthwhile mentioning again that in the prayer books intended for the
ultra-Orthodox community, in which the recitation of piyut has also diminished,
the actual poems have not been removed from the books; beyond the question
of actual practice, we can identify the limiting of piyut with the stance of the
religious-Zionist prayer book editors and not only with the common practice.
In other words, the ultra-Orthodox prayer books prefer the conservation of the
piyut, i.e. tradition, even where it is no longer a living tradition.
In order to fully understand the attitude toward piyut we will examine the
High Holy Day and festival prayer books (mahzorim) and trace the fate of piyut in
them. High Holy Day prayers, in their Ashkenazi versions, are largely composed
 Israel Affairs 9
of the kerovot piyutim used in the cantor’s repetition of the prayer. This is true in
both the quantitative sense and in terms of the cultural weight of piyut in these
prayers. The Rinat Yisrael mahzor (and further editions),22 also extremely
popular, relocated many of these piyutim to the end of the prayer books
(an act that can be seen as their actual editing out of the service) or printed them
in a smaller font. The editor explains, in his introduction to the prayer book, that
he edited out the piyutim ‘which are omitted by many communities’,23 and that
the printing in a smaller font was done ‘solely for technical reasons’ and does
not reflect their relative importance in any way. This latter claim seems fairly
unconvincing. Tal, as an expert in the world of prayer and one who expended
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much energy in the renewal of the prayer book topography, should have been
well aware that the aesthetic aspects of printing are highly significant. This
diminution of the importance of piyutim lines up well with the halakhic stance
toward them, as these liturgical poems are not considered part of the mandatory
prayers; but it does not reflect their cultural importance in the traditional
Ashkenazi framework.
Tal’s claim that the editing out of piyutim is merely a reflection of the
common practice in the majority of communities also requires further inspection.
We have no record of the different poems that were actually recited in different
communities, and Rinat Yisrael’s widespread influence almost entirely prevents
the possibility of examining the present situation. We will therefore content
ourselves with comparing Rinat Yisrael’s mahzor to the ‘Jerusalem’ mahzorim,24
which are also aimed at the religious-Zionist public.
The editors of the ‘Jerusalem’ mahzor included many more piyutim in the
body of the text than Tal included in his, and they too contend that the
consideration which guided their decision was the common practice in living
communities. The ‘Jerusalem’ mahzor even includes a technique intended to
include poems said only in a minority of communities. In other words, it is
difficult to accept Tal’s claim that Rinat Yisrael offers a pure reflection of
custom.25 Although it appears that Tal was not the first to limit the use of piyut in
prayer, it is clear that his influence is of first importance, and that more than
reflecting a reality, it shaped it. A comparison of Rinat Yisrael to ‘Mipi Olelim’
leads to a similar conclusion. Hana’amani, the editor of these prayer books (who
was no longer acting under the official sponsorship of the Zionist institutions),
also claimed that his tendency to limit the appearance of piyut was a reflection of
prevalent custom – under the influence of modern-era Palestinian customs
deriving from the students of the Vilna Gaon – but in actual fact the body of his
mahzorim includes many more piyutim than those of Rinat Yisrael, with a small
minority being relegated to the margins.
The piyutim Tal left out are printed at the end of his mahzor, accompanied with
brief descriptions of the poems and their composers. As mentioned above, printing
this information at the end of the mahzor is tantamount to not printing it at all.
The wide influence of Rinat Yisrael can also be measured through the way in
which its prayer service and its editor’s attitude toward piyut have influenced
 10 S. Fogel
other prayer books and mahzorim. Among the everyday prayer books that use
Tal’s version, the ‘Klal Yisrael’ prayer book is notable. Among the mahzorim
influenced by the Rinat Yisrael, one must also count the ‘Ori VeYish’i’ mahzor,
which also used the Rinat Yisrael’s wording. This mahzor is part of a wider trend
of limiting the number of piyutim in mahzorim, together with ‘Mahzor HaDorot’
and ‘Mahzor HaMikdash’.26 These three mahzorim removed even more piyutim
than Tal did, and thereby intensified the trend of distancing from the traditional
elements of prayer, although the motives of each mahzor for doing this were
different.
‘Mahzor HaDorot’ is targeted at populations not well-versed in the world of
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prayer, and despite its name, which hints at a traditional approach, it is in fact
intended for use by those for whom tradition is not a formative life experience.
It is therefore not surprising that it lacks elements characteristic of tradition, such
as piyut. ‘Mahzor HaMikdash’, a part of a wider series of prayer books, focuses
on framing the act of prayer in its ritual context, with regard to the Temple rituals
described in rabbinic literature. These mahzorim attempt to posit an alternative
history, centred around the Temple – a history which stands in contrast to a
‘diaspora’ sensibility, which does not place the Temple at the centre of festivals
and their prayer services.27 There is no doubt that this reading of the prayer
service cannot be considered traditional, and it is therefore possible to suggest
that the tendency to limit the use of piyut in these mahzorim is connected to their
general attempt to establish a new religious sensibility. The third mahzor,
‘Ori VeYish’I’, was published by the Karnei Shomron yeshiva, and its wording,
as well as some of the exegesis included in it, is borrowed from the Rinat Yisrael.
This prayer book attempts, first and foremost, to examine the prayer service
from a halakhic perspective, alongside exegesis and a placing of the prayers in
historical perspective.
These mahzorim, therefore, point to the process of moving away from the
world of piyut as connected to the process of moving away from tradition. The
central move which the religious-Zionist movement made away from tradition is
a topic which does not fall within the boundaries of this paper; I will therefore
focus only on the question of piyut and demonstrate how both the modern and the
Orthodox extreme positions, described above, lead to one shared process – one of
imposing limits on the use of piyut.
Many member of the European Jewish Enlightenment movement, if not all of
them, criticized piyut for its use of vague and incorrect language and its tendency
toward embellishment and exaggeration.28 This critique was, in many cases, a
continuation of medieval Spanish criticism of piyut, but it also added to it.
Conversely, piyutim were, at the same time, also criticized from a halakhic
perspective.29 This critique picked up where medieval criticism of piyut left off,
but the diminution in the force of tradition and rise in the importance of ‘book-
learned’ halakha added new elements and force to it.
R. Eliyahu of Vilna, the Vilna Gaon, dedicated much time to an attempt
to ‘fix’ Ashkenazi prayer practices in accordance with the halakha and with the
 Israel Affairs 11
‘original’ version of the prayer service.30 The changes he implemented were
intended to limit the place of piyut on Sabbaths, holidays and even the High Holy
Day prayers, and were understood by his students as mandatory changes.31
Regarding the religious-Zionist movement and its prayer books, the Vilna Gaon’s
ruling is mainly relevant due to its migration to Israel, where it became
‘the custom of Jerusalem’ (minhag Yerushalayim). The Gaon’s stance thus
influenced, among others, the version of ‘Mipi Olelim’, as Hana’amani states in
his introduction to the prayer book, and that of Rinat Yisrael.32
The place of piyut was also significantly restricted in several of the important
yeshivot of the nineteenth century, and particularly in the Volozin yeshiva,
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established by students of the Vilna Gaon.33 Although it is difficult to know to what

extent the Gaon’s stance was influential on the running of these yeshivot, it seems
clear that their general preference of learning over prayer constitutes a rejection of
the domestic-traditional element in favour of the halakhic-yeshivish one.
By way of concluding this section, it is worth mentioning ideological
factors that may also have had an effect on the diminishing status of piyut.
The description of heavenly worlds is one of the favourite topics of liturgical
poets; many piyutim of the High Holy Days deal with other-worldly events, use
the figures of angels in order to express God’s greatness, and at times even
portray them as conduits of human prayer to God. One must not dismiss out of
hand the possibility that the question of angels, and a growing sense that they
were not a relevant religious concept, was one of the considerations which led to
limiting of piyut by the editors of these various mahzorim. We do not, however,
have any clear and explicit indication of such a consideration on their part.

Between Ashkenazi and Israeli identity

Tal admitted in his introduction that, from an ideological point of view, he did
indeed strive to unite different prayer traditions.34 This desire on his part, as he
describes it, is a direct result of the establishment of the State of Israel, and more
particularly the aftermath of the Six Day War. Tal portrays this desire as an
attempt to anticipate the messianic age, and in his opinion there is room for the
substitution of different ethnic identities with a new unified identity, appropriate
to the time and place. If Tal’s wish to achieve this goal fell somewhat short on the
ethnic level, one can nevertheless view the limiting of piyut usage as a partial loss
of ground of the Ashkenazi identity to the new, Israeli one. This loss of ground is
far from complete, and ethnic behaviour does find expression through the choice
of prayer wording and in the halakhic realm; and yet the strong ties to a shared
European past, and its perception as halakhically binding, has been lost.
One should note that the characterization of Ashkenazi religious-Zionist
prayer as ‘Israeli’ does not begin and end with the question of the extent of piyut
usage in prayer. It appears that methods of performing prayer and piyut in these
communities are also moving away from the Ashkenazi tradition – not only in
the adoption of Sephardi pronunciation, but also in changing melodies and a
 12 S. Fogel
move away from the Ashkenazi wording of festival and High Holy Day prayers, a
matter which requires separate research.
All in all, religious-Zionist prayer books exhibit a significant trend towards a
limited use of piyut in prayer. This trend is part of a larger one that diminishes
popular elements in prayer and emphasizes halakhic and institutionalized ones.
It has its roots in two central forces operating on religious Zionism – that of
modernism and that of Orthodoxy. As a result of this trend, the ethnic Ashkenazi
identity of congregants is diminished, and a new, ‘Israeli’, identity takes its place.
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A return to piyut
An additional level of the tensions which find expression in the piyut issue is the
notable effort made in the last few years to regain recognition in the value and
status of piyutim, particularly those of Eastern communities. This is a tendency
that finds its main expression outside of the world of the synagogue.35 However,
it appears, to some extent, to trickle into Ashkenazi synagogues, as can be
evidenced in the printing of mahzorim such as ‘Mimcha Eleicha’.36 This mahzor,
which includes many segments of a learned nature, is not intended exclusively for
a religious audience. The tendency to limit piyutim is less noticeable in this
mahzor than in the Rinat Yisrael prayer book, and it also includes some popular
Eastern piyutim. These piyutim, it is true, are placed in the margins of the prayer
text, together with segments of prose, philosophy and modern poetry; however,
the piyut index at the end of each volume lists them together with the Ashkenazi
piyutim and not under the ‘general poetry’ heading.
A similar phenomenon can be identified in educational institutions and
synagogues, which in recent years tend to include Eastern piyut in High Holy Day
prayer services, either as a reshaping of the entire service or through the inclusion
of isolated piyutim. This trend is in stark contrast to the established practice
according to which almost all of these institutions used one or another of the
Ashkenazi traditions, usually without allowing for any alternative services.
It is important to emphasize that this comparative rise in the power of piyut is
not only the result of its traditional component. The willingness to implement
these changes is also the product of the success of the project which distanced
the praying community from the Ashkenazi tradition; that is, the addition of
the ‘Israeli’ element to the Ashkenazi identity enabled a relative openness to
traditions outside the traditional Ashkenazi liturgical framework.

Conclusion
Is the political influence on piyut, outlined above, indicative of poetry in general,
or is it limited to this particular case? There is no doubt that the unique conditions
of a synagogue environment impart upon liturgical poetry its power and quality,
but is there a link between this state of affairs and the fact that piyut is a clear
poetic genre?
 Israel Affairs 13
Piyut has special strengths. It is a strong expression of a different voice – the
popular, traditional one – as opposed to the official, institutional halakhic voice.
This traditional voice was never fully silenced in the synagogue, but the added
power that piyut gave it enabled its anchoring as an integral part of the text. What
imparted this ability upon piyut? Not only the respect accorded to its composers,
but also its inherent properties. Poetry’s status as a form of art, and the fact that it
is not committed only to prayer’s religious content, also added to the ability of
this ‘outside’ voice to continue being heard. Poetry does not express only official
religious content; it devotes no less attention to the aesthetics of prayer – form,
playfulness, biblical and midrashic allusions. Poetry, so to speak, challenges not
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only the closed nature of canonical prayer, but its very nature.
Prayer has no individual composer, and part of its religious strength derives
from this anonymity, this righteous aspiration to be the voice of the people in
their entirety. Poetry, on the other hand, is an art form, and therefore necessarily
human in private. Even though we do not know the identity of all of the poets, it is
clear to anyone reading the poems that each has a particular, individual voice
behind it. These poets’ source of authority is limited to the texts they present to
the public; they do not have the right to speak ‘on behalf’ of the Torah, since they
did not always come from the cantorial body.
Piyut, like all forms of artistic expression, is completely human, and this
humanity reminds the prayer of the humanity of religious action in general. Since
poetry is so human, it derives its power and authority from history, from its
loving reception by former generations. The recitation of poetry in prayer is not a
religious duty; it is an act of continued traditions. It is not surprising, therefore,
that those who strove to diminish the power of ethnic identity began with limiting
the use of piyut. The less piyut appears in prayer, the more the prayer service
becomes the manifestation of a halakhic duty, an expression of religious fervour
stemming from halakhic works. This is also the reason for the return of poetry as
a vehicle for the re-ignition of the vitality of prayer, even without its traditional
element.

Notes on contributor
Shimon Fogel is a PhD student in the Goldstein-Goren Department of Jewish Thought,
Ben-Gurion University of the Negev.

Notes
1. Nissim Leon, “Tmurot Bebeit Haknest Haadati,” Akdamot 20 (2008): 90 – 93.
2. For the history of this habit in Ashkenazi communities see Simha Goldin,
Uniqueness and Togetherness: The Enigma of the Survival of the Jews in the Middle
Ages [in Hebrew] (Tel Aviv: Hakibutz Hameuhad, 1997), 105– 22. Regarding
Sepharadic synagogues see Nissim Leon, “Sephardic Ultraorthodoxy in Israel:
Religious and Community Practices” [in Hebrew] (PhD diss., Tel-Aviv University,
2004), 130; idem, “Tmurot,” 100– 105.
 14 S. Fogel
3. Hayyim Soloveitchik, “Rupture and Reconstruction: The Transformation of
Contemporary Orthodoxy,” Tradition 28, no. 4 (1994): 64 – 130; Menachem
Friedman, “Life Tradition and Book Tradition in the Development of Ultraorthodox
Judaism,” in Harvey Goldberg (ed.), Judaism Viewed from Within and from Without:
Anthropological Studies (Albany: State University of New York, 1987), 235– 55.
For more examples see Benjamin Brown, “Orthodox Halakha and Custom: The
Decisions of the Hazon Ish as a Case Study”, in Yosef Salmon et al. (eds.), Orthodox
Judaism: New Perspectives [in Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2006), 211– 53;
Benjamin Lau, From “Maran” to “Maran”: The Halachic Philosophy of Rav
Ovadia Yossef [in Hebrew] (Tel Aviv: Yediot, 2005), 266– 325.
4. Israel Ta-Shma, The Early Ashkenazi Prayer: Literary and Historical Aspects
[in Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2004), 33 – 9.
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5. Louis Ginzberg, Genizah Studies: In Memory of Doctor Salomon Schechter

(New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1929), 2: 508– 27; Abraham
Grossman, The Early Sages of France: Their Lives, Leadership and Works
[in Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2001), 82– 90; Ta-Shma, The Early Ashkenazi
Prayer, 89 – 90.
6. Joseph Yahalom, “Atz Kotzetz: Gishot VeAmadot BeShe’elat Singnon HaPiyut
VeLeshono’ Atz Kotzetz’: Approaches and Attitudes about Piyut Style and
Language” [in Hebrew], Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew literature 1 (1981): 167– 81;
idem, “The Poetics of Spanish Piyyut according to Avaraham Ibn Ezra,” in Judith
Dishon and Ephraim Hazan (eds.), Studies in Hebrew Literature and Yemenite
Culture (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 1991), 301– 6; Yosef Salmon et al.,
Hebrew Liturgical Poetry in the Middle Ages, 2nd ed. [in Hebrew] (Jerusalem:
Magnes, 2008), 333– 9, 425– 32.
7. Joseph Yahalom, Poetry and Society in Jewish Galilee of Late Antiquity [in Hebrew]
(Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuhad, 1999).
8. Ezra Fleisecher, “The Cultural Profile of the Eastern Jewry in the Early Middle Ages
as Reflected by the Payyetanic Texts of the Geniza” [in Hebrew], Teuda 15 (1999):
1 – 22.
9. It is enough to look at the variety of liturgical poetry in Daniel Goldschmidt (ed.),
Mahzor Leyamim Noraim [prayer book for the high holydays] (Jerusalem: Koren,
1970).
10. Brown, “Orthodox Halakha.”
11. Different types of prayer book reception in the Sephardi context are described by
Leon, “Sephardic Ultraorthodoxy,” 136– 42 and in Lau, From “Maran” to
“Maran,” 119– 20.
12. Shlomo Tal (ed.), Siddur Rinat Israel (Jerusalem: Moreshet, 1970).
13. Shlomo Tal, “Beikvot Hamaamar ‘Nusah Ahid’,” Turei Yeshurun 30 (1972): 14 – 16.
In this, he is following the ideas of Yehiel Tukachinsky, Sefer Eretz Israel
(Jerusalem: Levin-Epstein, 1956), 12 – 14.
14. Shlomo Goren (ed.), Siddur Tefilot Lahail (Tel Aviv: IDF, 1963).
15. Ovadya Yosef, Yabi’a Omer Responsa, vol. 6, Orah Haim 10. This responsa was
originally written in 1971. For more about Rabbi Yosef’s response to Rabbi Goren’s
attempt to create a uniform prayer book, see Lau, From “Maran” to “Maran,” 93,
119– 20, 198.
16. Siddur Mipi Olalim (Tel Aviv: Omanut, 1930).
17. Leon, “Sephardic Ultraorthodoxy,” 125.
18. Yohanan Fried and Yoel Rappel (eds.), Siddur Klal Israel (Tel Aviv: Mesora
Laam, 1991).
19. Siddur Tefillat Shai (Jerusalem: Feldheim, 2001).
20. Siddur Tefillat Kol Peh (Jerusalem: Eshkol, 1988).
 Israel Affairs 15
21. Meir Medan (ed.), Siddur Koren (Jerusalem: Koren, 1981). A new edition of this
prayer book was published in 2011. Although the new edition included many
changes, the place of piyut remains the same.
22. Shlomo Tal (ed.), Mahzor Rinat Yisrael (Alon-Shvut: Yad-Shapira, 1978).
23. In this, too, he was preceded by Mahzor Mipi Olalim.
24. Daniel Goldschmidt (ed.), Mahzor Yerushalaim (Jerusalem: Koren, 1989). Other
participants at the editing were Meir Medan and Goldschmidt’s son-in-law and
grandson – Yona and Abraham Frankel.
25. One should stipulate that the ‘Jerusalem’ prayer book was based on those of
Daniel Goldsmith, who was himself a researcher of prayer and piyut (as were his
collaborators – Yona and Abraham Frankel), and it is therefore possible that, to a
certain degree, it reflects an interest in documentation and preservation. However,
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the “Jerusalem” mahzor also leaves out quite a few poems that are in very limited
usage, as can be seen in a comparison to the scientific mahzor put out by Goldsmith.
26. Abraham Kurzweil (ed.), Mahzor Ori Veishi (Karnei Shomron: Karnei Shomron
Yeshiva); Saul Mayzlish and Yona Silberman (eds.), Mahzor Hadorot (Tel Aviv:
Miscal, 1995); Ariel Israel (ed.), Mahzor Hamikdash (Jersalem: Temple Institute,
1998).
27. Sarina Hen, “Between Poetics and Politics: Vision and Praxis in Current Activity to
Construct the Third Temple” [in Hebrew] (PhD diss., Hebrew University of
Jerusalem, 2008).
28. Yahalom, “Atz Kotzetz.”
29. See, for example, Elazar Fleckeles, Teshuva Meahava (Prague, 1809), vol. 1, first
response.
30. Yosef Tabory, “The Gaon’s Siddur,” in Moshe Hallamis et al. (eds.), The Vilna Gaon
and His Disciples (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan, 2003). Compare to David Kaminetzky,
“Nosah HaGra: Haumnam Hu Nosah HaGra?,” Yeshurun 5 (1999): 615– 22.
31. Maase Rav (Vilnius: no publisher, 1732), 127, 162– 3, 205. This stance of the Vilna
Gaon’s was a derivative of his halakhic stance, as is expressed in his commentary on
the Shulhan Aruch (Orah Haim 68:112).
32. Shlomo Tal, Hasiddur Behishtelshaluto: Tshuvot Lesheelot Al Siddur Rinat Israel
(Jerusalem: Nathan Tal Publishing, 1985), 81 – 5.
33. Mordechai Breuer, Ohalei Torah: The Yeshiva, its Structure and History [in Hebrew]
(Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Centre, 2003), 270– 74.
34. Tal, “Beikvot.”
35. As can be seen on the internet site: “Invitation to Piyut,” http://www.piyut.org.il.
36. Yonadav Kaplun (ed.), Mahzor Mimcha Eleicha (Tel Aviv: Yediot, 2004). This
Mahzor was reprinted in a popular edition in 2009.