Rewriting “Pokeach Ivrim” as a Blind Jew

Elizabeth Hinds is a first-year rabbinical student at Hebrew Union College. Prior to rabbinical school she worked at a Jewish nonprofit and has experience as a lay leader at her home congregation in Stamford, CT. Elizabeth is dedicated to bringing intentionality to every space, with the hope of meeting those around her exactly where they are in their own journeys. Here she shares her journey towards developing her personal theology.

With my first semester of rabbinical school complete, I used my free time between semesters to reflect. I spent a lot of time in the fall learning new things, trying different things, and discussing hard things. It turns out the hard things are much more enjoyable to discuss when you get to do so with great minds like Rabbis Dalia Marx, Alona Lisitsa, and Michael Marmur.

I was born legally blind, and my once stable sight has steadily deteriorated more significantly over the last three years. I have learned to navigate life with limited sight, but there are still many realms where it poses hardship. Over the last five months, I've discussed the topic of eyesight as it relates to Judaism in several of my classes."It's complicated" is true, but not a full answer. Internally, I am continually doing the work to make the pieces coexist, if they can't fit together.

In developing my regular prayer practice, I found that one of the morning blessings stood as a roadblock to full connection. This blessing, colloquially called "Pokeach Ivrim", is based on Psalm 146:8, which reads "The Lord restores sight to the blind; the Lord makes those who are bent stand straight; the Lord loves the righteous".

It feels inauthentic to be praising God for opening the eyes of the blind as my own eyesight continues to deteriorate. Am I supposed to be praising God for opening my eyes at all? Is what little sight I have supposed to be the miracle? Perhaps it is an emotional response to my sight loss, but I won't accept this. As grateful as I am for what I can see, I would rather be finding ways to thank God for the whole miracles in my life. How do I reconcile this disagreement with liturgical text? As a modern Reform Jew, I have an option to take the road less traveled, so I took it. I rewrote the blessing.

Jewish tradition gets two of the Nisim B'Chol Yom  from this one verse: Pokeach Ivrim and Zokef K'fufim  (opening the eyes of the blind and lifting the fallen). The Reform movement has amended the wording for straightening the bent, but hasn't yet done the same for opening the eyes of the blind. Further, God's love for the righteous, Ohev Tzadikim, is omitted. Could that be a possible alternative?

Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu, Melech haolam, ohev tzadikim.
Blessed are you, Adonai our God, sovereign of the universe, who loves the righteous.

This would keep the origin of the blessing without the problematic ableism. However, I'm terribly uncomfortable with identifying my own "righteousness". There is a lot to unpack there, and I wanted a fast solution to this prayer problem. It is naive of me to think such solutions exist. Perhaps Ohev Tzadikim could be aspirational? Not all of the morning blessings are about miracles. Some simply detail the glorious acts of God. God's love for the righteous is beautiful and significant, and also not miraculous. But my hesitation had to mean something. So I went back to the drawing board.

Ibn Ezra's commentary on this verse provided some insight. In short, he argues that only God can perform divine acts, thusly we are only to rely on God in these instances. He likens it to not asking a heart surgeon to perform your brain surgery. Perhaps, one could say, in alignment with the idea of "Shiviti Adonai, lenegdi tamid". I place God opposite me, against me, or before me, always. L'negdi tamid…

Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu, Melech haolam, sh'lenegdi tamid.
Blessed are you, Adonai our God, sovereign of the universe, who is opposite/with me always.

It's almost the same number of syllables, it keeps the origin of the psalm and adds a deeper understanding of its true nature by way of Ibn Ezra's commentary. There are plenty of additional blessings that praise what God has done to and for us, but none that praise God for something we do to God. However, by removing the "shiviti" from the blessing, its ending simply reads "who is with me/opposite me always." Significant, beautiful, and not miraculous. It could be perfect. But I wasn't done.

If Psalm 146:8 is about miracles in our individual lives, then perhaps I should focus there. It feels impossible to create a morning blessing that does justice to God's greatness. But in this verse, God does the impossible.

Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu, Melech haolam, sh'oseh et habilti efshari.
Blessed are you, Adonai our God, sovereign of the universe, who does the impossible.

Do I want to close myself off to the hope that one day my sight will stabilize, perhaps even improve? My current mindset says there's no hope left to hold on to, but that's antithetical to the morning blessings. Does this wording actually mitigate hope and possibility? I don't believe in a God that actively makes decisions about my life in real time. I doubt that my rewritten blessing will fix the overarching issue of my sight. Doubt, I believe, is something that should only exist to a specific extent in prayer. I have yet to identify that extent. So instead, I chose to focus on what brings me the most comfort.

For several weeks, I remained silent at Pokeach Ivrim during communal prayer. At home, I inserted various options. They've become their own revolving door. Ohev Tzadikim, Sh'lenegdi Tamid, and Sh'oseh et Habilti Efshari  have each taken the spotlight at one point or another. While I haven't chosen any of them as the perpetual replacement for Pokeach Ivrim, I would say that my prayer is far more personal, effective, and important to me now that I have taken the road less traveled and done what Reform Jews do best: re-form.

It is not as though I have endeavored into this liturgical process alone. Without the hallway conversations with professors, tiyul bus rides spent in deep discussion with peers, and hours of coursework, this culminating point in my personal theology would not have happened. I was Jewishly raised by a non-dual rabbi and his more traditional wife. Naturally, I fall somewhere in the middle. For now, let's run with the non-dual understanding of God: the relationships that exist between people. If that is God, then all of these interactions I've had with those around me is a literal personification of Pokeach Ivrim. They may not have restored my sight, but my peers and mentors have helped me access, figuratively "see" Judaism, in ways that I didn't know were possible or accessible to me. While I am not exclusively non-dual, I believe there is great meaning in this understanding. Perhaps there is another rewritten blessing in this.

My walk with Pokeach Ivrim  has consisted of Tanakh, teachers, peers, and pondering. And a little bit of Rashi commentary on the stumbling block. I've spent hours in Rabbi Marx's class learning about our liturgy and how it came to be. It's been meaningful, and a little fun, to parallel that learning to my own experience codifying my own liturgy. It took far longer than five months to establish the liturgy we know today, so I'm confident the path does not end here. Navigating Judaism with limited sight has plenty ofi challenges, some that hurt not just the eyes, but the soul, too. Now I have something to hold on to, something to uplift my soul, when my eyes remain as unknown as their future.