Prayer is one of the most visible expressions of religious life. Prayers are said at public events, around dinner tables, and at all manner of life cycle events. And yet, prayer is also simultaneously one of the least understood spiritual practices. To many, it can feel mechanical, scripted, inauthentic, or unfocused.
Addressing the gap that can emerge between prescribed and habitual prayer, and authentic, experiential prayer is therefore essential.
To do so, one must first ask: What is prayer?
The English word prayer comes from the Old French preiere—“obtained by entreaty.” Prayer is thus most commonly associated with asking for the fulfillment of our needs.
The Hebrew word for prayer, tefillah, however, has a multitude of meanings and associations, each contributing to the rich tapestry of prayer’s spiritual significance. Whether we seek to reach out to something greater than ourselves or reclaim our essential self, prayer, as understood and practiced in Judaism, is one of the most potent paths of spiritual development.
On the most essential level, tefillah means bonding and connection.1 For instance, in the Mishnah we find that the etymological root t-f-l means to attach or bind together.2 Tefillah is therefore not a transactional exchange but an expression of intimacy.
Whereas asking for what we need is a humbling experience that highlights the great divide between petitioner and provider, tefillah is a declaration of love and an expression of spiritual longing.
Its intended outcome is the development of an authentic emotional attachment to G‑d. This occurs through the inner cultivation of a sense of nearness during tefillah that dissolves the psychic “space” that separates one from G‑d.
This inner process of softening and opening the heart pertains to another translation of the word tefillah, to struggle. In Genesis, the Torah tells of a rivalry between Rachel and Leah to bear Jacob’s children. When Rachel’s handmaid gave birth to Jacob’s child for the second time, Rachel said:3 A fateful struggle [naftulei] I waged [niftalti] with my sister… So she named him Naphtali.
The dynamic of “struggle” is an essential—and potentially productive—part of all relationships.
Since we are naturally self-centered beings, in order to engage in a meaningful relationship with another, we each need to work to diminish our natural self-orientation and sense of self-entitlement.
Tefillah is the opportunity to step out of ourselves and our self-absorption and into the awareness and service of our most significant other—G‑d. This is the struggle of love.
In any real relationship, a natural dissonance of views and experience exists between the two parties. In the case of the Divine, this perspectival distance is even greater. In G‑d’s view, we were created to fulfill a Divine mission, whereas, from the human perspective, we are naturally inclined to live life solely for our own benefit and pleasure.
Tefillah is the time we take each day to realign our perspective with that of the Divine—to see the world through G‑d’s eyes. In that timeless moment of union with the Infinite One, we shift from being profit-minded to prophet-minded. In prayer, we attune ourselves to the still, small voice4 of the Divine, which reminds us that life is so much more than a laundry list of demands and desires, and that we are each here on a sacred mission to better our world.
In addition to all of these essentially relational dynamics, tefillah also takes us deep within. This is illustrated in another meaning of the word for prayer, pelilah, which means judgment,5 describing a process of introspection. Prayer, in this sense, is also a time of personal reckoning, a time to evaluate and recalibrate who we really are, what we truly want in life, where we are heading, and how far along that path we have come.
In the words of American theologian Thomas Merton: “People may spend their whole lives climbing the ladder of success only to find, once they reach the top, that the ladder is leaning against the wrong wall.”
We are each part body and part soul. And yet, most of the day revolves around feeding our bodily appetites, needs, and drives, strengthening our ego’s sense that it is our physical existence that is primary and real. The very act of living itself can relegate our soul to a secondary realm. Left to their own devices, over time our spiritual instincts and impulses can become muted and atrophied.6
Against this inertia, prayer is an act of nourishment for the soul. Just as the body needs to be physically fed several times a day, and the psyche needs to be emotionally nourished regularly, so does the soul need constant spiritual sustenance.7 Prayer gives voice and expression to the soul and its aims, allowing it to sing and soar, revealing and reveling in its natural desire to serve and connect with G‑d.
Following this idea even further, R. David Aaron writes:8 “L’hitpallel [lit. to pray] has nothing to do with begging G‑d to change His mind. L’hitpallel is a reflexive verb that means to do something to yourself. When praying, your question shouldn’t be, ‘Is G‑d listening to my prayers?’ Rather, ‘Am I listening to my prayers?’ ‘Does what I say impact me? Have I changed?’
“If one is under the impression that praying is communicating to G‑d information that He does not already know, then the whole prayer experience becomes ridiculous. G‑d knows that your business is falling apart. G‑d knows that you desperately want your soulmate. G‑d knows exactly what is going on in your life. L’hitpallel is not about G‑d hearing your prayer, although He surely does. It is about you hearing your prayers. You need to say these things to G‑d because you need to hear yourself saying them.
“L’hitpallel, then, means to do something to yourself. But what exactly is that?”
In the Torah’s account of Jacob and his son Joseph, we encounter another permutation of the word Tefillah—filalti.
When Joseph learns that Jacob’s passing is imminent, he goes to his father to receive a blessing for his two children. Jacob says,9 I never filalti that I would ever see your face again... In this context, the word filalti could mean variously: to hope, to imagine, to dream, to envision, to anticipate. In the words of Rashi, filalti in this context implies “filling [one’s] heart with hopeful thoughts.”
Therefore, when we pray mindfully, we are filling our hearts with thoughts and dreams of what it is that we want to see and do in this world. Upon internalization, such prayerful visualizations help effectuate the shifts within ourselves necessary to bring about those desired changes in our lives and in the world.
To connect, to reflect, to project is what the Talmud refers to as avodah shebalev, the service of the heart—this is the essence of tefillah.
The point of prayer is not to remind G‑d of what we need from Him; rather, it is to remind ourselves of what He “needs” from us.
A formerly wealthy Chasid who had lost his entire fortune came to see his Rebbe, R. Schneur Zalman of Liadi. “If G‑d has chosen to afflict me with poverty,” he wept, “I accept the Divine judgment. But how can I be reconciled with the fact that I cannot repay my debts? That I am unable to meet the dowry I promised for my daughter’s upcoming marriage? Never have I reneged on my commitments. Why is the Almighty doing this to me? Why is He causing me such terrible humiliation?
“Rebbe!” cried the Chasid. “I must repay my debts! I must give what I have promised for my daughter!”
R. Schneur Zalman sat with his head in his arms in a state of dveikut (meditative attachment to G‑d). In this manner he listened to the Chasid’s tearful pleas. After a long pause, R. Schneur Zalman lifted his head and said with great feeling: “You speak of all that you need. But you say nothing of what you are needed for.”
The Rebbe’s words pierced the innermost point of the Chasid’s heart, and he fell in a dead faint. The Rebbe’s attendant, who stood in the doorway, called to two Chasidim who were in the Rebbe’s anteroom. Together they carried the Chasid out of the Rebbe’s room, poured water over him, and finally managed to revive him.
When the Chasid opened his eyes, he didn’t say anything to anyone. He simply applied himself to the study of Torah and the service of prayer with renewed life and with such devotion and diligence that he forgot all else. Although he spoke to no one and fasted every day, he was in a perpetual state of joy.
Several weeks later, R. Schneur Zalman summoned this Chasid, blessed him with success, and told him to return to his home and business. In time, the Chasid regained his wealth, made good on his debts and promises, married off his daughters, and resumed his philanthropy on an even more generous level than before.
Join the Discussion