Praying is About Being Present, not Perfect
Kinus Torah after Sukkos at Hadar HaTorah, reflecting on a lesson from Hoshana Rabba
Below is an article which the talk is based on. The article is a little extended.
BS”D
I want to share a story that happened to me on Hashana Rabbah, the last day of Sukkos.
It was early in the morning. I was sitting in the sukkah having a coffee before heading to yeshiva for shakris.
And I saw a friend walking by.
I noticed that he seemed a little anxious. The mikveh he wanted to go to was closed, and the minyan was about to start.
“Do I go to the mikveh and miss part of davening? Do I rush? Do I skip the mikveh? What am I supposed to do?”
Having been in the exact situation before, I told him, “go to the other mikveh.” I added, basically, “It’s okay if you’re a little behind. You might miss Barchu, but Barchu can be heard during Krias HaTorah that day. You’ll still make it in good time.” “And there’s no need to go find another minyan to start at the beginning with.”
“Going to the mikveh will help your prayers, so it’s better to go. Hashem is guiding your footsteps.”
After Shacharis, he came over to me and thanked me.
He told me that it relieved some of the pressure he had been feeling around davening, that davening had to look a certain way. That he had to get there at a certain time, catch every part of the minyan, do everything exactly right.
The advice helped him focus on his own tefillah, or prayer, which isn’t discussed much - personal prayers amid the collective prayer.
There is a big Torah idea here, especially for us baal teshuvas.
There’s an interesting tension in tefillah, especially when we’re not perfect - we don’t wake early enough. And there are times where we do wake up early, but can feel heavy with not enough rest to daven well.
In my own experience, I would also feel a pressure to find another minyan in order to hear everything from the minyan.
On one hand, tefillah and preparing for tefillah is deeply personal.
There are hochonos, preparations, for prayers that assist in grounding and centering, such as mikveh and learning chassidus.
But at the same time, we’re taught to daven with a minyan and get there at a certain time.
We don’t just have ten people standing next to each other doing ten individual prayers.
We’re supposed to become a tzibbur.
How do we harmonize the two when we’re not perfect - we don’t wake early enough. And there are times where we do wake up early, but can feel heavy with not enough rest to daven well.
Is tefillah about my personal connection with Hashem, or is it about joining together with everyone else? Which takes precedence in b’dieved, after the fact, situations?
And maybe the answer is: both.
The word tefillah itself is connected to the word of tofel meaning joining, connecting, bonding.
Tefillah is not about escaping the collective in order to find my own spirituality.
And it’s also not about losing myself in the collective.
It’s about bringing my own consciousness, my own heart, my own experience, and joining it to something bigger.
I think that’s part of what makes tefillah b’rabbim, praying with a group, so beautiful.
We’re all standing in the same room, saying many of the same words, along with the additions for congregational prayers.
But every person is experiencing those words differently.
One person is thinking about his family.
Another person is thinking about his health.
Another person is thinking about something he’s struggling with.
Someone else is simply trying to stay awake.
And somehow, all of those individual prayers become one tefillah.
There’s a tzibbur, but there are also individual souls within that tzibbur.
That’s why being present is so important.
Because sometimes we become so focused on doing davening correctly that we forget to actually be in davening.
We become so focused on whether we’re on time, whether we said this, whether we missed that, whether we pronounced everything perfectly, whether everyone else is doing what we’re doing, that we can completely miss the person who is standing there:
oneself.
I’m not saying halacha doesn’t matter.
It absolutely matters.
Halacha gives structure to our avodah. It tells us what we’re supposed to do.
But halacha isn’t the enemy of presence.
The question is: What happens when our desire to do things correctly becomes perfectionism?
When the structure that’s supposed to help us connect starts becoming another source of pressure?
So, on Hoshana Rabba, I shared with my friend what I had learned through experience, wishing I had someone tell me the same.
You can make the best halachic decision you can, and then trust that Hashem is guiding your footsteps. You won’t miss out by caring for and preparing for your personal prayer within the congregation.
Judaism is an individual team sport, as well as a team sport.
And maybe that’s part of what it means to be b’simcha, joyous.
To be light.
Not careless.
Not, “It doesn’t matter what I do.”
But light enough to trust.
Light enough to be present.
Light enough to recognize that Hashem isn’t only found when everything goes according to plan.
Sometimes Hashem is found in the mikveh.
Sometimes in Barchu.
Sometimes in Krias HaTorah.
And sometimes Hashem is found in the moment when your plans didn’t work out, and you have to let go of the pressure and simply ask:
What does Hashem want from me right now?
Maybe that’s also what it means to daven with a minyan.
I bring my own prayer.
You bring yours.
We don’t have to experience every word in the same way.
And maybe, on exception, we even come at different times.
But we join together.
My personal connection becomes part of a collective circle of consciousness.
And the collective doesn’t erase the individual.
It gives the individual a place to belong.
So perhaps the avodah is not to become perfect daveners, or even just physically present for the congregation.
Perhaps it’s to become present daveners, mindfully there when we get there.
To know the halachos.
To respect the structure.
To strive for kavanah, intention.
But also to breathe.
To loosen our grip.
To let ourselves be human.
And to trust that even when we’re a little behind, even when things don’t go according to plan, even when we don’t feel like we’re doing it perfectly, Hashem is guiding our footsteps.
That’s the deeper point of tefillah.
Not just that we say the right words, but that we become connected, connected to Hashem, connected to ourselves, and connected to one another.
And if we can leave davening a little lighter, a little more joyful, and a little more present, then maybe we’ll finally understand what tefillah is for.
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