Rethinking prayer in the aftermath of Israel's most difficult year - opinion

The essence of prayer is not about expecting specific outcomes from God. Rather, it is about communicating with Him to understand not merely what we want, but what we truly need.

This past year has been profoundly challenging for millions of Israelis and Jews worldwide. In many ways, it may be the most difficult year the Jewish people and the State of Israel have faced in living memory.

On a personal level, I cannot compare my experiences to the unimaginable tragedy endured by those who have lost loved ones, either on October 7 or in the painful aftermath. I cannot begin to fathom the anguish of those still waiting daily for a sign of life or the return of family members held hostage in Gaza. Nor can I equate my own struggles with those of the thousands displaced, who remain refugees within their own country.

We have become accustomed to answering “Ma shlomcha?” (“How are you?”) with a hesitant, “Personally, we are fine, thanks,” often accompanied by an underlying sense of guilt. So many of our brothers and sisters have faced unbearable suffering this past year, and while all of us have felt the collective pain in some measure, it remains difficult to articulate the magnitude of that shared burden.

There is the pain of the profound violation we felt as a nation in the immediate hours and days after the attacks. There is confusion as we try to explain to ourselves how such a catastrophe could have occurred and how our military and political leaders allowed it to happen. Anger follows closely behind as we grapple with feelings of betrayal, coupled with the frustration that, one year later, we find ourselves entrenched in war with Gaza and, effectively, Lebanon. We have ceded control over sections of our own borders, now under Hezbollah’s shadow. At the same time, the agonizing reality of the hostages remains ever-present. Each new fallen soldier deepens the collective wound we carry.

Yet, alongside this pain, the resilience and spirit of the Israeli people have shone through in remarkable ways. I have been continually inspired by their response to the military crisis and by their tireless giving – beginning on Simchat Torah and continuing without pause. But it extends far beyond the military effort. The civilian response has been nothing short of extraordinary, with every individual asking, “What can I do to help?” – whether it be supporting soldiers, comforting bereaved families, or aiding those evacuated from their homes. The list of acts of kindness is nearly endless.

New grassroots organizations have emerged, while established institutions have adapted to meet the new reality. In many ways, civil society has stepped in where the state has faltered. The Jewish Diaspora, too, has responded with an outpouring of support – money, equipment, and love arriving in waves. Initially, efforts were focused on addressing the immediate needs in the wake of the attacks. However, this has evolved into more strategic thinking about how Jewish communities and philanthropists can build lasting partnerships to assist in the rebuilding that will be necessary once the war has passed.

These acts of solidarity and compassion have buoyed my spirits during the darkest moments. But if I’m to be honest, this year has also tested my faith – faith in the systems that are supposed to protect us, faith in our leaders’ priority of the nation’s well-being over personal interests, and, perhaps most painfully, faith in the Almighty’s plan amid such incomprehensible suffering.

We will soon gather in synagogues to welcome a new year. Rosh Hashanah signifies the reaffirmation of God as Creator and King judging the universe, while Yom Kippur is a day of reflection, seeking forgiveness for what we have done, and for who we have failed to become. As I prepare to lead some of these services, as I have for many years, I find myself contemplating how to approach prayer this year. It may seem almost trivial to suggest, but perhaps there should be a national reflection on how our prayers as hazanim fell short last year, given the events that followed so soon after. On a more serious note, we are now called to direct our prayers to the Almighty after experiencing such deep pain. Can we expect that it will make a difference?

The Orthodox Conundrum

Recently, I had the privilege of listening to a podcast featuring two good friends – Rabbi Dr. Rafi Zarum, hosted by Rabbi Scott Kahn on “The Orthodox Conundrum.” It was precisely what I needed as we approached the midway point of Elul. Rafi eloquently addressed the philosophical challenges of prayer – questions of whether anyone is truly listening, whether prayer makes a difference, and what it means when our prayers seem unanswered.

One idea that resonated with me deeply was the notion that prayer is not a transactional act where we list our desires and hope for divine intervention. Instead, it is an opportunity for introspection – an invitation to question whether the things we pray for are truly what we need. This reflection might lead us to reassess our priorities and, ultimately, reshape who we are and how we live. At a deeper level, this parallels the process of teshuva, not a line by line reckoning of each deed, but a strategic assessment of where we are heading as human beings. While this is just one approach to prayer, for me, in 2024 – after so many prayers seem to have gone unanswered – this shift in focus brought a sense of comfort. From a theological perspective, prayer acknowledges that everything comes from God – whether good, bad, or bewildering. That truth remains constant, regardless of what we think we need or what we ask for in our prayers.

What has become crucial for me is using prayer to reflect more deeply on whether I’m asking for the right things in the first place. It’s akin to using Waze – you cannot expect it to take you on the right path if you’ve entered the wrong destination. The starting point for meaningful prayer is ensuring that we are focused on the right goal. Only then can we begin to hope for guidance in finding the right path.

Faith is often used as a translation for emunah. A more accurate understanding might be “loyalty.” Loyalty in a relationship means loving not just when things are going well, but also in times of struggle. We don’t love our children, spouses, parents, or friends with the naive expectation that they will always agree with us or do what we think is right. We love them no matter what they do, and we know, in our hearts, that today, tomorrow, and every day, we will continue to love them, no matter the circumstances.

As we approach Rosh Hashanah, this sense of loyalty – towards family, friends, the Jewish people, and all humanity – reminds us that our relationships, like prayer, must endure through both joy and pain. Just as prayer serves as a permanent channel of communication with God, so too must our love and loyalty persist, even when the path ahead is difficult.

The writer, a founding partner of Goldrock Capital, is the founder of The Institute for Jewish and Zionist Research. He is a former chair of Gesher, World Bnei Akiva, and the Coalition for Haredi Employment.