Prayer

"There are times when a person stands in tefillah and wonders, why don’t I feel anything? The words are there, the siddur is open, the lips are moving, but the heart remains unmoved. It is a painful question, because deep down, we want to feel. We long for the d’veikus, the connection, the fire that we read about in the sefarim, that we see in tzaddikim, that we may have felt in fleeting moments. And yet, so often, it feels like we are just saying words.

But we must understand that this feeling—this void, this numbness—is not a contradiction to avodas Hashem. It is part of it. There are times when the Ribbono Shel Olam hides Himself, as it says, “V’anochi hasteir astir Panai” (Devarim 31:18). Why does Hashem conceal His Presence? The Kotzker Rebbe explains: so that we should seek Him. If we always felt that fiery closeness, if every tefillah was an open experience of His presence, then where would our avodah be? Hashem wants our effort. He wants us to fight for that connection, to struggle for it.

Dovid HaMelech cries out in Tehillim, “Tzama nafshi l’Elokim l’Keil chai” (Tehillim 42:3)—my soul thirsts for Hashem. A person does not thirst for water unless he is lacking it. The very fact that we feel something missing, that we yearn for more, that we ask ourselves why we don’t feel—this itself is a sign of connection. A person who has no relationship with Hashem does not wonder why he is distant. Only one who cares asks, “Why don’t I feel anything?” The pain of distance is itself proof that there is closeness.

The Yetzer Hara whispers, “You see? You feel nothing. Your tefillos are empty. Why bother?” But this is his greatest deception! Chazal teach that even a tefillah that feels dry, that feels like nothing, is still precious. The Shem MiShmuel explains that when a person struggles to concentrate, when he forces himself to say the words even when his heart feels distant, that tefillah is beloved before Hashem. Because that is true avodah—serving Hashem not only in moments of inspiration, but even in moments of darkness.

Chazal say, “Im yomar lecha adam yaga’ati v’lo matzasi, al ta’amin” (Megillah 6b)—if someone says, ‘I have toiled but I have not found,’ do not believe him. No effort in avodas Hashem is wasted. Every tefillah, every attempt to focus, every moment spent yearning for connection—these are bricks in a wall, layers in a structure that we may not see immediately, but they are there. Hashem sees them. And one day, there will be a breakthrough.

We find in the Gemara (Berachos 32b) that the tefillos of tzaddikim were often not answered immediately. Avraham davened for a child for years. Yitzchak and Rivkah davened and waited. Why? Because Hashem is not just interested in answering requests—He is interested in the process. He is interested in us building a deeper, stronger, more real relationship with Him. If tefillah were always an immediate emotional experience, we might take it for granted. But when we fight for it, when we daven even in the dry moments, then we are showing that we are in this not for the feeling alone, but for the relationship itself.

So what do we do? We keep going. We say the words, even when they feel empty. We push ourselves to concentrate, even if it’s just for one bracha. We daven for the ability to daven. We tell Hashem, “I want to feel. I want to be close. Help me.” And we trust that no tefillah goes unanswered. Every word is a step closer, even if we do not see it yet.

And then, one day, the feeling comes back. The fire reignites. And we realize that every single tefillah, even the ones that felt dry, even the ones that felt forced, were building us into the person we were meant to become.
"