These Words of Prayer Get Stuck in My Throat

Recently, we have been saying Hallel—the short additional prayer service for special days, full of psalms of praise and gratitude—a lot. As we always do this time of year. Over Pesah alone, we say it a total of ten times, singing it as part of both sedarim and praying it on all eight mornings. And it doesn’t end there. This week, we said it three more times—on Monday and Tuesday mornings in celebration of the new Hebrew month, Rosh Hodesh Iyar, and again yesterday morning for Yom Ha’atzma-ut, Israel’s Independence Day (though, just to note, there are varying traditions around saying Hallel on Yom Ha’atzma-ut).

Despite the seasonal overabundance of Hallel, it remains one of my favorite services. Yet, like many prayers and familiar rituals, it has become much more challenging—more complicated—to say since October 7. I have always been deeply moved by the arc of this short yet mighty service. But now, more than ever, my soul is drawn to its moments of longing, the anxious undertones of insecurity, and the reminders of life’s fragility hidden among the words of praise and songs of overflowing gratitude. 

Lines like:

לֹא הַמֵּתִים יְהַלְלוּ יָהּ, וְלֹא כָּל יֹרְדֵי דוּמָה

It is not the dead that will praise God, nor all those who go down to silence. (Psalm 115)

And

אֲפָפוּנִי חֶבְלֵי מָוֶת. וּמְצָרֵי שְׁאוֹל מְצָאוּנִי. צָרָה וְיָגוֹן אֶמְצָא

The pangs of death encircled me, the straits of the grave found me; I found trouble and sorrow. (Psalm 116)

And then we reach what I would argue is the emotional peak of Hallel—the moment we cry out for help:

אָנָּא יְהֹוָה הוֹשִׁיעָה נָּא, אָנָּא יְהֹוָה הַצְלִיחָה נָּא

Please, Adonai, save us now! Please, Adonai, give us success now! (Psalm 118:25)

These words get stuck in my throat. Tears well in my eyes. I feel an excruciating desperation.

I remember, in rabbinical school, my teacher Rabbi Ebn Leader taught that the goal of these lines is to push beyond an urgency for my personal security and success. While I understood what he was saying, it felt idealistic—maybe even unreachable. And then came October 7.

As we prayed these words while the atrocities in Israel unfolded that day, I found myself praying not just for me, but for us—as a people, as a nation. As the war escalated with unending cycles of death, antisemitism surged, and the hostages in Gaza (with 59 still there today), I found myself praying for our collective safety—not just from our enemies, but also from the divisions and harm we inflict on ourselves and others. I was no longer praying solely from a place of personal need, but as part of something greater—holding not just my pain, but our pain.

As the months go on, with pain unending, the circle widens. The urgency grows. The desperation deepens. When I cry out, “Please, God, save us,” I am not only praying for Israel or the Jewish people, but for all of humanity.

אָנָּא יְהֹוָה הוֹשִׁיעָה נָּא

Please, God, save us—from violence, from hatred, from indifference.

I witnessed this kind of compassion, hope, and sacredness as I watched the 20th annual Israeli-Palestinian Joint Memorial Day Ceremony, Yom Hazikaron, organized by Combatants for Peace and The Parents Circle–Families Forum. From the New York satellite event held in the BJ Sanctuary, I watched bereaved Israelis and Palestinians who have lived through unimaginable loss—sitting side by side, insisting that the only way forward is together. As one of the bereaved shared, “Pain does not distinguish.” From the depths of their souls, they proclaim: We choose humanity over hate—we choose humanity over everything. 

And then, as rioters stormed our partner synagogue Beit Samueli in Ra’anana during their own satellite event, once again I felt the excruciating desperation surfacing.

אָנָּא יְהֹוָה הַצְלִיחָה נָּא

Please, God, help us succeed—in finding compassion, in building peace, in honoring each other’s dignity.

While we won’t say Hallel again until next month, I pray that the hope, התקוה, sparked by the incredible families who choose to come together in their pain—this radical, miraculous compassion—will meet our ancient words and our modern cries. That it will echo beyond the pages of our prayer books and settle deep within our bones. And that somehow, some way, even when it feels impossible, it will help carry us, humanity, forward together. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Becca Weintraub

We send our love and strength to Rabbi Ben-Or Tsfoni, her community, and to all who remembered loved ones on Yom Hazikaron.

Read Rabbi Ben-Or Tsfoni’s powerful letter →