
When Prayer Feels Hard
This week, I had the profound privilege of participating in the opening retreat for the Pedagogies of T’fillah Research Fellowship, launched by M²: The Institute for Experiential Jewish Education in partnership with Hadar. Over the coming months, I—along with an incredible group of senior Jewish educators—will be researching and developing pedagogies that honor both ancient traditions and contemporary spiritual needs. Our goal is to explore ways to help ensure that prayer remains a powerful and relevant practice.
The task feels both daunting and exhilarating—especially in a world that is, both literally and metaphorically, on fire.
I think about prayer constantly. It is the practice and spiritual tool most central to my life. So when we were asked to share how our life’s journey explains who we are in the world of tefillah—in a brief ten-minute presentation—I wasn’t sure where to begin.
I began reflecting on the role of tefillah in my life: the informal conversations with God, lying in bed as a child before falling asleep, or as an adult while driving or walking from place to place. The tears of joy that filled my eyes as I read from the Torah at my bat mitzvah. The deep sense of connection to God and community I felt while praying at camp. Walking through the halls of my Jewish high school, feeling grateful to live in a country where I was free to begin my day in prayer as part of my education. Moments of embarrassment in more observant communities, where I felt like I should have known more. The spiritual growing pains of leaving one prayer community and entering another. The gift of praying with and guiding this holy community over the past few years. The joy. The grief. The obligation. The expansiveness. The heartache. The gratitude. The vulnerability. The love. The hope.
As we each revealed pieces of our souls, a realization emerged: Rather than our life journeys explaining who we are in the world of tefillah, our journey with tefillah became the way to explain who we are in the world.
With my deep love and appreciation for prayer comes an understanding of the myriad ways in which tefillah—whether traditional or spontaneous—is difficult, especially today. Tefillah forces us to wrestle with God, our community, the world, and ourselves. It begs us to be vulnerable. It pushes us to face our faults and the injustice in our world. It compels us to dream. It invites us to ask—without any assurance that we will receive what we seek.
In his essay “On Prayer” written in 1969, Abraham Joshua Heschel reminds us what it takes to build a prayer practice:
Prayer will not come about by default. It requires education, training, reflection, contemplation. It is not enough to join others; it is necessary to build a sanctuary within, brick by brick, instants of meditation, moments of devotion. This is particularly true in an age when overwhelming forces seem to conspire at destroying our ability to pray.
Whether prayer feels natural and comforting or foreign and elusive, I want to invite you on this journey of exploration with me. Tefillah demands intention. It is not a passive act—it is a practice we develop, a discipline we cultivate. In the midst of our vulnerability, may we support one another as we figure out how to best build sanctuaries within ourselves, letter by letter, word by word, prayer by prayer.
Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Becca Weintraub