The Prayer of Rosh Hashana

Tfilat Hannah: A Model of Thanksgiving

I’ve always been struck by the profound impact of a particular prayer on Rosh Hashanah, one that we don’t actually recite ourselves but rather find in the haftarah portion – the prayer of Hannah, תפלת חנה.

Hannah’s story is a testament to unwavering faith and persistence. After years of fervently beseeching God for the gift of a child, Hannah is finally blessed with a son. This son, in just a few short years, would go on to become a prophet who plays a pivotal role in anointing the first king of the Jewish people, setting the stage for the enduring legacy of King David.

True to her vow made during her fervent prayers for a child, Hannah makes the solemn journey to the Mishkan when her son, Shmuel, reaches the tender age of three. There, she entrusts him into the care of the Kohanim, marking the beginning of his intensive training before embarking on his remarkable and prolific career as a prophet.

The Rishonim have engaged in extensive debate over the purpose of this prayer. Some scholars emphasize the opening of her prayer, labeling it as a heartfelt expression of gratitude to God—עלץ לבי בה’ (My heart exults in the Lord). Others, however, point out the prophetic elements within her prayer, which appear to foreshadow the kings her son will ultimately anoint—ויתן עז למלכו וירם קרן משיחו (He gives strength to His king and exalts the horn of His anointed).

In an intriguing post on Alhatorah, the author proposes that תפילת חנה (Hanna’s Prayer) sets the stage for the narrative of the book. In this perspective, Hannah contemplates the prophet who will shape the narrative required for the Jewish people to fill the leadership void. Hannah essentially poses the question of who will be the person capable of fulfilling the diverse roles she outlines: “ה’ מֵמִית וּמְחַיֶּה מוֹרִיד שְׁאוֹל וַיָּעַל. ה’ מוֹרִישׁ וּמַעֲשִׁיר מַשְׁפִּיל אַף מְרוֹמֵם. מֵקִים מֵעָפָר דָּל מֵאַשְׁפֹּת יָרִים אֶבְיוֹן לְהוֹשִׁיב עִם נְדִיבִים וְכִסֵּא כָבוֹד יַנְחִלֵם כִּי לַה’ מְצֻקֵי אֶרֶץ וַיָּשֶׁת עֲלֵיהֶם תֵּבֵל..” (The Lord kills, and makes live; He brings down to the grave, and brings up. The Lord makes poor, and makes rich; He brings low, He also lifts up. He raises up the poor out of the dust. He lifts up the needy from the dung-hill, to make them sit with princes, and inherit the throne of glory. For the pillars of the earth are Hashem’s, and He has set the world upon them.)

The response to this question is later found in שירת דוד (Dovid’s Song), although we won’t delve into those details here. However, it’s worth noting that many literary similarities between these two sections are not encountered elsewhere in Tanach, strongly suggesting a connection between Dovid as the first king with a legitimate heir to the Jewish throne and the prayer of Hannah.

It is therefore fitting that we read this haftarah on Rosh Hashana. As we coronate God as our sovereign and discuss the importance of מלכיות—kingship, we read a haftara that anticipates the reign of the first Davidic king. This connection underscores the significance of Hanna’s prayer in our Rosh Hashanah liturgy, where we reflect on the divine kingship and its role in our lives.

However, it holds even deeper significance. How many of us eagerly anticipate that pivotal moment during the Mussaf service when the Chazzan begins to recite ונתנה תוקף (Unetane Tokef)? That prayer too is echoed in תפילת חנה: “מי יחיה, ומי ימות, מי ברעב ומי בצמא, מי יעני ומי יעשר, מי ישפל ומי ירום,” (who will live, who will die, who by hunger, who by thirst, who will be poor, who will become rich, who will fall and who will rise) are all subtly alluded to in Hannah’s heartfelt supplication.

Yet, amid the excitement and inspiration drawn from Hannah’s prayer, we may inadvertently overlook that this but was her second prayer. At the outset of the Haftara, Hannah offered a different prayer: “וְהִיא מָרַת נָפֶשׁ וַתִּתְפַּלֵּל עַל י”י וּבָכֹה תִבְכֶּה” (And she was bitter of soul and prayed to the Lord and wept bitterly). Unlike the expansive paragraph that follows, this initial prayer is comprised of merely eight words, which do not describe the content of her prayer but rather her emotional state during it. Her soul was embittered, and she wept—shedding tears not once, but twice, ובכה תבכה.

Consider the stark contrast between these two prayers. The first prayer emanates from a place of profound vulnerability, as Hannah, a woman invalidated by her husband and yearning for children, stands silently in a corner, weeping and beseeching God for the gift of a child. In contrast, the second prayer is one of a triumphant and joyous woman, filled with excitement at finally having a child, publicly proclaiming the transformative course of her son’s future life.

Interestingly, it is the second prayer that serves as a model for our Rosh Hashanah prayers, while the first does not. One might assume that the first prayer, born out of the anguish of a barren woman who has lost all hope, should hold greater significance on this day of judgment. How do we not approach God with the same desperation and fervency as a woman who has been stripped of all hope?

I’ve been pondering this question in the weeks leading up to this sermon, and recent experiences have deepened my understanding of the answer. During this time, I’ve been caring for a young cancer patient, a DNR/DNI case, who won’t survive this hospitalization. I won’t burden you with the grim details. I’m uncertain of her current status; she may have already passed, or perhaps she’s still holding on. Each day, in my role as her primary physician, my sole aim has been to ensure her comfort in her final moments. We’ve carefully assessed every medical intervention to ensure it serves only to alleviate her pain. We’ve titrated her pain medications with precision, allowing her to interact with her family without feeling any discomfort. Each day, I enter her room, often without performing any exam, as any movement risks causing her pain. Instead, I observe if her eyes follow me and if she grasps my hand when I offer it. I hold her hand, inquire about her pain level from her mother, and struggle to hold back my tears before leaving the room.

One Motzie Shabbat shift was particularly emotionally taxing. The next morning, as I prepared to leave for shacharit, my two-year-old daughter, Tova, asked if she could come along. Not one to discourage young children from joining shul I gladly took her with me. We walked hand in hand, engaging in the delightful chatter that occupies a two-year-old’s mind on an early Sunday morning. Upon our arrival at the synagogue, Tova ventured off to play in our designated play area while I began davening. I reached the Amidah and encountered a blessing that I now view with fresh perspective: רפאינו (Heal us). As I stood in the midst of the blessing, thoughts of the young patient consumed my mind. I realized that I wasn’t pleading for a miraculous cure. Instead, I was simply asking for a swift, painless passing. The weight of this realization brought tears once again to my eyes once more.

But then something remarkable occurred. I had just begun saying מודים (the prayer of thanksgiving), and suddenly, Tova, who had been engrossed in her play until then, came over and held up her little, chubby two-year-old hands, exclaiming (rather loudly), “Aba, HOLD ME.” I obliged, and it struck me that I was now reciting מודים while cradling my precious daughter. The tears welled up again, but this time they were tears of joy, tears of profound gratitude, and tears of overwhelming emotion. The surge of feelings exceeded anything I had experienced before.

This, I believe, encapsulates the essence of Rosh Hashanah. While thankfully most of us may not have the weighty sorrows that lead us to beseech Hashem for assistance with tears and pleas. Yet, on this sacred day, we are not encouraged to approach God with sorrow; rather, we come before Him with עלץ לבי בה’ (My heart exults in the Lord). We approach Him with an awareness of all the blessings in our lives. This is why we begin the מוסף service with עלינו לשבח (It is incumbent upon us to praise). As we explore the various components of Rosh Hashanah prayer, let us not forget that at its core, it is an expression of gratitude for all that He has bestowed upon us.

This is precisely why the climactic moment of our prayer, when we chant ונתנה תוקף, is rooted in Hannah’s prayer of hope and praise. However, as we become emotionally immersed in the experience of hearing ונתנה תוקף, let us not overlook its conclusion. The process of repentance encompasses three vital components: ותפילה (prayer), וצדקה (charity), and ותשובה מעבירין את רוע הגזירה (repentance can annul the evil decree). Two out of these three components are initiated with the commencement of סליחות, but it’s crucial not to forget about צדקה.

As we stand before God, humbly acknowledging and praising Him for the abundant goodness that graces our lives, we must also heed the call to remember those among us who bear hidden burdens and require additional monetary assistance. The Rabbinic Discretionary Fund, which is dedicated exclusively to helping the members of our community, including those whose struggles are hidden from view, is running low on funds. Today, as we embark on the sacred journey of the Ten Days of Repentance (עשרת ימי תשובה), a period that begins by focusing on עלץ לבי בה’ (My heart exults in the Lord), let us not overlook the essential third component: צדקה (charity). Let us embody the spirit of giving and share our good fortune generously with the members of our community through contributions to the Rabbinic Discretionary Fund. Just as our hearts are uplifted in praise, may our hands be open in compassion, ensuring that no one among us faces their struggles alone.