In the early days, before the Baal Shem Tov haKadosh had publicly revealed his identity to others, he spent time traveling the countryside meeting and strengthening Jews baderech (along the way). One early winter’s day, passing through crossroads of a shtetl, the tzadik settled in for the night at the local kretchmer (inn). While the wife and children of the innkeeper welcomed and went about serving the Baal Shem Tov a hot meal, he noticed the baal ha-bayis off in a corner, davening. After resting in his room for a few hours, the Baal Shem Tov returned to the dimly lit main room, where the yid was still in the same corner, davening.
The Baal Shem Tov sat down with a sefer and quietly observed the man for a long time, moved and uplifted by the man’s lengthy and deeply focused prayers. When the man finally closed the siddur and kissed it, the Baal Shem Tov went over to shake his hand and exchange shalom aleichem. “Reb Yid, your avodah she-ba-lev gave me a lot of joy.” “No, no, dear Rebbe,” the man answered, shaking his head with embarrassment, “It’s not what it appears to be! I’m a simple person. The lamp in my room is broken … I should have stood out of sight in the kitchen, not out here…”
The tzadik persisted. “That’s OK! My friend, if you don’t mind, just tell me how you drew so close to the Ribbono shel Olam in your prayers.” “Please,” the innkeeper protested, “I don’t even know what you mean by that; I can barely read the words of the siddur, let alone understand them!” The Baal Shem Tov became even more fascinated. “Would you tell me your story?”
The man shrugged. “My story? What can I say? My father passed away when I was a child and I never had the opportunity to learn in cheder. All I remember is that my father would daven with this same siddur every day. And so I continue his path. The problem is, I don’t know the difference between the various tefillos. At the start of the day I begin with page one, and go as long as I can in Shacharis. Later in the day, I continue in the afternoon from where I left off, reading as much as I can in the middle of the work day. And again in the evening, like tonight, I keep reading the words until I have finished every page in the siddur.”
The Baal Shem Tov’s compassion was touched. “Perhaps I can be helpful to you! Come, let’s sit down; I’ll explain the different parts of the siddur and show which prayers to say and when.” On small scraps of paper, the Baal Shem Tov wrote out basic instructions in simple Yiddish, inserting the papers as place markers denoting where to begin and end “Shacharis,” “Mincha” and “Maariv.” He also marked off the Shabbos davening, Rosh Chodesh inserts and Birkas Hamazon, the Grace after Meals. The innkeeper was filled with joy and gratitude; he now knew how to daven properly, with everything in its place and time.
In the morning, the Baal Shem Tov took leave of his host and continued on his way. The innkeeper, excited to daven the first “proper Shachris” of his life, grabbed his siddur and hurried out to shul. No sooner had he shut the door than a gust of wind buffeted him and blew all the slips of paper out of the siddur, scattering them in the mud. The innkeeper was overwhelmed. “Oy! What am I going to do now? How will I daven?” His wife had witnessed this scene, and she opened the door and shouted, “Quick, run and catch up with the Rebbe! He is heading back toward Mezdzibuzh!”
Siddur still in hand, he began sprinting across the countryside. Soon, he saw the Baal Shem Tov in the distance, approaching a raging river. The waters were certainly too cold, deep and tumultuous to forge them by foot. Wide-eyed, the man watched as the tzadik removed his gartel, tossed one end of the long woven belt across the water, and miraculously, as if on a bridge, walked upon it to the other side.
Running to catch up with the Rebbe, the innkeeper arrived at the edge of the river, removed his own gartel, tossed one end to the other side, and walked across it exactly as the Baal Shem Tov had done. Finally, out of breath, he caught up to the tzadik, apologetically stopped him, and explained his desperate predicament. “Please forgive me, but could the Rebbe guide me in avodas Hashem and mark off the proper places in the siddur again?
“Sure, but wait—how did you get here so quickly? How did you cross the river?”
“Oh, right,” he said, shyly, “I … I saw what the Rebbe did. And, without thinking, I, too, took off my gartel and walked across on it.”
Placing his hand on the innkeeper’s shoulder, the Baal Shem Tov smiled broadly. “My dear, dear friend … I think it’s probably best that you continue davening your own way!”
~
ויגש אליו יהודה
“Then Yehuda approached him.. “(Bereishis 44:18)
Vayigash is a parsha about drawing near: “Vayigash eilav, and Yehuda approached, came close” to his brother Yosef. As he reveals his true identity to his brothers, Yosef implores them to “Please come closer to me.” This moment of confrontation and reckoning is also one of reconciliation and rectification. This is a narrative that unfolds in numerous dimensions. An accused spy is pleading for justice and is attaining personal redemption; a long-alienated brother is standing before the viceroy of Egypt, speaking directly, not knowing that the viceroy already knows him very well.
Within the confusion, concealment and distance between the brothers and Yosef, this is a basic, simple, heartfelt moment of vayigash, drawing close. After all of the suspicion, planning, strategizing and inner turbulence, this most basic movement of approaching and speaking from the heart breaks down all of the barriers and creates a moment of connection, leading to the eventual salvation of the mishpacha and nation.
And all of this is the essence of prayer, avodah shebalev, the service of the heart. Yehuda– a Yid, a Jew– draws close to the King, Hashem, with absolute simplicity and innocence. Despite his great existential distance from the King, the courageous Yid speaks directly to the King, making himself, his thoughts and feelings, thoroughly known to Him.
According to the great Tosafist and Kabbalist, Rebbe Elazar Rokeach, the three steps we take before the amidah prayer are derived from the three appearances of the word vayigash in these verses. When we daven, we seek to approach, to step into closeness, and to see and be seen by the Ribbono shel Olam. Professor Abraham Joshua Heschel explains:
The purpose of prayer is to be brought to His attention, to be listened to, to be understood by Him; not to know Him, but to be known to Him. To pray is to behold life not only as a result of His power, but as a concern of His will, or to strive to make our life a Divine concern. For the ultimate aspiration of man is not to be a master, but an object of His knowledge. To live ‘in the light of His countenance,’ to become a thought of God — this is the true career of man.”
Rebbe Nachman of Breslov would recount how he envied a certain Chasidishe Yid known in Breslov as “Yossele Siddur,” who had the ability to daven at length, without any chochmos or sophistication. He would just stand before Hashem for hours, with absolute sincerity and simplicity, holding a thick, well worn siddur, pouring out his heart through all of the techinos and bakashos, supplications and requests printed in it (Chayei Moharan, 520).
While of course structure and halachos guide our formal liturgy, allowing us to “pray a proper Shacharis,” and laws create a framework for our good intentions and our avodah shebalev, Shabbos Vayigash serves as a bookmark, inviting us to renew our approach toward the Ribbono Shel Olam with temimus, heartfelt simplicity and sincerity.
“Di besteh chasidishe sefer iz a siddur, The best Chasidic book is the siddur.”
— Reb Yitzchok of Amshinov, zy’a
Rav Judah Mischel is executive director of Camp HASC, the Hebrew Academy for Special Children. He is the mashpiah of OU-NCSY, founder of Tzama Nafshi and the author of “Baderech: Along the Path of Teshuva.” Rav Judah lives in Ramat Beit Shemesh with his wife Ora and their family.
