Embedded in the Rosh Hashana liturgy, quietly positioned between Shacharis and shofar-blowing, is the haftara that relates the story of Chana, the mother of Shmuel HaNavi. There are multiple reasons why this is the first haftara of the new year, the most obvious of which is that Chana, who was infertile for many years, gave birth to Shmuel on Rosh Hashana after being “remembered” by Hashem on this day.
Another reason for its recitation focuses on the language and content of Chana’s prayer which is considered to be the blueprint upon which modern prayer is modeled. We learn from Chana a couple of important halachos regarding davening: articulating the words with one’s mouth, not raising one’s voice during prayer, not to daven while intoxicated, and perhaps most importantly, to daven from the heart. One of the complicated features about davening on Rosh Hashana is the tension between two seemingly disparate themes of the day, crowning Hashem as our king while simultaneously davening for all the things we want and need in the new year. Chana is the one who reconciles this disconnect; she teaches us not only how to daven but also what to daven for.
A few years ago, I had the opportunity to give a shiur about Chana for a summer series of shiurim called Women in Tanach. My initial plan was to speak about Devorah, who was the only female judge during the time of the Shoftim. She was the original superwoman – a judge, a prophet, a wife, someone who woke up early to bake challah for Shabbos and then went to work, someone whose life reflected the modern-day multitasking woman. Much to my surprise, nothing about her story spoke to me, and so for no other reason than the fact that we shared a name, I began to research Chana.
In his lecture on this haftorah, Rabbi Berel Wein, zt”l, posits an alternate reason for why we read Chana’s story on Rosh Hashana. On the words “vayihi hayom” – and it was on this day – (Shmuel I 1:4), Rabbi Wein asks, what was so special about this day? As per the meforshim, “this day” was Rosh Hashana. But this particular Rosh Hashana was different for Chana. After nineteen years of infertility, not only did she hear the ticking of her biological clock, but she could also no longer tolerate the taunts of her husband Elkanah’s other wife Penina, who tried to goad Chana into davening harder for a child by saying things like “Come clothes shopping with me for the kids – oh, oopsie, I forgot, you have no kids.” This year was Chana’s breaking point, and during the yontif seudah after Elkanah had passed around the meat from the sacrifice he had offered at the Mishkan, she began to cry and would not eat. Elkanah tried to comfort Chana with the words, “Why do you weep, why do you not eat, and why are you sad? Am I not better to you than ten sons?”
With his trademark dry wit, Rabbi Wein expounds upon Elkanah’s seemingly insensitive words. What, says Rabbi Wein, should Elkanah have done here? His wife was crying; if he said nothing, he would be an insensitive oaf, but conversely, anything he would say would be an inadequate platitude. Elkanah here was the proverbial prototype of the husband who just can’t win – he was doomed, in the wrong, no matter what he said to Chana. This, continues Rabbi Wein, is such a human and relatable story, and we read it on Rosh Hashana which is a day that symbolizes and exposes our humanity because being human means sometimes doing and saying the wrong thing.
We realize, too, when we are davening on Rosh Hashana that we have no idea how to articulate our wants and needs. What if you need a car? How does one phrase such a mundane request to Hashem? Like Elkanah, we can’t say nothing, but if we do say something, what should it be?
I was instantly attracted to Chana’s story; the biological desire to become a mother is a universal feminine desire. Rav Soloveitchik, in an essay published in Family Redeemed, comments that Elkanah was wrong when he made his remarks to Chana. It was clear that Elkanah did not understand “the yearning for love, for self-sacrifice, and superhuman devotion in which a woman finds self-fulfillment.”
Although I became an optometrist before I had my first daughter, parenthood quickly subsumed any other identity I had previously held. My career was a cloak that I put on but then took off. Motherhood altered every cell in my body – it was like growing a second layer of skin.
Rav Soloveitchik also explains that “vayihi hayom” means that on this day, Chana had an epiphany: She realized that Elkanah had stopped davening for her, and she could only rely on herself to daven for a child. After Elkanah’s attempt to make her feel better, she picks herself up from the yontif table and goes to the Mishkan to pray. Chana’s response to Elkanah was also very human – she ignored him and walked away. Her pain is palpable; it takes no stretch of the imagination to visualize what it must have been like to sit at a Shabbos or yontif table for nineteen years and watch as Penina’s family grew. Upon reaching the Mishkan, she began to weep and bargain with Hashem.
I was familiar with the concept of bargaining with G-d. When my daughter was a baby, she caught every virus that circulated. Even the most innocuous cold became a respiratory event that required a nebulizer. It was terrifying to watch my baby cough to the point of vomiting; I cried and bargained and prayed until I reached a point when all I did was cry. I did my best davening in the car on the way to the pediatrician – I had streamlined my prayers to just one word: “Please.”
Chana starts her prayer by making a vow. She swears that if Hashem gives her a child, she will dedicate this child to Hashem for his entire life and a razor will not touch his head. It is within this request that we learn not only how to pray, but what to pray for. She asks for “zera anashim,” which can be explained either as a male offspring, or as a unique, special child. One would think that Chana should not be davening for the most wonderful child in the world; she should be satisfied with just a normal little baby. But Chana didn’t want this child for selfish reasons. She didn’t just want an adorable accessory that she could waltz around with in the newest Bugaboo stroller wearing a designer stretchy – she wanted a baby who would serve Hashem and increase G-d’s honor in the world. Her language intimates this desire – she is the first one to refer to Hashem as “Hashem Tzvakos,” the master of legions, the king of the ultimate army. She wanted a child who would be a soldier in this holy army. She felt that her own service to Hashem was lacking if she could not contribute another person to the service of G-d, and so she asked for a special child who could serve Him at the highest level using all the talents and gifts which G-d would bestow upon him.
Chana reconciles the disconnect regarding our Rosh Hashana davening very simply. It is not out of bounds to ask for a car on Rosh Hashana, but what is the underlying motivation? Do I want this car to impress other people or do I want this car so I can drive my children to a better yeshiva which is not within walking distance? Do I want a million dollars so I can go on expensive vacations or do I want the money so I can give more to charity? We can ask Hashem for things, but they have to be things that will help us become better people. The underlying motivation has to be l’shem Shamayim.
While Chana is davening in the Mishkan, Eli HaKohen sees her mouth moving without hearing her voice and thinks she is drunk. This mode of silent prayer was something Chana introduced, which explains Eli’s confusion. After he approaches her with rebuke, she counters his criticism by explaining the true nature of her behavior. Duly chastised, Eli gives Chana a blessing, and she goes back home, feeling good about her experience. This further teaches us that the goal of davening is not the outcome – the goal is the increased connection with Hashem. A year later, she is blessed with a son whom she names Shmuel, “ki meHashem shi’altiv” – I borrowed him from Hashem.
Nothing we have is truly ours. Not our money, not our children, not ourselves. Everything is on loan for a finite period of time. “It follows,” says Rav Soloveitchik, “that if one borrows an item, ultimately one must return it.” Although this is a sobering thought, it is one that perfectly aligns with the complicated feelings we experience on Rosh Hashana.
After Shmuel is born, Elkanah takes the family to the Mishkan in Shiloh to bring korbanos. Chana stays home with Shmuel, telling Elkanah that she and the baby will not join him until the baby is weaned, after which she will relinquish little Shmuel to Eli.
It seems ironic that the woman who has become synonymous with tefillah did not immediately run to the Mishkan to thank Hashem for giving her a child. There are multiple reasons why women are not obligated to pray in shul with a minyan three times a day, the most practical of which is our primary obligation to raise and nurture our children. One of the other lessons Chana teaches women about tefillah is that there is a time for everything, and when our children are small, we daven at home.
Deeper into the second perek of Shmuel I, which is not part of the haftara, it mentions that Chana made a small coat for Shmuel that she would bring to him “from year to year.” The peshat in the pasuk gives us the impression that she made a new coat each year, but some of the meforshim say that she made one coat that miraculously grew with him and which he wore until his death.
When my oldest daughter was a toddler, I taught myself how to crochet so I could make her a little blanket. I fell in love with my newfound skill, with the ability to take a piece of myself and give it to my baby, something that would envelop her with my love, and would be passed down through the generations. Later, I would learn how to knit, and I made my daughters little matching coats. I was like Chana. I was Chana, I was every mother who dreamed for a child and had dreams for that child. Each stitch was a prayer, a wish, a blessing.
Of course, the coat that Chana made for Shmuel was miraculous – how could it not be? It was stitched with the prayers and the hopes of the woman who had bargained with G-d, who changed her destiny and bore a child who would be compared to Moshe and Aharon, who taught us what it means to be a mother, and how to daven like only a mother can.
After Shmuel is weaned, Chana brings him to Eli HaKohen in Shiloh, whereupon she brings a korban and thanks Hashem with yet another seminal prayer that we call Shiras Chana. She mentions Hashem’s name nine times during this Shira, and once again, her davening is so unique that the Mussaf Amidah on Rosh Hashana mirrors her Shira and contains nine blessings. In the body of this prayer, Chana marvels, using multiple examples, at how life can change in an instant, and we see Rabbi Wein’s insight about Rosh Hashana exposing our humanity reflected in Chana’s words.
Just as Hashem remembered Chana on Rosh Hashana, so must we. We must remember that she started out broken and hopeless, but through the power of honest prayer she reinvented herself and changed her mazel, transforming her not only into the mother of Shmuel HaNavi, but also into the mother of prayer and a symbol of our humanity.
L’iluy nishmas Rabbi Berel Wein zt”l. Although neither I nor anyone in my family ever met him in person, his shiurim and sefarim had a profound impact on our family’s spiritual life.