The foundation of avodah isn’t motivation or geshmak, but obligation through connection

There’s a sentence we say three times every day that few of us understand. We preface every Shemoneh Esreh with the words of Dovid Hamelech: “Hashem, open my lips, and my mouth will speak your praise.” If you think about it, this is a very peculiar introduction. We begin our tefillah by declaring that we are incapable of davening. We step forward ready to speak to Hashem, only to find our lips sealed shut, and we beseech Him to open them.

Why, as we begin Shemoneh Esreh, are we suddenly rendered speechless? The answer is that in Shemoneh Esreh, we enter Hashem’s world. We look at the universe through the prism of Hashem’s plan for humanity: He remembers the deeds of the Avos and brings a redeemer to their descendants. Then, the resurrection of the dead, and the ultimate revelation of His kedushah. We stand for Shemoneh Esreh, prepared to present Hashem with our well-rehearsed wish list. But when we enter Hashem’s world, we can’t find the words. What say do we have in that lofty world?

We are connected to a world that far transcends our own. We feel this most powerfully in tefillah, but all mitzvos manifest this connection. When we fulfill a mitzvah, we make an impact in the uppermost realms. Every Jew plays a role in the national mission and the fruition of the world’s purpose. This is the depth of our obligation in the mitzvos: Hashem wants us to do our avodah not only for our individual reward, but because it has cosmic significance.

This understanding stands in stark contrast to the notion that the foundation of avodah is “geshmak” — spiritual or intellectual gratification in Torah and mitzvos. In recent years, we have put geshmak on a golden pedestal. The underlying problem is that we’re only willing to exert effort in any area if we feel motivated. How do we feel motivated to do mitzvos all day long? We have temporary bursts of inspiration, but the surest way to stay motivated is to find pleasure in the mitzvos we do. So, meaning well, we constantly search for geshmak, unwittingly teaching ourselves that if the mitzvah isn’t geshmak, it’s not for us.

Of course, finding personal resonance with the mitzvos enhances and facilitates avodah. But overdependence on geshmak to fuel our avodah makes us neglect our weakest areas. We’re willing to work hard within our comfort zone, like athletes who play to their natural strengths. But we resist working on areas we find unpleasant. The knowledge that we’re obligated doesn’t do the trick, because without geshmak, we feel as helpless as a person trying to tunnel through a mountain with his bare hands.

The foundation of avodah isn’t motivation or geshmak, but obligation through connection. Not dry, burdensome obligation, rather obligation founded in our connection to something beyond ourselves. Our avodah advances Am Yisrael’s mission and Hashem’s plan for the world. If we realize the significance of our avodah, we won’t need a motivational speech to get us on our feet: The world needs us.

Avodah isn’t about us; it’s about our obligation to something greater than ourselves. Even the interpersonal mitzvos are based on this. The Rosh teaches us that in bein adam l’chaveiro, the other person’s will obligates us in the same manner as Hashem’s will. We must view the other person’s will as compelling, because our connection to him is greater than our own preference.

When I do the other person’s will instead of my own, I do so not merely to be nice, and certainly not because it’s geshmak. I do so because my relationship with the other person is more important than my own will. The key to educating ourselves and our children lies in recognizing that we’re part of something larger than ourselves — Klal Yisrael, a community, a family, a marriage, a friendship. When we internalize that, we no longer depend on motivation, because the significance of our connection demands that we look beyond ourselves.

At first, it seems that this concept of avodah forces you to sacrifice yourself. But in the end, through doing the will of Hashem or the other person, you discover yourself. When you live up to the obligation your connection demands, you grow beyond your limits. You are significant in Hashem’s plan, in Klal Yisrael, your community and family, because you are greater than you realize. You discover new kochos, new depth in your personality, and reach heights you never knew you were capable of.

In my youth, I was an accomplished mathematician. I quickly saw structure where others only saw masses of information. But when I met Rav Wolbe ztz”l, I realized that this ability didn’t help me understand his wisdom. He would speak about one point in an entire discourse, and its ostensible simplicity concealed tremendous depth.

Frustrated that I couldn’t grasp that depth, I began to train myself. I would pace back and forth in the orchards of Be’er Yaakov, thinking over and over about one idea, turning it around in my mind. This way of thinking was utterly foreign to me. It was torturous at first. But in the end, I learned an entirely new way of thinking, one that has proven much more fruitful in Torah than the one I was accustomed to.

A person grows not from what he’s motivated to do, but from what he doesn’t want, when he accepts an obligation that’s greater than his personal desire. The Midrash says that a malach stands over every plant, strikes it and tells it, “Grow.” Why does the malach need to strike the plant? Surely he should inspire it with a motivational pep talk.

The answer is that motivation is not how we grow! Practically, we sometimes we need a boost of motivation to keep going, but that’s not the basis of our avodah or our growth. We don’t grow from geshmak, but from a “potch” — an obligation we feel is beyond our capabilities. At first, it’s discomforting, perhaps even painful, but in the end, it bears sweet fruit.

My friend taught me how you grow in learning from a potch. We learned a long and complex Tosafos, and saw a clear and convincing interpretation written by one of the great Acharonim.

A few weeks later, my friend told me, “I think the true pshat in Tosafos is not like we read.”

Knowing he was the last person to take the Acharonim’s words lightly, I asked him to explain. He went over the whole Tosafos with me, elucidating every question, proof, and comparison. Then, in the very last line, it became crystal clear (according to his understanding) that Tosafos meant something else altogether.

I was stunned. I asked him how many times he had learned the Tosafos. He didn’t want to tell me.

I pressed him: “Did you learn it a thousand times?”

Sheepishly, he said, “More or less.”

How do you bring yourself to learn a Tosafos 1,000 times? No one on the planet is motivated to do that. It’s anything but geshmak. My friend did it not out of motivation, but out of obligation: “I have to understand this Tosafos, and I will learn it until I grasp it fully.” He recognized with absolute sincerity that his connection to Torah obligated him to push himself beyond his limits.

Avodah can and should be sweet. But it doesn’t start that way. It starts with a potch, when the obligation is daunting, and all we can do is turn to Hashem: “Open my lips, for I cannot speak.” We must remember that we’re connected to Hashem, to Klal Yisrael, to something far greater than ourselves; then we can accept the challenge earnestly.

It won’t be easy, and we might feel overwhelmed. But if we follow through, we’ll find our once-mute lips flowing with eloquent words of tefillah.

—Prepared for print by Rabbi Eran Feintuch

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1052)