Editor’s note: How fascinating it is to see ourselves as others see us. After this article came across our desk, we managed to find and speak to the author. Not only did Mr. Pavlicek graciously give permission to use his article, he also reaffirmed his great admiration for the kavana of the anonymous davener he had witnessed. And in response to our question, he explained the term “elder brother of faith” as the Catholic Church’s acknowledgment of the Jewish religion as ancestral to its own. During this season of the High Holidays, may this story serve as a reminder that we are always being watched – by people, yes, and, even more momentously, by Hashem!
In his black, broad-brimmed hat, large and impeccably curled side locks, and long black coat resembling a cassock, the young chasidic man standing before me could have walked out of a Chaim Potok novel. There was no telling how long he’d been standing there, as he’d kept silent until I happened to look up from my breviary. Only then did he ask me in a quiet, polite voice, “Excuse me; can you tell me which direction is east?” It seemed like a dumb question with the light from the rising sun pouring through Minneapolis airport’s floor-to-ceiling windows, but I humored him and pointed toward the glow. Then he glanced at my breviary with its leather cover, gilt edges, and multicolored ribbons askew and said, “I hope I won’t disturb you. I’ll go and pray behind the partition; that way I won’t scare anyone.” With that cryptic remark he walked to the panel behind the vacant ticketing desk that, while it might have shielded him from passersby still provided me a clear view as he prepared to pray.
Curiosity forced my own morning devotions into a holding pattern as the young man removed his coat and rolled up the left sleeve of his white shirt. He then opened an ornate cloth zippered bag, removed a black phylactery, and began carefully and deliberately lacing it around his arm and hand. He then retrieved another phylactery and laced it around his head so that the small black box rested on his forehead like an unfortunate dark growth. Finally, he took out a white prayer shawl edged with blue stripes and draped it over his head and shoulders. From where I sat, he could have been mistaken for a Missionary of Charity, but that was where the similarity ended.
Once the young man opened his prayer book and began softly chanting prayers that have sustained his people for centuries, he began a series of sharp bows from the waist that someone could have mistaken for an appendicitis attack. He continued for several minutes and then began pacing toward the rising sun, and then stepping back, as if he wished to approach the living G-d but then, realizing the presumption of it, withdrew. All the while, he continued quietly praying and chanting but with an intensity that left me doubting if anything, up to and including an explosion, could have broken his concentration. That was more than I could say for myself.
My hand was still resting on the page, marking where I’d stopped midway through the morning’s readings, and I realized, in a comparison I hope he’d forgive, that the contrast between his prayers and mine seemed like the difference between ham and eggs, where the chicken is involved but the pig is committed. Observing him pray with such apparent concentration forced me to admit that before the young chasid approach me, I’d been merely dabbling in prayer, looking the part with my shiny black leather breviary and beatific expression while at the same time obsessing about the hot coffee and Danish I’d score as soon as I’d gone through the liturgical motions. Between that and my inability to ignore wailing infants and a host of other distractions, to call what I was doing “prayer” was a stretch. The man before me didn’t have the same problem. He’d prepared himself as carefully as any priest vesting for Mass, and once he began worshipping his Creator, it was difficult to detect any break or hesitation in the stream of his prayer. While it wasn’t possible for anyone without exceptional hearing and fluency in Hebrew to understand what he was saying, there was no mistaking the intensity, the devotion, and the commitment he brought to the act of worship.
A wave of envy began welling up inside me, on par with what Cain probably felt toward Abel, but before it could crest, the young man closed his prayer book, carefully folded up his shawl and phylacteries, and placed them back in his cloth bag. After donning his broadbrimmed hat and long black coat, he again stood in front of me. His face didn’t shine like Moses emerging from the sanctuary, yet it bore the unmistakable light of a man who knew he’d been in G-d’s presence and was confident this would sustain him until he next bowed before the Almighty.
Smiling, he pointed at my breviary. “So, you’re reading the Psalms,” he said. “This is good.” I wanted to tell him, “Better I should learn to pray them,” but he walked away before I could muster the words. As he wended his way through the crowded airport, he seemed oblivious to the people who stared at him as if he were a stray cast member from Fiddler on the Roof. Even if he had noticed the bemused gazes, it wasn’t likely they would matter to him; he knew who he was, where he’d been, and everything else was bupkis.
I watched until the chasid disappeared into the congested concourse. Once he was out of sight, I replaced the ribbons in my breviary and zippered it into its carrying case. Forty-five minutes remained until boarding, so I began making my own way through the concourse, hoping to find another quiet place and make another try at the morning office. After such a memorable lesson in intentional prayer, this time it could only go better.â—†
Larry Pavlicek is a freelance writer from the Twin Cities. This article is reprinted with permission from the Minneapolis newspaper, The Catholic Servant.
