Even King David, the sweet singer of Israel, felt that way sometimes. And the ancient rabbis grappled with this very question too.
In Bereshit Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic homilies on the Book of Genesis, we find a powerful passage (Bereshit Rabbah 53, to be exact) that uses the story of Hagar and her son Ishmael to explore this idea. You remember Hagar. Sarah’s maidservant, who was sent away into the desert with her son.
The verse in Psalms 56:9 says, "You have taken account of my wandering. Put my tears in Your flask [nodekha]." The Rabbis connect this to Hagar, suggesting that God accepts our tears just as He did hers. Nodekha, that little flask for tears... what a potent image of God's attentiveness.
And then comes the kicker. David, in Psalms 39:13, cries out, "Hear my prayer, Lord, and heed my cry; do not be silent at my tears!" He’s basically saying, "Wait a minute! You listened to Hagar, a stranger, but you’re silent to me? I'm also a stranger with You, a sojourner, like all my fathers!" It's a raw, vulnerable moment of questioning.
The text goes on, "God heard the voice of the lad; the angel of God called to Hagar from the heavens, and said to her: What is it with you, Hagar? Fear not, as God has heard the voice of the lad, as he is there" (Genesis 21:17).
Here, the Rabbis offer a fascinating interpretation. The angel's call to Hagar was "due to the merit of Abraham," but the fact that God heard Ishmael was "due to his own merit; the prayer of an ill person himself is superior to all others." So, even though Abraham's righteousness played a role, Ishmael's own plea, his raw need in that moment, carried immense weight.
But hold on, it gets even more complex! Rabbi Simon adds a layer of divine drama. He says the angels themselves questioned God. "Master of the universe," they argued, "a person who is destined to kill your children by thirst, will You produce a spring for him?" (referencing the future exiles at the hand of the Babylonians – see Eikha Rabba 2:4).
God's response? "What is he right now, righteous or wicked?" He judges each person in their present moment. "Rise, lift the boy," God commands (Genesis 21:18).
Then, "God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water. She went and filled the skin with water, and gave the lad to drink" (Genesis 21:19).
Rabbi Binyamin offers a powerful insight: "Everyone has the presumptive status of being blind until the Holy One blessed be He opens their eyes." In other words, we don't truly see until God allows us to see. (This is derived from the verse "God opened her eyes.")
But even with this miracle, the passage ends with a touch of human frailty. "She went and filled the skin with water – this teaches that she was lacking in faith." She didn't fully trust that God would continue to provide.
So, what does it all mean? What are we supposed to take away from this intricate tapestry of text and interpretation?
Perhaps it’s this: Our prayers, even when tinged with doubt and questioning, are heard. God sees us in our present moment. And sometimes, we need our eyes opened to the blessings already present in our lives. Even when we lack faith, even when the future seems uncertain, there is always the possibility of a wellspring appearing, a lifeline thrown, a moment of grace. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to keep us going.