King David knew that feeling, and he gave voice to it in the Psalms. Psalm 141, to be exact. It begins, "I call upon you, O Lord; make haste to me; give ear to my voice when I call to you." But what does it really mean?

The Midrash Tehillim, an ancient collection of interpretations on the Book of Psalms, helps us unpack this powerful verse. It tells us that just as "bright eyes gladden the heart" (Proverbs 15:30), so too does God illuminate the eyes of the righteous, filling them with joy. This joy, it says, is like the satisfaction of "fat and marrowy bones" when receiving good tidings. And what is this good tidings? That "surely the righteous shall give thanks to your name" (Psalm 140:14). David, the Psalmist, yearns to be among those who see God's face.

But he doesn't just want to be seen. He wants to be heard. "Make haste to me," he pleads. What does that even mean? The Midrash interprets this as a reciprocal desire. David desires to fulfill God's will, and he asks that God also desire him. It's a beautiful idea, isn't it? That our relationship with the Divine isn't just a one-way street.

The Midrash then offers a compelling analogy. Imagine someone who needs to appear before the ruler but has no one to speak on their behalf. All the officials are busy, engaged with others. So, the person directly appeals to the ruler, saying, "I have no one to speak for me. You are the judge and the advocate. Please advocate for me."

David is doing something similar. He acknowledges that some people trust in their good deeds, others in the merit of their ancestors. But David? David trusts in God alone, even though he feels he lacks good deeds. "I have called upon you," he says. Therefore, "make haste to me." It's a raw, vulnerable plea for divine attention and support.

The Psalm continues, "My prayer shall be set before You…" The Midrash delves into the meaning of "shall be set." David is speaking from a place of longing, remembering the time when the Temple stood. Back then, they would burn incense before God. But now? Now there's no altar, no High Priest. So, David asks that his prayer be accepted in place of the incense, that it might "tear through the firmament" and reach God.

This idea of prayer as a substitute for sacrifice is a powerful one. It speaks to the enduring nature of our connection with the Divine, even when the physical structures are gone. It's a theme we see echoed elsewhere in Jewish tradition.

The Midrash then connects this to Ezra 9:4, "And to me were assembled everyone who trembled at the words of the God…" and Psalms 55:18, "In the evening, and in the morning, and at noon, I will express my complaint and moan…" Why specifically in the evening?

The Midrash offers a poignant explanation: "Rather, all day long my soul is at ease in the world and I am not troubled, but in the evening I die and my intestines are exchanged." It's a vivid image of the inner turmoil that can surface at the end of the day. Therefore, the Midrash concludes, a person must confess their sins and supplicate in the Mincha prayer, the afternoon prayer. Hence, the phrase, "The lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice."

And so, we arrive at Daniel 9:21, where Daniel says, "While I was still speaking in prayer, the man Gabriel, whom I had seen in the vision…" When does this happen? At the time of the Mincha prayer.

So, what does it all mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that even when we feel alone, unheard, or unworthy, we can still turn to prayer. That our prayers, like incense, can rise up and reach the Divine. And that God, in turn, desires a relationship with us. A relationship built on mutual longing and reciprocal desire. Maybe, just maybe, that's enough to gladden the heart.