I look for change. Again.

What can I do that I haven’t already tried?

I’ve got it — I’ll start saying Perek Shirah daily! Or maybe that new segulah tefillah on bitachon my friend posted that’s going frum viral. Or maybe...

Wait a minute. What about the dozens of brachos I recite daily? Do I ever truly think about them?

Maybe instead of accepting something new, I’ll try to work on some of the things I already do.

 Listen to a story.

I was asked to perform a bris milah for a new baby boy born to a not-so-Jewish-looking couple. Upon investigation, I was informed that the mother had converted to Judaism about a year prior to the baby’s birth, and that it had been conducted by a certain rabbi known to allow conversions solely for the purpose of marriage.

In addition, this couple was not known to keep mitzvos, and they revealed in casual conversation that they did not keep Shabbos, and never had in their marriage. Thus, the conversion was suspect.

This presented me with a halachic quandary. Was I allowed to perform the bris? If I was, was I allowed to say a brachah on the milah?

I called a posek, and he told me I was permitted to do the bris. He explained that the mother’s conversion was indeed questionable, and thus, the baby was not definitely Jewish. Therefore I should perform the bris with the following condition in mind: If the baby is Jewish, his bris milah fulfills the mitzvah. And if the baby is not Jewish, the act of circumcision I would be performing should serve as the first step in a complete conversion for this baby later on, if he ever becomes interested in halachah.

I still had a question about the brachos. I felt if I didn’t say the brachos, it would publicly embarrass the rabbi who had performed the conversion; he was going to attend the bris.

In response, the posek gave me an idea that reflects the sad state of how brachos are treated these days.

He told me to fake saying the brachos. How would I do that? He told me to say it this way: “Bruch, tah, noy, heinu, melech ha’olam...” That way, everyone would think I said the brachah properly, even though I did not.

Indeed, this is what I did, and no one questioned it. (Of course, no one should derive any psak halachah from my story — this is what I was told in my situation.)

The fact that I was able to pull this off got me thinking. How often do we mumble our brachos or say them “faster than a speeding bullet”? Is that how do we do it when we get an aliyah to the Torah? Why can’t we try to always say our brachos that way — with proper enunciation?

When we’re saying our brachos, do we stop and think about what we’re saying, what we’re thanking Hashem for? Are they expressions of our wanting to passionately grow closer to Him? Do we realize the power of saying a brachah?

Listen to another story.

Rav Gamliel Rabinowitz (Tiv Meiron, pgs. 29-30) tells of a man who was searching. For his entire life, he’d been longing for that elusive avodah, that special area of service and toil, that tikkun, some unique rectification for the world that he might offer to Hashem Yisbarach.

And then it happened. One morning, right after Shacharis, his rebbe called him over.

“I need you to come over to my house later this afternoon,” his rebbe said. “I have a tremendous job for you. It is something that will be mesakein the entire world. Yes, it’s a big tikkun, and only you can do it. Please come over my house at 2 p.m. and I’ll tell you everything.”

Trying to go about his day was no easy feat. The chassid kept checking his watch every ten minutes. He decided to go to the mikveh at noon and spend the rest of the time before 2 p.m. reciting Tehillim, purifying his mind and heart to make him mentally and spiritually ready for his tikkun.

When the chassid came at the appointed time, the Rebbe opened the door immediately, with anticipation and cheer on his face.

“I am so thrilled,” the rebbe said. “Now, let me tell you what you are about to do. You are about to do something the world has never seen, nor will it see ever again. You will perform a very important action that will bring tikkun to yourself and to the entire world. Only once in 6,000 years is there an opportunity for such a great tikkun. I am imploring you to do this action with all the purity of your thoughts and all of your strength. Please do not waste the moment. The time is now and only now. Are you ready?”

“Yes, I feel as prepared as I can ever be,” the chassid replied.

The rebbe left the room and the chassid’s heart was pounding. He closed his eyes and whispered a silent tefillah to Hashem Yisbarach to be with him and help him achieve the tikkun.

Two minutes went by until the rebbe reappeared holding a plate of cut-up apples.

“My dear chassid, the time has come,” the rebbe pleaded. “Please take your tikkun very seriously. Please make a brachah on the apple with pure, simple kavanah and attention. The holiness you can uncover with a perfectly recited blessing cannot be done by anyone else but you. No one else will ever eat this particular apple, at this particular time. Only you can bring out the sparks of holiness that exist in this physical item. Do it for your own tikkun and for all of Klal Yisrael!”

 What this story illustrates is that with every single brachah we make throughout the day, we have the same opportunity that the rebbe is presenting to the chassid.

How do you imagine the chassid said the brachah in the story? How can we capture the beauty of brachos and make them what they are supposed to be? There is really only one possibility. We need to say them more slowly and truly pay attention to the words. We can’t allow our voices, mouths, and lips to work on autopilot.

Do we rattle off our brachos as a matter of rote? Can we try to say some of them — at least one daily — slowly, clearly, with kavanah? Maybe even with a niggun, when possible, like we do at Kiddush or for hamotzi? Is the shehakol on your coffee any less important?

The Yanuka, Rav Shlomo Yehuda Be’eri, recently quoted Rav Chaim Vital as saying that his teacher, the Arizal, was particularly careful in making brachos, especially those on food. This avodah was one of the keys to his greatness.

In Elul, we all try to change ourselves. But change does not necessarily have to mean accepting a brand-new mitzvah. We already perform so many mitzvos daily, but perhaps we don’t fulfill them the way we should.

With but a few seconds of mindfulness, our daily routine brachos can be totally transformed. If we would just…

say

them

slowly.