When we ask G-d for a good year, we call Him “Our Father” (Avinu) and “Our King” (Malkeinu)—because love draws us close, but reverence keeps us going.
The Prayer That Brought Rain
In Israel, water shortages have almost always been a reality, and throughout history, droughts were a serious threat. The Talmud tells many stories of sages coming together to pray for rain. One story (Talmud, Taanit 25b) relates: “It happened that Rabbi Eliezer went before the prayer stand and recited twenty-four blessings, but was not answered.” Still, no rain fell. “Then Rabbi Akiva stepped up after him and said: ‘Our Father, our King, we have no King but You. Our Father, our King, for Your sake, have mercy on us!’ And rain immediately fell.”
When the rabbis saw how powerful the “Avinu Malkeinu” prayer was, they added more requests to it and instituted its recitation during the days of Selichot, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur.
This raises a question: What is the secret of this prayer? Why did this specific prayer succeed in unlocking the heavens when other prayers failed? What is special about this combination that achieves what other prayers could not?
When a Father Helps
Years ago, an Israeli film came out called Ushpizin—an Aramaic word meaning “guests.” It tells the story of a newly observant couple, Moshe and Malli Belanga, living in deep poverty in an Orthodox neighborhood in Jerusalem. Above all, they carry the deep pain of not having children.
On the eve of Sukkot, Moshe returns home from his study hall—where he was hoping to receive a stipend—empty-handed. There’s nothing in the house. The fridge is bare. They have no Sukkah, no etrog, and nothing prepared for the holiday. Sitting dejectedly at home, his wife suddenly turns to him and says, “Go pray! You obviously haven’t prayed enough! That’s why we don’t have a blessing.” Any other wife might have yelled, “Go get a job!” But she tells her husband, “Go pray.”
Desperate, he leaves the house and runs off to pray. Where does a person usually go to pray? To a synagogue. But Moshe, who spends all day in the synagogue, chooses to pray out in nature among the trees, where he can be alone. And instead of reading out of a prayerbook, he has a direct, personal conversation with the Creator. He pours his heart out about his troubles, and even more so about his wife’s suffering—asking why she should have to suffer like this. He gets lost in emotion and asks for a miracle. He won’t settle for anything less.
At that exact moment, someone from a Jerusalem charity organization slides an envelope containing one thousand shekels under their door.
When Moshe returns home, his wife hands him the envelope. Overjoyed, he feels that G-d heard his prayer and answered him. Now, what does someone with no food in the house do when they suddenly get money? They run to buy food.
But Moshe does something different. First, he runs to give tithes—ten percent to charity. Next, he buys a beautiful, expensive etrog for the holiday, and then food for the home. But then he buys one more essential thing. According to Jewish law, a husband should buy his wife clothing or jewelry for the holiday to bring her joy. So Moshe buys his wife a pair of earrings. Meanwhile, someone lends them a Sukkah, and things start coming together. They have a holiday after all!
The Guests and the Blessing
On the first night of the holiday, two unexpected guests show up. They are old friends from Moshe’s past before he became observant. They are looking for a place to stay for the holiday. Later, it turns out they are ex-convicts who escaped from prison and are hiding from the police.
Moshe and Malli welcome them with open arms—not just because Sukkot is the holiday of hospitality (ushpizin), but also because, as taught in the name of the Baal Shem Tov, hosting guests is a spiritual virtue for merit to have children. Desperate to start a family, they see this as their chance to fulfill the mitzvah, even with guests who are far from easy to host.
As it turns out, these guests cause them immense grief and humiliation in the neighborhood, to the point where Malli leaves the house in tears, leaving Moshe alone with these two shady characters. Things reach a breaking point when, while Moshe is out, the guests decide to make a salad and look for a lemon to squeeze. When Moshe gets back, he discovers they squeezed his precious etrog into the salad!
Feeling completely broken, he runs out of the house and once again has a raw, personal conversation with G-d, asking why He is putting him through such painful trials. The movie ends with Malli returning home to share the wonderful news that she is pregnant.
This is a story of “Avinu”—”Our Father.” It represents a relationship where a person relates to G-d like a child to a father. He prays straight from the heart, and his request is answered. He doesn’t look for a formal structure; he talks directly to G-d. And when that connection works, it’s deeply meaningful.
Now You Show Up?!
But there is also a dimension where G-d is “Malkeinu”—”Our King.”
There is a story recorded in the prayerbook about Rabbi Aaron of Karlin. Once, as he stepped up to lead the prayers on Rosh Hashanah, he began with the word “HaMelech” (“The King”) and suddenly fainted. When he revived, his students asked what frightened him so much. He explained that he remembered a story from the Talmud.
During the destruction of the Second Temple, while Jerusalem was under siege by the Romans, two groups existed within the city. One advocated fighting to the death, while the other, led by Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai (the head of the Sanhedrin), believed they should surrender. But the zealots locked the city gates and refused to let anyone leave.
Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai announced that he was ill, and soon after, news spread that he had passed away. Since bodies were not buried inside Jerusalem, the gates had to be opened to carry the body outside. Two of his disciples carried his coffin out of the city, where the “deceased” rabbi stepped out alive and went to meet the Roman general, Vespasian.
When Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai approached him, he greeted him saying, “Peace unto you, O King!” Vespasian replied, “If I am the king, why didn’t you come to me until now?”
Rabbi Aaron of Karlin concluded: “When I stood before the congregation to declare G-d as ‘The King,’ I suddenly remembered that story, and I felt G-d asking me: ‘If I am your King, where have you been until now?'”
Love Isn’t Enough
With a father, the relationship is built on emotion—there is love between parent and child. With a king, the relationship is built on authority and duty; the king issues commands, and the subjects carry them out. With G-d, in addition to being His children and seeing Him as our Father, He is also our King. In every blessing we say: “Blessed are You… King of the universe.” G-d is the Commander. He gives us instructions and mitzvot (commandments), and by fulfilling His will, we connect with Him.
“Father” represents love; “King” represents reverence and awe.
We see this reflected, for instance, at the beginning of the silent prayer (Amidah). We take three steps back and then step forward, like someone walking into a king’s inner chamber for a private audience. We stand before the King with deep reverence, offering our prayers quietly without shouting or demanding. There is a specific protocol for how to open and close the audience, though in the middle we can humbly express our personal requests. This is a completely different kind of relationship.
Why do we need the “King” dimension? Why isn’t “Father” enough? Simply put, why isn’t it enough to just love G-d—why do we also need reverence?
The Rebbe explains (see Torat Menachem, vol. 7, p. 70 ff.) that commandments fall into two categories. Some make intuitive sense—like honoring parents, visiting the sick, or giving charity. Others do not offer obvious human logic—like circumcision (brit milah) or keeping kosher (separating milk and meat). A child who loves his father will do anything logical for him. But if the father asks for something that seems to lack any human logic, love alone might not be enough to motivate him to do it.
That’s why we need the “King” dimension. When a king commands, you don’t question the logic. When a military commander gives an order, soldiers execute it immediately without debate.
Therefore, for a Jew to fulfill the entire Torah, love alone is not sufficient. There will inevitably be moments and commandments that transcend human understanding. In those moments, reverence for G-d is required. We must remember that G-d is the King—and when the King commands, we obey.
“Avinu Malkeinu”—Our Father, Our King—is the winning combination. We turn to G-d with love, but with deep respect. We entreat Him, but we do not demand. And we declare that whether we understand His ways or not, “We have no King but You.”
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