Prayer, Plastic Surgery, And The Power Of A Shaliach

By:  @premingerplasticsurgery

Before Yom Kippur, I made a visit to the Ohel, the resting place of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson. I should probably confess that I am something of a closet Lubavitcher. I grew up what I would call “Modern Orthodox,” and I am not Chabad, but I have always felt a deep connection to Chabad and to the Rebbe. As a college student, I helped found Chabad at Harvard because I recognized a need, and decades later, I remain enormously moved by what the Rebbe built and what his shluchim continue to build around the world.

There is something about Chabad that I have always admired: they know exactly who they are. They are remarkably true to their beliefs, their mission, and, to use a decidedly modern term, their “brand.” Yet, that certainty rarely seems to require that someone else be exactly like them in order to be welcomed. Walk into a Chabad house almost anywhere in the world and the question is generally not how observant you are, what kind of Jew you are, or whether you belong there. You are Jewish, so come in. That combination of being unwavering in their own identity while making room for someone else’s has always struck me as rather extraordinary.

So perhaps it isn’t surprising that before Yom Kippur I found myself praying at the Ohel. On a piece of paper, I scribbled prayers for my family and friends, for health, for happiness, for a more peaceful world, for things I hope will happen this year and, undoubtedly, for a few things I hope will not.

Apparently, I was in good company. The next day, NYPD Commissioner Jessica Tisch came to the Ohel as well, to write her own note and offer her own prayers. I loved seeing that. I cannot deny that I am a fan of hers, so this only further endeared her to me. Here was one of the most powerful public officials in New York City, someone whose professional life revolves around leadership, decisions, and responsibility, arriving at the same place the rest of us do with a piece of paper, private hopes, and the recognition that there are things bigger than ourselves. Perhaps that is part of the extraordinary reach of the Rebbe’s legacy. You don’t have to fit neatly into a particular box to feel that there is a place for you there.

Before Yom Kippur, both Commissioner Tisch and I recognized the importance of pausing to reflect and make requests from Hashem with a little help from one of his messengers (I would also note that we both came adorned with similar head scarves!). But in the days since Yom Kippur, I have found myself thinking less about what I asked for and more about a different question: What are we really asking for when we pray?

It is a question that, surprisingly, reminds me of my work. Patients generally arrive in a plastic surgeon’s office with a very specific request. Make this smaller. Lift this. Smooth that. Restore what pregnancy changed. Give me back the face I remember seeing in the mirror. But one of the most important parts of my job is figuring out whether what a patient is asking for is actually what she needs and whether what the patient is asking for is actually going to fix their problem. A patient may come in convinced that filler will do the trick when what she needs is really a facelift to address what is bothering her. Someone may ask for liposuction when removing skin is actually the answer. Another may focus on one feature, when after talking for a while, she realizes that what she is really trying to accomplish is something different entirely. Patients know how they want to feel and what they hope to see. They don’t necessarily need to know what procedure will get them there. That’s my job. It requires listening not only to the request, but to the intention behind it.

Perhaps prayer isn’t so different. We come to Hashem with very specific requests. We want this opportunity, this outcome. We want something to happen in exactly the way we have imagined it. But perhaps, like the patient who walks into my office asking for a particular operation, we are describing the solution as we understand it rather than the underlying need. What we are really saying may be: Please give me peace. Please help me make the right decision. Please let the people I love feel loved. Please give me the strength for whatever comes next. We know what we want. Hashem knows what we need.

That thought stayed with me as I considered why I had gone to the Ohel in the first place. As surgeons, we spend years learning how to operate. We study anatomy, develop judgment, and train our hands until movements that once required enormous concentration and intention become almost instinctive. In the operating room, I am the one holding the instruments. I make the decisions and execute the operation. And yet, as a person of faith, I don’t believe that makes me the ultimate source of healing.

There is a Hebrew concept that has always resonated with me (and, not coincidentally, it is the very term that Chabad uses): shaliach, a messenger or agent. A physician can use every bit of knowledge, experience, and skill she has been given while recognizing that those gifts themselves come from Hashem. I can provide direction, choose the operation, and execute it to the best of my ability. But there is a power beyond my own hands that determines so much of what follows. And shlichus, of course, is at the very heart of what the Rebbe created. He sent people everywhere, not simply to teach, but to serve. A shaliach might be in Manhattan, at Harvard, in Israel, or in some remote corner of the world, but the mission remains remarkably consistent: find another Jew, meet that person where he or she is, and help however you can.

Perhaps that was part of what drew me to the Ohel before Yom Kippur.

We do not pray to the Rebbe. We pray to Hashem. But there is something profoundly meaningful about bringing our requests to the resting place of a tzaddik and asking that those prayers be carried upward, that the Rebbe serve as a shaliach for the things we sometimes struggle even to articulate ourselves. In that sense, perhaps the surgeon and the Rebbe occupy very different versions of a similar space. Neither is the source of the blessing. Each, in an entirely different way, can serve as a conduit. Perhaps that is also why it is ok that we don’t always know exactly what to ask for.

My patients don’t need to arrive in my office knowing the right operation. They need to tell me what is bothering them, what they hope to change, and how they hope to feel. Then they have to trust me to help determine the right path.

Maybe there is something to learn from that in prayer as well. We can arrive with our lists. We can write our notes. We can ask fervently for the things we believe will make everything right. But perhaps the deeper prayer is not simply, “Please give me this.” It is also, “Please guide me toward what I truly need.”

In my operating room, I will continue to plan carefully, provide direction, and use my hands to the very best of my ability. At the Ohel, I will continue to bring my prayers. They may seem like completely different acts. But perhaps both contain the same quiet acknowledgment that we are expected to use the tools we have been given, to ask, and then to trust that there may be a wisdom greater than our own about the path that gets us to where we need to go, in the operating room, and the world beyond. 

At Preminger Plastic Surgery, we are committed to educating our patients and providing personalized care tailored to their unique needs. For those considering plastic surgery, we offer guidance every step of the way to help you achieve your aesthetic and wellness goals. Dr. Preminger is a board-certified plastic surgeon with degrees from Harvard, Cornell, and Columbia.

For more information or to schedule a consultation, please visit premingermd.com or call 212-706-1900. Follow us on Instagram @premingerplasticsurgery.