This week’s Torah portion, Shlach, tells the story of 12 men sent to scout the Promised Land. They’re leaders, chosen for their strength, wisdom and judgment. But when they return, 10 of them are overwhelmed. They say, “We looked like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so we appeared to [the land’s inhabitants].” Their fear spreads like wildfire, and an entire generation is thrown into crisis.

Those 10 men weren’t evil. They were afraid. More than that, they didn’t support each other in the moment that mattered. They didn’t hold each other up. They didn’t remind each other of their strength (nor of God’s promise to ensure their success). They didn’t form a minyan.

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You’ve probably heard the word minyan used to describe the 10 people needed for a traditional prayer service. But I want to invite you to think about it differently — not as a religious obligation, but as a relational opportunity.

What if a minyan was 10 men who show up, not for performance or perfection, but for presence? What if it was a space where you could be honest, even raw, about what you’re carrying? What if it wasn’t about prayer at all, but about truth-telling, friendship and emotional courage?

Because here’s the truth: many of us are wandering our own wilderness.

According to a 2021 report by the Survey Center on American Life, friendship among American men has been declining steadily for decades, with 15% of men saying they have no close friends at all — a fivefold increase since 1990. The U.S. Surgeon General’s 2023 Advisory on the Healing Effects of Social Connection named loneliness as one of the most serious public health threats of our time. Loneliness doesn’t discriminate by gender, but men are statistically less likely to seek help or even admit they are struggling.

You might be navigating work stress, health struggles, a complicated marriage, a distant relationship with your kids or just a lingering sense that something’s missing. You might not have the space — or the people — to talk about any of it. You might not even know how.

A modern minyan can be the circle where you find your footing again. Where you can say out loud the things you’ve kept inside. Where you don’t have to prove anything. You just have to show up.

The Talmud (Berakhot 31b) tells a story about Hannah and one of the earliest models of what we now call prayer. The rabbis explore the verse: “And Hannah spoke on her heart.” Why on her heart and not to it? Rabbi Elazar teaches that she was speaking from the most vulnerable place in herself: “Master of the Universe, of all the organs You created in a woman, You have not created one in vain — eyes to see, ears to hear, a nose to smell, a mouth to speak, hands with which to perform labor, feet with which to walk, breasts with which to nurse. If so, these breasts that You placed upon my heart, to what purpose did You place them? Was it not in order to nurse with them? Grant me a son and I will nurse with them.”

Granted, these were male rabbis imagining what a woman would say in this circumstance; but the prayer itself is relatable to all. It’s human. It’s messy. It’s real.

That’s the kind of expression we as men need to reclaim. You don’t have to stand on a bimah to speak from your heart. You can say: 

I’m overwhelmed by all the antisemitism and scared for my kids. 

I’m lonely in my marriage. 

I feel like I’m failing at home. 

Or even: 

Without my job I have no idea who I am anymore.

Those aren’t weaknesses. They are truths. And naming them is the first step toward strength.

A minyan isn’t about status or performance. It’s not about who knows the most or appears the most put together. It’s a space where you are safe to be who you really are. And if you’re reading this with the knowledge that your wife, partner, or family may see it, know this: they want that space for you too. They want you to feel supported. To feel connected. To grow in a way that makes you more yourself — not less.

Even the number 10 holds deep meaning. In Genesis, Abraham bargains with God to spare Sodom and Gomorrah. He starts at 50 and works his way down. God agrees: If there are 10 righteous people, the city will be spared. Ten grounded people could have saved an entire city — and as Parshat Shlach shows us, 10 fearful people could delay a nation’s destiny.

So ask yourself: Who are your 10? Who are the men in your life who don’t just laugh with you, but would sit with you in the hard stuff?

If you don’t have that yet, it’s OK. You can start with one. A friend. A brother. A father. A neighbor. You can create the space to share honestly and with raw emotion that you’ve been looking for.

C.S. Lewis once warned about the dangers of “the inner ring” — those social circles we’re desperate to be part of, even if they cost us our integrity and/or the dignity of others. But a minyan should be the opposite. Not exclusive, not ego-driven. Just real. It’s not about being in. It’s about being here.

So I invite you: Create the time and space for a weekly minyan with other men you trust, and show up. Show up with your full self, not the curated version. Not the successful version. The human one. The one who’s tired, proud, confused, strong, afraid, grateful, searching. All of it.

This is the new definition of a minyan: 10 men who choose presence over performance. Truth over silence. Courage over image.

And maybe, just maybe, that starts with you.

Rabbi Noam Raucher is the executive director of the Federation of Jewish Men’s Clubs, where he creates sacred pluralistic spaces for men to grow, connect and live with greater purpose and integrity.