Why You Should Never Be Satisfied

I've noticed that people often defend their frumkeit by claiming that observance has rendered them immune to many of the problems that face secular society. They point to the worldwide epidemic of emptiness and dissatisfaction and sigh, "If only they knew the Truth, they would feel whole and content and not go on these reckless searches for fulfillment. Judaism fills the void."

They couldn't be any more wrong.

Because if you are a truly pious person, you are never satisfied.

The more you learn about G-d, the more you realize you can never know Him. The more you appreciate G-d's infinity, the more sharply you are confronted by your finitude. The more knowledge you acquire, the more nuanced and complex your questions become.

The hole just grows bigger.

So don't think becoming religious is going to solve all your problems and allow you to sleep soundly at night. 

You're going to be more dissatisfied than ever before.

What's different is that this time, you won't be tormented by that feeling.
You'll fall in love with it.

Your doubts will energize you, your fears will drive you forward. The crazy notion of infinity that used to jolt your nervous system like nails on a chalkboard will now be your greatest comfort. When you study that discourse about the most hidden parts of G-d that He shows no one, you'll be smiling.

Your deepest pleasure will come not from the answers you find, but the mystery that remains.

The Agony of (Non-)Existence

A few days ago, I stumbled across a beautiful article about the necessity of questioning your own existence. The author suggests that by doing so, we can free ourselves of emotional self-absorption and create space for G-d in our lives.

The article was moving, eloquent, and most importantly- true. But I couldn't totally relate to it. I don't always feel like I really exist. And I imagine that a lot of people feel the same way.

Let me explain. See, life has always felt a little alien. Contrived. An image superimposed on some other, truer reality. Like a shadow puppet performance against the backdrop of a lush, red curtain. What's behind the curtain? What goes on before the play? After? There is so much unseen, so much that no one knows and no one cares to talk about.

By the end of the show, everyone is bawling. Or rolling on the floor, laughing in hysterics. It dawns on me that maybe my emotions themselves are actors in the performance. They certainly don't feel real. After all, I can provide them with a new script and they reorient themselves at the discretion of my intellect.

The visceral feeling of existence should be enough to prove existence. But what if it's not? What if your problem is not that you are blinded by your own existence, but instead blinded by the fact that you know your existence isn't real? What if you live your life glazed over with apathy and uncertainty, incapable of committing yourself to anything? What do you do if you desperately want to feel that your existence is absolute just so you can be certain about something?

You might try to jolt yourself into awakeness through the euphoric experience of studying philosophy or listening to music. Or maybe, believing you'll never truly feel "alive," you surrender to the non-existence waiting for you with open arms where the sidewalk ends. You may find meaning in detachment, turning to a life of contemplation and detective work.

People tell you that by engaging in the world, by affecting it through action, you will become aware of the significance of your life. Transform yourself from the outside in. You'll start to care about your existence, because you realize you have a responsibility to G-d. Only through embracing your temporary, perceived existence can you reveal the scope of G-d's actual existence. So, just do what you're supposed to do and everything will be fine.

Wise words. But for those who can't get a grip on the fact that everything "contrived" is contrived with G-dly intention and therefore truth also lies within physicality and subjectivity, action is much more difficult than it sounds.

I don't have an answer to this dilemma. What I do have is a description of a phenomenon that I've observed in myself and in other people. In my opinion, people tend to possess one of two existential orientations, meaning that they relate in different ways to the notion of existence. This relationship affects behavioral and coping patterns as well as perception of G-d. I'll call the first perceptual orientation "quasi-existence," and its mirror-image counterpart "invested existence." The point of providing these descriptions is not to put people in boxes- these categories are general trends that I've observed and are by no means absolute nor comprehensive. It's more to give a language to a pre-existing experience and allot people a sharper awareness of how it affects them so they can ultimately overcome their "box." Here is a rough overview of my theory:

A Portrait of Moshiach, Pre-Revelation

This piece is what resulted when I tried to put myself inside the mind of Moshiach. As absurd as that may sound, that's where my imagination led me, so I just went with it. I admit that I felt like I was doing a "bad" thing by writing a "first-person" account. I felt like it wasn't my place (or anyone's, for that matter) to attempt to represent Moshiach from the inside out, when really we know nothing about him. It's impossible for me to look through his eyes, when he sees only G-d and I see everything but G-d. I'm afraid my portrayal will be a terrible insult to him. Maybe I'm portraying him as too human? Not human enough?

No one can really answer that. We can only wonder and dream and yearn without bounds. In the end I decided it would be good to post this, because the more we think about his arrival, the more real the redemption will become. 

***

I arrived yesterday.

Never before have I felt so drawn to a place, as though I lived here in another time. The texture of this life feels...familiar. I'm so far from home, and yet the light shines just the same here. If I didn't know any better, I'd think I never descended from my lofty abode at all. But here I am, a pint-sized messenger of the One above, cleverly fitted with sneakers and a toothy grin.

Life is difficult for people here. Everyone groans, "Oyy, nebach. Look at this fleshy existence, this barren desert. How repulsive to G-d we must be, in this dysfunctional cocoon of a body that is supposed to sprout wings. But they are mere stubs- pathetic little knobby things that only weigh us down. When will we see the sky?"

I'm absolved of my own struggles, but I take on theirs. I feel their sadness, their hunger. Others drag their feet in servitude to their apathy. A narrow beam of light trickles through their gritted teeth. Its rays overcome my senses like a headlight in a dust storm, yet they are numb to its heat. As their souls croon sweet melodies, the prayers of their lips remain embittered.

There is a purity within each person, a simplicity stowed away in a dark place inside. An infinite potential. But they are blinded by a simulated existence, confined by finitude. They have no idea who they really are.

That's why I'm here, I suppose. I'm here to irrigate the world with G-dly vision; to help water their wings. To bridge the gap between potential and reality, desire and fulfillment.

But it's not time yet.

I live among them, waiting. Working. In fact, you and I spoke yesterday.

We were in the library, swapping thoughts for a bit. You preached about Moshiach a lot. I couldn't really agree or disagree, I just nodded softly. Then you curled up with one of those mystical books, fiercely attempting to understand its content.

My gaze drifted to the hardwood floor, studying its current, humbled by the life force within it. I am fully conscious of the compressed Divine light all around us, beneath us, inside us. Why, though? Who am I to see G-d in things so far from His essence?

Why not you?

I feel your eyes lift in my direction. You mumble something, but the words fall dead and flat on your lips. You don't believe what you say. "May we one day consciously experience true revealed Godliness at every moment, in tables and chairs and heavens and musty boxes in the attic."

I respond "Amen." Truly.

You read aloud some more, but it is garbled. As I retreat back into my shadowy mind, your voice is reduced to an empty ring in the distance.

If only you knew the weight of your words.

Why I Want You to Argue With Me

"What is up with this Chabad business?"

It's the question everyone is dying to ask me: Wasn't I content with "normal" Orthodoxy? Wasn't I fulfilled by what the community had to offer? If I was looking for something else, did I really have to choose Chabad?

And I would love to tell them about my journey. But they keep their mouths shut, tiptoeing around our differences. Afraid of our differences.

They are incredibly polite. Perfect diplomats, they are. But it's all fake. Because they're only willing to receive and acknowledge the part of me that makes them feel comfortable. Our connection never breaches the external layer.

Imagine if we relied on this approach to build a relationship with the Almighty. I'll let you into my life, G-d. Maybe I'll do some mitzvos. But...I don't really like your views, so let's just make small talk, okay?

That is no relationship! That is neither an expression of unity nor commitment.

G-d chose us as His own, with full awareness that we're lightyears different from Him! He knew we'd butt heads with Him once in a while, that we'd forget Him, and that we'd be confused about our relationship with Him. But He wants us- He wants every part of us. Differences are inconsequential. At the end of the day, we are one.

Likewise, we are one people. One singular entity with its source in the Almighty. No matter how different we may seem on the outside, no disagreement can threaten that essential unity. 

The fact that you don't want to challenge me makes me suspect you don't really believe we're one. You don't believe our relationship is unshakeable. Brothers and sisters bicker with each other because they are siblings. Because they know that will never change. We need to start acting like a family!

What I want to see among Jewish communities is that we try to receive each other completely, in all of our conflicting perspectives and feelings. Rebuilding the Beis HaMikdash isn't just about expelling lashon hara from our lives. It's about appreciating one another for who we are- not just who we pretend to be to keep the peace.

So please- let loose. Criticize me and lecture me about my hashkafic leanings all you want. At least you'd be yelling at the real me.

After all, we can't even begin to appreciate each other if we don't really know each other.

The Flaw in Perfection

Nobody ever wants to read my writing.

Not because it's boring, or poorly structured, or lacking in decent vocabulary. To my knowledge, my writing is not deficient in any of these areas.

Rather, the problem is one of abundance.

See, any time I get an idea, I develop it to the fullest extent possible. That's just my nature. I'm a perfectionist. If I'm discussing a particular concept that I realize contains a parallel to another concept, I don't view that relationship as merely a "fun fact" or the cherry on top of the sundae. The way concepts relate to each other is reflective of an innate quality in each individal concept. Only after a meticulous exploration of that relationship do I feel I understand the concept itself.

As a result, my writing goes on forever. And then when you think "forever" has ended its term, it keeps going. 

I feel strongly that my outward expression should match my inward process. Therefore, my essays are equally as thorough as my contemplation of a subject. If I held back for the sake of brevity, I would feel "bad" for all those unacknowledged dimensions of the concept. They trusted me. They allowed me to know them. The least I could do is give them some credit. Set them free. Instead, I exploited their vulnerability for the sake of building up my own understanding. I would now wrap them up and let them decay somewhere inside the folds of my brain. How could I be so heartless?

Well, if that's heartless, then G-d is a downright sociopath.

Think about it: He's the biggest knowledge hoarder on the planet.

His wisdom spans for infinity, but He keeps it locked away. His insides don't match His appearance. He struts around in this ridiculous costume of nature, playing a childish game of hide-and-go seek when we know He's so much more than that!!

So we get frustrated and we yell at Him because He's keeping us in the dark. 

But really, He's doing us a favor.

He's allowing us to internalize G-dliness in a digestible dosage. He's ensuring that we continue to exist, that our souls don't catapult out of our bodies.

In a way, expressing Himself completely would be a million times more selfish than holding Himself back. It would knock us out of the picture in an instant. G-d's entire purpose would be to flaunt Himself, basking in His glory to generate His own feelings of self-actualization. But no one would be there to receive what He has to give.

Limiting Himself is what allows G-d to give to us. To share. To grant us the opportunity to take part in His wisdom (allbeit it only a fraction of its true scope) and use it to elevate our surroundings.

So I guess if I want to make any impact at all, I have to hold myself back. If I'm going to have compassion, it should be directed toward humanity rather than ideas. If all I want to do is experience the satisfaction of expressing myself, fine. I can keep writing each blog entry as though it were a thesis.

If you've read this far, I guess that means I've already made some progress.

An Ode to Chassidus

Yes, I am a nerdy BT who wrote a love poem to Chassidus. A passionate one.
I really wasn't sure if I wanted to post this. I feel like it exposes my insides and my weirdness more than I would like. But on the offchance that somebody can appreciate this and relate to it, here it is:

You zoom in on
something
that wavers on the edge of my
consciousness,
then you stretch it out like silly putty to examine every nuance, every crevice.
You give a voice
to all my unarticulated impressions about reality,
about myself,
about my soul.
Things I knew on a certain level, but never
understood.

You make me feel like
My reality
and G-d's reality
aren't so incompatible.
For the first time,
I feel like He gets me.

And then I feel all warm and fuzzy and
chummy
with G-d.
Like,
"What?
G-d chose to design reality like this?
But that was my idea!"
And I know the cosmic bond between Him and me is more than just a
concept.

Then you zoom out.
You remind me that my intellect
is an illusion,
My understanding a soggy dream,
entirely insignificant
in light of the One True
Significance.

This love poem doesn't exist.

Is this love even real?
Or was it born
From the kelipos?
Do I adore you so
Only because
I crave the sensation of neurons firing,
Concepts solidifying?

Without you,
Falsehood would reign within me.
With you,
It still does.
But at least Truth now keeps it company.
Because you dug it out of its hiding place inside me.

Even if my love isn't real,
At least you gave me something real to love.

Thank you.

Shlichus by Diffusion

I used to love being a Shabbos guest.

Who doesn't love being served a delicious home-made meal on a little island called "Shabbos" where all weekday stressors dissolve? When I first became observant, Shabbos was more about absorbing the benefits of the environment than it was about helping to create the environment. I just showed up, smiled politely, and made sure to express gratitude to my host.

Then, I went to seminary. For the first time, I wasn't a guest. I was a member. Each girl made the atmosphere by contributing with her unique qualities. We weren't taking anything- we were only giving and receiving. In my mind, that's how it should be. So when the semester ended, I returned home with a resolution. I was going to be more active, more influential. More vocal. Because I knew I had things to share- seminary helped me realize that. The validation, encouragement, and endless compliments I received from my peers regarding my writing and speaking abilities made it clear that I needed to stop being passive. I needed to use my talents to contribute to and elevate my surroundings.

But what I found in the community at home was a bit...disheartening. People weren't all that receptive to what I had to contribute. They just wanted to be my Shluchim, and I was just expected to blend in. To be a guest. They were the givers, I was the taker. And as much as I tried to break out of that mold, I felt like everyone kept forcing me back into it.

My neutral exterior would never have given away what I was feeling on the inside: Internally, I was stamping my feet on the hardwood floor and wildly waving my arms over my head, screaming, "Look! Look what I have to offer you!" I imagined that my hostess would glide across the room and plop a piece of potato kugel on my plate, her face an expressionless mask. "But look at what I have for you," she cooed. In my mind, an unspoken war was rippling between me and my shabbos hosts.

One week, I was granted refuge from my usual Shabbos routine. I caught a train out of Chicago to meet my family. We were vacationing in Door County, a sparsely populated haven of forests nestled on the shore of Wisconsin's peninsula. Around mincha time on Shabbos day, my family took a dinner reservation, whereupon I was left alone in the cabin. Naturally, I made a beeline for the rooftop porch. I spread out a blanket, read my Tehillim and hummed niggunim to a delighted audience of oak trees. I kind of felt like I was in a Baal Shem Tov story: Inhaling the fresh forest air, humbled by the dense silence of the woods. 

I've always possessed a childlike love for nature. Combine that with a cup of solitude, and you've got my ideal Shabbos afternoon. There is something magical about the forest. You can almost feel G-d's breath churning within the trees, His smile warming them into existence. He stretches His arm into their frail branches as if they were gloves. With a surge of G-dly energy and assurance, they grasp for the sky.

photo credit: smithsart.com

Nature is so uncontrived, so unassuming. It speaks only through being. It doesn't impose itself- it has no self. It's just a conveyor for G-dliness. It just is. We're always taught to contemplate nature, in all of its minute details, to arrive at an appreciation of G-d's oneness. But I feel like I don't even have to contemplate. I just feel G-d by diffusion. Just being in the presence of an existence that doesn't think it has an existence is more powerful than any mental contemplation I could do.

That's when I realized that the trees unknowingly personified the answer to my frustration.

Nature has tremendous power over the human psyche. It changes people- You retreat into the forest and come out with a whole new perspective. And yet- nature does nothing. Trees don't thresh their branches around and make a bunch of noise to get someone's attention. And that's precisely what makes them so effective and so magnetic. Nature just embodies the will of its creator. That's the most contagious quality imaginable. 

This is the level of essence. Of humility. It's what we all need to strive for. We're all just guests at G-d's table, endowed with a beautiful mission that we didn't do anything to deserve. Don't focus on the fact that YOU have something to share. First of all, we're not that great. Second, fixation on the self and its actualization distracts from the actualization of G-d's will. Instead, focus on WHAT you have to share and WHY it's important. 

Finally, to be a shliach or shlucha not only means to educate others explicitly, but to influence by diffusion: If your perspective is a G-dly one, it will transmit a clear message to those around you- even as you sit and enjoy your potato kugel.