The
Rabbi Midrash Archive
Jackson
Snyder Biblical Literature ArcCenter
Judaism as Spiritual Path
Vayesheiv, 5762 This week’s Torah portion,
Vayesheiv, is the beginning of the Joseph story. Joseph starts out on what
we can consider his period “in the wilderness,” separated from his home and
family. What I would like to share with you today is the story of my
return from a period of living in a “spiritual wilderness.”
I visited a synagogue exactly once in the 25 years following my Bar Mitzvah, for the wedding of a friend. In retrospect, I can say I spent a lot of time looking for God in all the wrong places…and after years of searching, did the spiritual equivalent of falling in love with the girl next door…the one who was there all the time, but I never noticed.
I am envious of those of you who grew up in observant homes, who have always had the richness of Judaism as part of your life. I had 1200 Saturdays, when I could have had 1200 Shabbats. There is no greater gift we can give our children than an appreciation for the ways in which Judaism can enrich their lives. I’m grateful that my children’s experience with Judaism will be significantly different than mine was.
My lack of attendance in shul for 25 years was not because I was terribly turned off to synagogues and Judaism. It was simply because I wasn’t turned on by my experiences in shul, and I did not find great spiritual significance in what happened in the synagogue. My synagogue experiences growing up gave me no great reason to return.
When I was in my late teenage years I started to get interested in spirituality and religion. I spent a year living in Thailand while I was in the Army, and while there I read voraciously about Buddhism; I meditated, I practiced the martial arts. It never occurred to me to explore Judaism in my search for spiritual meaning. I thought I knew what Judaism was about: there is a God who is an old man with a long white beard, who would alternately be vindictive or jealous, a very anthropomorphic figure. Such a God simply made no sense to me. Of course, such a God doesn’t make any sense to me today, either, but it took me quite a while before I learned that this picture of a cranky old man was NOT the Jewish view of God.
I am now somewhat chagrined to admit that while I was working on my PhD in business I got an A+ on a paper which boldly displayed my lack of knowledge about the religion within which I was brought up. I had a class called “The Dynamics of Contemporary American Civilization,” which was designed to get us quantitatively oriented business types to think about the role of business in society. We read social commentators like George Will, Daniel Bell and Irving Kristol (this was twenty years ago). Several of the commentators said that part of America’s problem was a decline in the Protestant work ethic. So I came up with the idea that what we needed was a new religion, one that wouldn’t conflict with what people learn in science class, and one that could appeal to everyone. The paper I wrote, with the hubris of youth, was called “Toward a New World Religion in the Next Period of History: An Initial Look at the Essential Elements.” We joked that I should get one of those wild eyed long haired guys from Market Street in San Francisco, and give him the script with the message I wanted preached.
Little did I know that all the things I called for in my paper—for example an epistemology that does not conflict with scientific knowledge—could be found in Judaism.
I always maintained some connection with Judaism—we always lit Chanuka candles, and I would usually find my way to a seder—but when I was exploring spiritual questions, Judaism was not where I was turning for answers.
I always considered myself a “spiritual seeker,” and I felt that the fact that I was seeking was perhaps more important than the answers I found (or didn’t find). Certainly back in the 70s and 80s, before the current interest in Kabbalah and Jewish Renewal, Judaism was not often seen as the place for spiritual seekers to go. It certainly wasn’t “hip.”
The story of my return to Judaism is a story that explores what the educational philosopher Ian Ramsey calls the relationship between discernment and commitment, and the story will bring us to my understanding of how Judaism works.
According to Ramsey, discernment is an experience in which there is, either as a flash or as a result of cumulative factors, a breakthrough in understanding. Discernment is that “aha” experience when you suddenly “get it,” you understand, whatever it is you have been studying. Ramsey believes that in the religious sphere, such discernments lead to commitment: perhaps you have a flash of insight and understand what kashrut is about, and you will then start keeping kosher.
In Judaism there is a debate about which comes first, discernment or commitment. On the one hand, there is a story in the Talmud, in masechet Kiddushin: R. Tarfon and the Elders were once reclining in the upper storey of Nithza's house, in Lydda, when this question was raised before them: Is study greater, or practice? R. Tarfon answered, saying: Practice is greater. R. Akiba answered, saying: Study is greater, for it leads to practice. Then they all answered and said: Study is greater, for it leads to action.
This would appear to support Ramsey’s hypothesis: study, get that experience of discernment, and then you will be inspired to action, to commitment.
On the other hand, we have an example of commitment leading to discernment in the Torah itself. After Moses came down from the mountain with the ten commandments, the people responded (Exodus 24:7) “na’aseh v’nishma,” we will obey, and we will understand. The Besht, the Ba’al Shem Tov, the founder of chasidut, interpreted this as meaning that it is through action, through doing, that we are led to understanding. The Besht turns Ramsey upside down: commitment leads to discernment.
It’s easy to see how discernment can lead to commitment. It is the expected order for most people: I have a friend who told me in essence that he would keep kosher if God told him directly—if he had a prophetic experience. Perhaps it was a challenge: provide me with the discernment, the understanding that I need, and then I’ll do it.
My path toward greater commitment has been an interactive process: some discernment led to an initial commitment, which led to greater discernment. In other words, in this debate about which comes first, understanding or commitment, both sides are right.
A couple of things happened that inspired my return to Judaism. My wife, who was not born Jewish, decided to convert. In that process, she had to read about a dozen books and meet with a rabbi once a week for nine months. It was entirely her idea, I never even suggested it. Once she got started, I figured I better read what she was reading, or I would seem pretty ignorant. For the first time, I was looking at Judaism through the eyes of an adult—and I liked what I saw.
At about the same time, a friend of mine recommended the book “The Jew and The Lotus,” which tells the story of a group of Jews, including several rabbis, who go to Dharamsala to meet with the Dalai Lama. In that book Rabbi Zalman Shacter-Shalomi provides an introduction to the ideas of Kabbalah. The concept of God as Ein Sof, without limit, representing an essential unity in the universe really resonated with me. I had no idea that such ideas were a part of Judaism.
I was able to all of a sudden see that I might be able to find a concept of God in Judaism that meshed with my understanding of how the world worked. Reading Maimonides, the Rambam, and discovering his views on God and that many things in Torah need to be understood as metaphor, was a tremendous eye opener. I was particularly impressed when I read “anyone who thinks that God is an old man with a long beard on a throne in Heaven is a FOOL!” I suddenly found that it might be possible to reconcile my rational, scientific understanding of the world with Judaism. I was inspired to study more and pretty quickly all my non-work related reading became Judaica.
That flash of discernment, that sudden insight that “Judaism could make sense” led to a willingness to take on some commitment. It led to my wife and I being willing to take on some of the mitzvot. To take what Abraham Joshua Heschel called a “leap of action.” We were willing to say, “OK, maybe we don’t completely “get” the idea of Shabbat, but let’s try it and see what happens.”
Ever since that initial spark of understanding, the path has been much more taking “leaps of action” which led to understanding. After experiencing a few Shabbats, we started to understand what Shabbat was about. We started out following the suggestions in “The Gates of Shabbat,” a publication of the Reform movement. We made Shabbat a “special” day, we didn’t work, but if we felt like driving to museum, or going out to lunch, we would. After a couple of months we understood much better what Shabbat was about, and no longer felt the need to run around to different places; we were able to appreciate the value in a much more traditional view of Shabbat, and became content to spend our days at shul, home or friend’s homes.
My experience with other mitzvot such as kashrut, prayer, and observing the holidays has followed a similar path. An initial commitment to try it out, as our ancestors answered Moses, “na’aseh v’nishma,” we will do and we will understand, led to increasing understanding of the essence of the mitzvah in question, and with that also came an increased commitment to observance of the mitzvah.
My experience has led me to understand that within Judaism obeying the mitzvot is a path for drawing closer to God. Just as Buddhists meditate to achieve Enlightenment—to draw close to God—Jews do mitzvot.
Insisting on having understanding BEFORE doing a mitzvah—as my friend said about keeping kosher—is truly putting the cart before the horse. It would be like a Buddhist saying “I’ll start meditating after I achieve Enlightenment.” Of course that’s backwards—but the same is true of doing mitzvot. Saying I’ll do mitzvot after I understand that it’s what God wants of me, is missing the point that it is through doing the mitzvot that we draw closer to God and understand what God wants of us!
With some mitzvot, it is easy to see how doing might lead to a greater understanding. With some mitzvot it is easy to see how they might connect us to God; with other mitzvot it is more difficult.
It is easy to see how prayer connects us to God. That’s what praying is about—connecting with God, talking to God, pouring our hearts out to God. Sometimes thanking God, sometimes beseeching God. We can also see how studying Torah can be a way to connect with God—we are listening to try and hear what God is telling us, as understood by our tradition.
It also does not take a rocket scientist to figure out how Shabbat might connect us to God. We take 25 hours a week out of our lives specifically to focus on God and family, on synagogue and home. Shabbat is a way to make time to be aware of God’s presence in our lives. There is a teaching of the Kotzker rebbe that he asked his students “where does God live?” Being well versed in the liturgy, they responded “m’lo col ha’aretz c’vodo,” the whole earth is full of His glory. The Kotzker Rebbe responded, “no, God is whereever we let Him in.” Shabbat is clearly designed to be a time when we can take a break and “let God in.”
Taharat mishpacha, the laws of family purity, which regulate sexual relations between man and wife, are a way to bring an awareness of God to the most physical and intimate of activities.
Clearly saying blessings before and after eating, and at other occassions such as seeing a rainbow, are ways to trigger an awareness of God throughout the day. Sometimes children demonstrate this better than grown ups: I admit there are times when I zip through a bracha out of habit. Yet watching my children at the dinner table, after we finish eating, saying “Thank you God for the food!” with enthusiasm, is a great model for me, and a reminder of the spirit I need to have.
All of these mitzvot are what are called mitzvot “bein Adam l’Makom,” between God and man. There is another category of mitzvot called the mitzvot “bein Adam l’chavero,” that is to say the mitzvot that are between people, that regulate interpersonal conduct. With the right attitude, even mitzvot between people can serve to enhance our awareness of God’s presence: we just have to remember that all people are created “b’tzelem Elohim,” in God’s image. By treating other people properly—by dealing with them honestly, by caring for the less fortunate, by being concerned with their honor—we also are fulfilling God’s will.
Doing mitzvot is fundamentally a consciousness-raising exercise…we raise our “God consciousness.” Every mitzvah we do, whether it’s saying the Shema or avoiding speaking lashon hara (gossip), can be a way to remind us of God’s presence, and to draw us closer to God.
There are, however, some mitzvot which try as we may we are unable to explain or find a rational reason to obey them. For example, there is a prohibition against wearing shaatnes, which is a mixture of wool and linen. What could God possibly have against wool and linen? It’s not even that God really doesn’t like this combination, there are certain circumstances when it can be worn. This is one of those mitzvot that seem to defy explanation. If we can’t understand it, how can it serve the purpose of drawing us closer to God?
The Silonomer rebbe, a contemporary Chasidic commentator, points out two ways that a mitzvah we don’t understand could still help draw us closer to God in his commentary on the verse “na’aseh v’nishmah,” we will do and we will understand.
The first way is to understand that there is no greater way to demonstrate our love for God than by saying “yes, we will obey your commandments even if we don’t understand them.” The Silonomer draws a comparison with parents, where the child follows the parents instructions even without understanding. We accept the “yoke of the commandments” with love, and doing them shows our love and respect of God.
The other way to understand it is to see that people have times when they are on the ascendancy, and times when they are in a decline. We will have moments when we reach a peak, when we can really feel a real connection with God, and we will have moments when we go down, when we are in valley, when we feel very distanced from God, or we feel God is absent. By obeying mitzvot even when we are in one of those valleys, even when we feel distant, even when we don’t understand, we are at least maintaining a connection with God. We are making a statement that we desire to stay connected in good times and bad, when we understand, and when we don’t.
This is also part of the power of “buying into” Judaism as a spiritual system and discipline. Judaism is a complete program. When your doctor prescribes a course of medication, exercise, and diet to bring you to health, it is not wise to argue and do just the parts you understand, or the parts you find easy to do. You buy the whole program, understanding that subjecting yourself to the cancer treatments while continuing to smoke cigarettes would not make much sense. Similarly, if we can accept Judaism as a system for personal improvement, a path to connect with God, and a way to improve the world it is not so difficult to obey even those mitzvot we don’t fully comprehend.
If we can engage in a process of “mindful obedience,” of being aware of what we are doing and why when we obey the commandments we can transform the most mundane of activities into a path of spiritual growth, into a way to connect with God. It’s not an easy process, but it’s not an impossible one either.
You shouldn’t think, God forbid, that if it’s a system you have to do everything at once or it’s a waste of time. My journey from treif eating Shabbat violator to rabbi didn’t happen overnight. It was a very gradual process, a step at a time. It took us about a year to go from not doing anything kosher at all to the point where we bought two sets of dishes (which felt like a kind of graduation ceremony). All of the mitzvot can be taken on a piece at a time. With Shabbat, you can start by making every Friday night special, lighting candles and saying Kiddush, having a special meal. With kashrut you can start by giving up pork and shellfish, and gradually move on to not mixing meat and dairy and buying kosher meat. With prayer you can start with saying just the six words of “Shema Yisrael” twice a day. The point is to pick a mitzvah—any mitzvah that speaks to you—and do something with it, try using it as a way to bring God’s presence into your life.
Some people like to use an image of a ladder of observance, that we should all be striving to climb up another notch. I don’t like that metaphor; for one thing, it implies that the more observant you are the closer to God you are and the better you are. Some people may not have the strength to climb very high. I’ve known some very frum people who don’t seem that close to God. I prefer a metaphor of a journey, a walk in the woods. It’s accessible to anyone, we can walk together sometimes, we can walk alone sometimes. There is a story of a man who was walking in the woods lost. He was cold and lonely and had no idea of which way to go. After a while, he met up with someone else. Glad for the company, they discussed how to get out of the woods. The newcomer said, “friend, I can’t tell you exactly how to find your way out of the woods, but I can tell you this…don’t go the way I just came from. Let’s walk together in a new direction.”
We’re not completely lost in the woods; we have the Torah and mitzvot as our map, and our love, compassion, and good intentions as our compass. My prayer for all of us is that we progress in our journey closer to God, that we grow together in Torah and mitzvot.
Shabbat Shalom