In all this thinking about the upcoming “high holy days,” I can’t help but think about G-d, just a bit. OK, maybe more than a bit. I mean, I am here, in this holy place, learning Torah, learning about myself and who I am and where I’m going and where I’m coming from. So you really just can’t avoid considering the source of it all. Everyone has their own take on things, and hopefully everyone has taken the time to question. I thought I’d write a bit about my own journey in belief, or knowledge, or questioning, or whatever you wanna call it. Here goes.
G-d. Upper-case G, hyphen, lower-case d. Hashem. “The name.” Father in heaven. Master of the universe. Was, is, and will be. Hm.
I read a book over the summer called “Seeing G-d”. It was based in kabbalah, (Jewish mysticism, which is really a lot more than just mysticism, as it’s the same oral law that was passed down from Mount Sinai, just like all the rest of the laws and explanations of the Torah...this stuff was just way more hidden and esoteric, and only accessible to those who were mature and wise and learned enough to enter its depths without going certifiably insane. And no, it is not that which Madonna has taken up as a hobby.) The book spoke about G-d as an all-encompassing entity, as more than just a figure or a place or an idea: it spoke of Him as reality itself, the air we breathe, the sights we see, the voices we hear, the people we know, everything. The first chapter was entitled something along the lines of “Erasing G-d,” and it said that you can only really start to believe in Him once you have forgotten all your preconceived, childish, media-regulated images of Him. Erase the booming voice yelling at Charlton Heston, erase the old man with flowing white robes and a long beard, erase Zeus, and that kid who spoke through a microphone in the school play. Forget the name “G-d,” too – it’s actually just a name of a pagan god, which we adopted for English usage (as is “Allah” btw,) so from now on I’ll try to refer to Him as “Hashem” – “the name,” since I really don’t know what His name is, anyway. This erasing is a much more difficult task than it seems, and I still can’t get that white beard out of my head. But I realized that I had never really tried to think of Him in this way. As present in everything, everyone, every idea, every moment of the universe. Kabbalah says that He has 70 different names, and that each one represents a different attribute of his, or a different way we can come to see or know Him in the world. In the Shmonah Esrei, which is the main section of prayer in the daily service, it says “the G-d of avraham, the G-d of Yitzchak, and the G-d of Yaacov.” The commentators ask, why don’t we just say “the G-d of Avraham, Yitchak and Yaacov”? Why does it have to say “the G-d of” 3 separate times? Why waste words? The answer is that each one of them had a different “G-d,” so to speak. They each related to Him in a different way (through love, fear, and suffering/combination of love and fear, respectively.) So, we say that phrase 3 times to remind ourselves that they each had individual ways of connecting and relating to their creator. Hashem is one, but His access points are many.
But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. I haven’t always been able to think in such terms, nor have I always allowed myself to. Let’s start from the very beginning, as it’s a very good place to start.
When I was little, Hashem wasn’t a question. He was Santa Claus, basically (please excuse the analogy...a thousand separations between the two, as they say in the relig circles). He was there because he was there, because my Mommy and Daddy said so, because my teachers in school taught me to sing to Him, because we didn’t want to make Him cry on Shabbat by touching muksah things, (muksah is a category of objects that we are not supposed to hold on Shabbat, such as money or electrical appliances,) because he gave us things and sometimes took away things too, and because I felt Him. I know, I was young, I didn’t really know anything other than what everyone around me told me I knew, but I really did think I felt Him there. You know how sometimes your ear gets a little clogged up and you hear this beeping sound from somewhere in your head? I used to think that every time that happened, it meant that Hashem needed to talk to me about something. I would literally run to my windowsill, press my little cheek up against the glass so that I could see up to the sky, and I’d just start to talk. Usually I could figure out exactly what He needed to talk to me about – either I had done something I needed to apologize for, or there was someone who was sick or sad who I needed to pray for, or He was just feeling lonely and wanted some company. So I’d sit there and chat, and then I’d say I love you Hashem, and run back to whatever I had been doing beforehand. I never really told anyone about that, which is odd for me – I used to love broadcasting things that I thought would make everyone proud of me, (humility not being my strong suit) and talking to Hashem was definitely something I used to think would get praised (my how times have changed). I guess some part of me knew that this was a relationship best kept to myself. So I did just that. We had our little pow wows by the window, and that was the most intimate connection I’ve ever had to Him in my life.
Then I grew. I grew and I grew and I ended up in middle school, which is when I learned about agnosticism. My Dad taught me that one: I remember sitting with him on the black leather couch in the den, and talking to him about how he was once taught that Hashem fit all the animals into Noah’s ark by making itty bitty versions of them; an idea that sounded preposterous, of course. (I’ve since learned a more sophisticated response to the question, so thankfully I’m not still stuck on that one. But it certainly got to me for a while.) I can’t remember the conversation exactly, but I know that by the end of it, I knew that there was a middle ground between belief and atheism. At that point I still believed, but I think it was then that the questions started bubbling up.
Enter ninth grade. Puberty. Drama. Boys. Confusion. World Jewish History class. We were learning about the Chanukah story, but this time on a historical level rather than a religious one. We learned about how there were two different accounts of it, one written by a Jew in Israel, who witnessed the events firsthand, and the other written by a non-Jew in Egypt, who was writing about it second-hand. We read the sources, and lo and behold, there was not a single mention of the oil that lasted 8 days and nights. The military victory was there, which I supposed was miraculous in itself, but come on, when I say Chanukah, you say oil! Where was the oil? In fact, they both wrote that the reason they celebrated for 8 days and nights was because due to the war, they hadn’t had a chance to celebrate Succot that year, which is also an 8 day holiday. So there it was, right in front of my face: the holiday that had always been my favorite, the one with the coolest miracle and the presents and the latkes, was a sham. I was completely disillusioned. My teacher explained that the oil part of the miracle was written centuries later in the Talmud, and was possibly entered as a way of inspiring the people who were in the midst of a spiritual crisis. The military miracle was cool, but not quite cool enough to get the people out of their spiritual slump, so maybe they added the oil one for good measure. My teacher, who was a kippah-wearing modern orthodox man, then quickly went on to say that of course this doesn’t mean it didn’t happen; only that it is important to learn the original sources so we can make our own decisions on what we think happened.
This killed me.
My own decision? Since when can I make my own decision on this kind of thing? And where was the decision here? Chanukah didn’t happen, plain and simple. Two historical accounts, two different sources, neither one mentions it. Bing bang boom, no more miracle. Of course, that year was also the year I took biology, so this class coupled with a good dose of evolutionary theory basically killed it for me. I was beyond agnostic; He was just gone.
For a few years after that, basically all of high school, I would relate this story to people, and try to find out what they thought. I got many answers, some of which bothered me even more, (“just have faith!”) and some of which just convinced me that no one who believes in Hashem ever really thinks about anything (“ok, but it still probably did happen, right?”). I was convinced that religion was just a made up tradition, that I still enjoyed, but that had nothing backing it up in terms of reality or truth.
I should mention that between the years of 7th and early 10th grades, I was keeping Shabbat even though my family was not. When I was little we all used to keep it together, and those were my favorite years of my life, even to this day. But over separation and divorce and distance and plain old time, Shabbat had disappeared from my home. Fortunately, I went to Jewish camps where all my friends kept it, and my experiences there were so amazing that I knew I wanted to have it at home again as well, even if it meant dong it alone. It was extremely difficult, since I did not get as much support in it as I would have liked, and it ended up feeling like more of a struggle than a pleasure. It turned into some kind of rebellion in a way, and so it unceremoniously ended with the arrival of a boyfriend who wasn’t interested. So much for that. I suppose keeping Shabbat when Hashem’s out of the picture doesn’t really work so well.
So then came college. Off to the University of Pennsylvania, ready to tackle the big questions, like what my major would be and what career I would be preparing for. Ha. Big questions, indeed. I stayed away from Hillel while I was there, since it only reminded me of the personalities at my high school that I did not get along with. It had a cliquish quality to it, and I just never felt welcomed there. I stayed away from Judaism almost entirely, to be honest. I still kept kosher, or sort of kosher, and I went home for holidays and I knew Hebrew and I wore a star around my neck every now and then, but it really didn’t have anything meaningful behind it. If anything, it was a community that was there for the taking, that I felt comfortable knowing was there if I needed it. But I never really made much of an effort to involve myself; everyone was Jewish at Penn, anyway, so I was immersed in the secular versions of it, which felt like enough at the time.
The only exceptions to this rule were the times when I spent Shabbat meals with a Rabbi and his family who lived near campus. They were there to teach, inspire, and create community. Every time I went there, I felt some strange yearning inside. It was simultaneously elation and depression; it was experiencing something I had missed for so long, but that I wasn’t ready to acknowledge was lacking from my life. I did this for four years. Ask anyone who knew me well: I’d come home from Friday evening dinners there with a strange look on my face, and a deep urge to cry all night. I often did just that.
I still hadn’t confronted the Hashem question, and I was pretty set in my agnostic ways by then. Then, the summer after my sophomore year, I went to Israel on a 3-week trip called Meor. It was an incredible experience, full of travelling, and learning. (I recommend it to anyone interested in checking out Israel, for really cheap. Everyone who goes on it says it’s way better than birthright, as you see most of the same sights, plus they make you think. )The learning I experienced on that trip was like none I had ever experienced before; it was so engaging, so real, so close to my heart and mind. I certainly had never learned this way at Ramaz, or in college. They really wanted us to ask, to tackle big questions, to think really, really hard about who we were, and why we were. So I thought. And I asked. And I got answers.
There was one question in particular that had been burning within me for years. How can we be commanded to believe in Hashem? If I don’t believe in the first place, then how can you command me to? Who is doing the commanding, and why should I listen? And if I already do believe, then what’s the point of the commandment? I already believe, so why do you need to tell me to do something I already do?
The answer I received that day changed the way I’ve thought about Hashem and religion forever. The Rabbi responded: In a sense, it is directed at both types of people, and here is why. The Rambam interprets this mitzvah to mean that we must learn about the world. That through learning about the world, as in science, biology, physics, chemistry, nature, people, relationships, ideas, and Torah too, we can find Hashem. I was astounded by this. Was he saying that we are actually commanded to learn science? That it’s not just about believing and faith, that there is an element of finding an answer? I always thought that faith was something you either had or you didn’t, and that I simply didn’t, at least not anymore. I never realized that these crazy religious people thought that you could find Hashem, that it wasn’t just some feeling people had and never really thought about. It was then that I understood what my freshman year astronomy teacher meant when she called our Big Bang class a “religious” lesson. She explained that most of her colleagues who study the origins of the universe end up becoming religious through their scientific exploration, and that she herself was well on her way. Basically, when you get down to it, there’s a lot out there that points to His existence. Sometimes it just takes a really good hard look under a microscope, through a telescope, or into an equation to find Him.
I didn’t start believing then, but I certainly shifted the way I understood belief as a concept, as well as religion and Judaism’s take on Hashem. Rather than an inaccessible impossibility, I saw it as a challenge. I would learn everything I could, and maybe in that way, I’d find my answers.
So I’ve been doing that ever since. Learning, exploring, asking. Reading and reading and reading, specifically the science stuff, since I think biology class really did a number on me way back when. It’s pretty cool to learn about ways that the Torah and science actually match up; for instance, evolution works perfectly well with the creation story, as does the Big Bang, as do the dinosaurs, as does string theory. (Also, that Chanukah hang-up I had got cleared up pretty quick. Phew.) In the end, I have to say that while I’m not at that 100% mark yet on the G-d thing, (is anyone?) I’m certainly much further along. I have found in my studies that most evidence points to His existence rather than not, and while I know that in today’s society, G-d is almost a bad word, I really don’t want to be swayed by the opinions of others. I want to find for myself, and go with what works. I do see Him in my life much more now, even though I am extremely wary of convincing myself of something that isn’t there. I don’t want it to be like in the movie The Number 23, where Jim Carrey starts to see 23 everywhere he goes because he convinces himself of it (even though in the end, it really was everywhere because his evil wife was working against him behind the scenes). I don’t want to see something that’s not there, but I also don’t want to not see something that is, just because so many people have lost sight of it. So, yes, I’ve been looking, and I’ve been seeing. I’ve also had those blind spot moments, when I stop and think that maybe I’m insane, maybe there is no meaning, no purpose, no existence beyond this physical one we see in front of our noses. But I guess while science is starting to get all spiritual on me in its quantumness, and while my own life is heading in a direction that seems much brighter and exciting than ever before, it seems silly to ignore the possibility.
There’s a saying in Judaism: “Where is Hashem? Wherever you let Him in.”
I want to let Him in. I do, despite all the people I know who I can picture scoffing at that. I can admit it, I can say without fear of being judged that I do want to be someone who believes with her whole heart and soul, because I have seen the types of people and families that such a belief fosters. (I’m obviously not talking about fanatics who distort faith to be about terror and murder and violence, nor am I talking about those who use in a more mildly bad way, but bad nonetheless, such as to put others down, or judge people -- anything that has great power for good can also be used for evil, including the name of Hashem. I’m talking about those who use their belief and their relationship with Him to try and live in His image, to be good, to give, to grow, to love, to create, to teach, and to make the world a better place. I’ve met several people like that here. Not such bad role models, I’d say.) I don’t want to be one of those types who pushes their beliefs on others; this is not about anyone else but me. And trust me, I am an extremely rational thinker, almost to the point of absurdity at the moment, as you’ve probably gathered from my last post. I’m not one to believe things that don’t make sense. So even if I can’t write out a logical proof for you, (although there are those who have done so,) I can say that this is making sense, in its way. It’s not a “feeling,” and it’s not a “spiritual high.” It’s not something that just “happened” to me, like an epileptic seizure or some kind of indescribable experience that comes and goes. It’s a reality for me, one of many realities we are never fully aware of I’m sure, and one that I am finally learning to tune into. A process, a journey, an active pursuit.
I see these girls wake up every morning and pray. I see them make little blessings before and after they eat, and I know the words they say by heart. I was trained well as a child to know all of the words, but not the meaning behind them, so now they stand as empty shells, gibberish spoken from mouths that somehow find a higher purpose in those sounds. That meaning is what I seek now. I don’t want to get up and pray when I’m not sure who I’m talking to. It feels fake, hypocritical even. But every now and then, I do know. Every now and then, I get this sense that maybe this time, this bite of an apple won’t be just any old bite. Maybe this bite will bring me closer to someone or something that’s been missing me for several years. Maybe this time, I can just let go, and say the words that used to feel so fake. Maybe this time, they’ll feel real, like those days at the window.
Of course, belief in an all-knowing entity who chose my people to represent His name in the world has its implications. I don’t want to change my life completely. I love Judaism and I love feeling religious and connected to something higher and something more real than so much of the fakery I’ve been surrounded by for so long. But I’m not one of those haters of the secular world. I like my movies and my parties and my meaningless moments and silly conversations about nothingness. But then again, I want more, and I now know that there is so much more to be had. So far, I feel better than I ever have before, with the exception of those years when everything really made sense, when everything was whole and right. Hopefully I’m not just making this all up to make myself feel better. I guess I’ll never really know...but at least I’ll have asked the questions, and examined the answers. That’s all any of us can really do.
B’ahava, Shira
PS there is a girl here, named Erika, who is also keeping a blog about her experiences and thoughts here. She is an amazing writer, way better than I am, and if you really want to get a good sense of my time here, the place I’m living, and the reasons I chose this school, (as well as an idea of what the other girls are like here,) I suggest checking out her blog, as well. Although we come from different backgrounds, I feel very connected to her words, and they express much of what I am feeling as well. Her last few posts have all been about her time here, and they describe the community, the learning, and the feeling we and many others get from being here. She is also sitting right next to me, writing up her own “Hashem” post, which should be up soon. She just read me some of it – it’s pretty amazing, and I relate to it in many ways. Check it out, I promise it will not disappoint: findingeve.blogspot.com. (I also added her blog to my list on the right-hand side of this page, so you can always get to it through that link.)
