The Ultimate Relationship

There is a specific pasuk in Ashrei that I have always liked: Karov Hashem l'chol kor'av, l'chol asher yikreuhu b'emet. God is close to those who call Him, to all who call Him...in truth? Sincerely? Translations are always messy. But I always felt that this pasuk was saying, if you strive to be close to God, then God will be close to you. But how can you strive to be close to God?

Tonight I went with my mom and my sister to a shiur in the Great Synagogue that, happily for me, addressed this question. The shiur was given by a Rabbi Gottlieb who once attended Shaalavim and is now on sabbatical in Israel with his family. He first spoke about Sukkos and the discussion in the Gemara about what the sukkos were that B'nei Yisrael sat in in the midbar. Rabbi Eliezer said the sukkos were really the Ananei Hakavod while Rabbi Akiva said they were actual, regular sukkos. But why, asked Rabbi Gottlieb, would we have a chag to celebrate living in regular, ordinary sukkos? How can we understand Rabbi Akiva's opinion in the context of having a chag?

Rabbi Gottlieb then focused on the Shemonah Esrei that we say every day. At the end of Shemonah Esrei, we say the paragraph of Elokai Nitzor. In that paragraph, there is a pasuk (also one I have always liked) that goes, "Petach libi b'toratecha, u'vimitzvotecha tirdof nafshi." Rabbi Gottlieb pointed out that this pasuk is originally written somewhere - I think in the Gemara but I don't remember exactly - as "acharei mitzvotecha tirdof nafshi." That would be translated as, "after Your mitzvos my soul should pursue." As in, we should chase after Hashem's mitzvos. However, in Shemonah Esrei, we don't say "acharei mitzvotecha, " we say "u'vimitzvotecha." With Your mitzvos my soul shall pursue. But pursue what? Rabbi Gottlieb suggested then that what we are pursuing is God.

In the first translation, our pursuit is after mitzvos. Mitzvos, then, are the object, the goal. But the way we say it when we daven, we turn mitzvos into the method. We use mitzvos in order to chase. They become the means to pursue something higher, something greater - God.

Rabbi Gottlieb quoted from a hesped of Rav Soloveitchik where he talks about what his mother taught him (emphasis mine):

"Most of all I learned from [my mother] that Judaism expresses itself not only in formal compliance with the law but also in a living experience. She taught me that there is a flavor, a scent and warmth to the mitzvot. I learned from her the most important thing in life - to feel the presence of the Almighty and the gentle pressure of His hand resting upon my frail shoulders." - A Tribute to the Rebbitzen of Talne

Torah, Halacha, Mitzvos - they are all important. But partnered with them needs to be a quest to become close to God. One should not go around performing mitzvos in order to have a collection of them, but one should do mitzvos because through Torah and mitzvos one can enrich his relationship with God.

This, said Rabbi Gottlieb, is how one can understand Rabbi Akiva's opinion. The sukkos can be regular, ordinary sukkos and still be worthy of having a chag about them. Grand miracles are great - we celebrate them on Pesach. But Sukkos is the holiday of our every day relationship with God. It is not about extraordinary gifts. It's about the ordinary gifts we receive from God every day. It's about our simple closeness to God.

I remember learning when I was younger that we have Shemini Atzeres because God wanted us to stay a day longer with Him on this chag. This idea fits in beautifully with everything I just wrote about. If we work on becoming close to God, if we use Torah and mitzvos in order to enhance our relationship with God, then God will also be close to us, we will merit to feel "the gentle pressure of His hand" resting upon our shoulders, and God will want us to stay with Him.

We can't forget that everything we do in Judaism is for this ultimate goal - becoming closer to God. If we keep this in mind, hopefully all the other nonsense everyone worries about (you know what I mean) will dissipate. Don't you see how that stuff doesn't matter? We're not in this religion to impress anyone or to be holier-than-thou. We're not in it to collect chumras or to show off our mitzvos - as wonderful as they are - to anyone else. We're in it because we are God's people and, as God's chosen nation, the one relationship we ought to worry about most is our relationship with God. Every time we make a choice, we should remember that we are part of God's nation. How should one with a relationship with God behave?

And another thing. The simple nature of our relationship with God that we celebrate on Sukkos is such a beautiful thing to celebrate. It is on this chag specifically that we have an added day, a Shemini Atzeres, because God did not want us to leave Him. Not on Pesach when we celebrate the great miracles God performed for us. Not on Shavuos when we celebrate receiving the Torah. No. Only on Sukkos, when we celebrate our simple, every day relationship with God. The simplicity, the ordinariness is what enriches the relationship. Not the majestic nissim and niflaos. To me, this is a model of all relationships we have. Family, friends - the best moments are the most simple ones, aren't they? Not the big parties. I'm talking about the times when you go for a walk or stay up late talking or read together in the same room and don't even talk. The times when you drink hot chocolate together or get ice cream in the middle of the night or get really silly for no reason at all except for the fact that you're with someone you feel comfortable enough to be really silly around.

We have to work at these relationships - karov Hashem l'chol kor'av. God is close to those who call Him. Relationships take work, they take initiative, they take thoughtfulness, sensitivity, and sincerity. But the kind of work they require is not anything elaborate. It's the simple every day stuff. It's the ordinary times people spend together that are the strongest treasures.

A Prayer

Please God, allow me to have clarity in my thoughts and my emotions. Give me the wisdom to know what to do in a given situation and the strength to be able to do it. Please allow me the understanding to know what is right and what is wrong, even when the two are heavily clouded in shades of gray. Let me make good choices and give me the koach to be the best person I can possibly be.

Please give me the strength not to focus on the negatives in any situation, especially ones regarding other people, but to see the positives much more clearly. I wish to never dwell on other people in a negative way. I hope I can be able to remove myself enough from situations in order to see them objectively, and therefore not take anything anyone does or says personally. I hope to always give benefit of the doubt, and sincerely, not with any bitter feelings.

I only want to do good in this world. I know I am not perfect and that I will make mistakes. Let me recover gracefully from those mistakes and learn from them. Allow me the ability not to make the same mistake twice.

I wish to be able to face the world with wisdom and bravery, so that I might always know the right thing to do and have the strength to do it. I hope that I am happy with myself and the choices I make, and that I make them with the utmost integrity.

Most of all, I hope I rise to my greatest potential in order to be the best person, and the best Jew, I can be.

Asher Yatzar

When you're young and in elementary school, they usually have those nice asher yatzar signs on the wall right outside the bathroom. Lots of kids see these signs, though not that many actually recite what is written on them. They sort of end up blending into the wall as decoration.

At a certain point when you get older, though not even that much older, you suddenly realize how important that bracha is. The idea of a young person becoming ill is suddenly not a completely foreign concept. It's actually a very real, horribly frightening one.

Sometimes it's like there's this lack of control because no matter how well you take care of yourself, you are never completely immune to anything. I guess the safest way to take care of yourself is to turn to God. Imagine how unbelievable it is that we have the opportunity to keep on reminding God that if anything goes wrong with us, "Iy efshar l'hitkayem v'la'amod lifanecha." We won't be able to get up and stand before Him!

I know saying that doesn't make anything less scary, but I think the bracha itself is so vital to say. I used to always forget to say it but a few years ago, I started to and each time I say it, I feel an overwhelming thankfulness that I am currently healthy and functional.

There is so much out there that is frightening and terrible and too many of us know some of it too well. But we can't thank God enough for each healthy moment we have, because each second is a gift. We can't forget that.

Why We Are Lucky

When I was little, I used to get awed by how lucky I was to be born a Jew. I would always hear people commenting how small a percentage Jews are in the world. It made me think, "Wow, what are the odds of being born Jewish? How did I get so lucky?"

It wasn't always clear to me why I felt this was "lucky." I was used to being Jewish. I was used to believing Judaism was the correct religion and that the Torah was true. I was proud of these things. I felt almost superior, knowing that I was part of this chosen nation. I used to wonder how I would feel if I'd been born to a different religion. Would I also think that I was practicing something correct and true? Was I being a snob to feel lucky that I was Jewish, that I wasn't something else?

As I got older and more mature, more attuned to the sophistications, complications, and subtleties of life and religion, I recognized things that I legitimately did feel grateful and lucky for - things that did not only pertain to Judaism.

The most important thing I came to realize was that I had the privelege of a God to turn to. There are so many people out there who are not religious, not of any religion at all, who deny the existence of God entirely. And I wonder, who do these people turn to when there is no one else? Where do these people find true solace? Perhaps they have trained themselves to not need the consolation that faith, that prayer brings. Maybe that works for them. I'm not judging, I'm only curious.

Regardless, I am infinitely grateful to having been born a religious person, a person acutely aware of the presence of God in this world and the fact that He is always there to turn to when there is no one else. God is constant. There is no such concept as God being too busy to listen, or not wanting to hear what you have to say.

I think belief is one of the most precious gifts a person can have, especially in such a high-pressured, fast-paced world where you really do find yourself alone perhaps more than you should. So many who struggle, who go through difficulties, who feel despondant and perhaps also lonely - so many of them are able to find hope in turning to God.

There was a point in high school where I was going through a bit of a rough time. One night a friend said to me, "Daven Ma'ariv and ask Hashem for peace of mind." The fact that I even had that option - the option to turn to God - is incredible. That, alone, is something to be thankful for. I am thankful to be the kind of person who is completely trusting in God, who is perfectly able to turn to Him in times of need and actually feel comforted afterward.

Lucky is a weird word because it's not luck that gives us the gift of prayer, it is God. But that feeling still remains - that feeling of being so fortunate to having been born the person I am. I am
fortunate to have Hashem to turn to, to confide in, to find solace in. And I am proud to be a Jew.

A Wish

In the same day - today - , my brother came back from a year and a half in Israel and my best childhood friend left on Aliyah. Round and round and round it goes, this ferris wheel of people coming and going to Israel. Ascending, descending.

It's strange to think that I'm here in America worrying about finals and papers and almost forgetting that Israel's at war. It's scary how easy it is to forget that. Even for me, who has family living there and many close friends, including some currently in the army.

It's so easy to feel helpless when you know there's not much you can do but pray, but still I pray, even as I feel helpless, and I wish only safety and success for Israel and for the Jewish people all over the world.

Something has begun to happen. It's been beginning for a while now, inside Israel, outside of Israel. I don't know what it is or how it will end or where we'll all be when it's over. I don't know what it means now or what it will mean in hindsight. I don't know what will be with this war on terror.

I just know I want everything to be okay with the world. More than okay. I want it to be good.

May I make an appointment?

Sometimes I wish I could be the stereotypically good, frum girl. You know the kind...fresh out of seminary, zealous about all the mitzvot and halakhot, the kind who makes you say your brachot out loud so she can say amen. Of course, being put on the spot like that makes you freeze up and forget the bracha altogether (which is silly, since you've been saying brachot your whole life) and then you just feel stupid and...and not as good as her, for some reason (and yes, this seems to happen to me quite a lot).

This stereotypical girl takes so long to say shemona esrai that when you're finished, you chew on your lip and wonder whether her siddur has an extended version that you never learned because you don't think you rushed your way through, garbling words. No, you clearly remember saying every word. You even spent a little extra time in Refaeinu to daven for someone's friend or relative and you spent a few additional seconds in shma koleinu to ask for a good grade on your midterm. But you still feel like you've done something wrong, something off, because you're finished too early. There are all the good, carefully frum girls around you, so engrossed in modim that their eyes are closed, their faces scrunched up in concentration. They are swaying fiercely, no, not swaying, shuckling. Get the lingo right!

Why can't my davening be like that? Why do I speak words, understand them, even, but not feel? I feel like I do two types of praying. I do the regular, normal prayers that everyone does, I say the words everyone says, I go through the motions, but I'm not really praying. No, my true praying comes at random points in the day when I look outside, see a tree, and wonder, how did this tree become a tree? Who put it there? Who made it so beautiful, so green, so big? Who made the wind that is pushing its way rudely through the branches, shaking them to and fro? God, of course. God, who created this incredible world on which we live. God, who gave us life, who gave us families and friends and teachers and schools. God, who gave us countries and cultures and languages and literature! And then I appreciate God. I am filled with a deep, overwhelming love and adoration for Him and His creations.

When else do I pray? When I am scared. When I am lonely. When I am nervous. When I am worried. I think to God, asking His advice, asking Him for help, for strength, for everything to work out just fine. I think so hard, hoping that my thoughts reach all the way up to Him.

I feel this deep, intimate connection with God. I have always been able to turn to Him in times of need, in times of joy, in any time, really. But not with the words of prayer that are found in the siddur. It is not during that prayer time that I feel this way. It is during my own prayer time. It is almost like I have to make a separate appointment with God in order to get my true prayer in because I can't do it in the appropriate, alloted time that everyone else uses.

But I want to be able to feel God when I daven in the morning. I do. I don't want it to be just words coming out of my mouth. But it's so not in the moment. It's so hard to take feelings that I feel when I am most in the position to feel them and transport them to a time when I'm hardly feeling anything at all - when all I'm really thinking about is how tired I am and that I hope they have the big cookies in the caf for breakfast. And perhaps if I was able to train myself to feel this way during actual prayer time, I might be more inclined to remember to daven Mincha, as well.

I keep thinking of the Judy Blume book, Are you there God? It's me, Margaret. Part of that is so true with me. I think to God all the time. I have one-sided conversations with Him. I really do have a relationship with Him. Just... at a private appointment instead of when I'm actually supposed to be praying.