Many years ago, when my hair was thicker and darker, when I did not do anything much other than play guitar and hang out with my friends, it came time to choose a yeshiva. Such decisions are difficult for a person such as myself. I am indecisive, philosophical – meaning, I was afraid of the opportunity costs involved in making the wrong decision, and I viewed the question of which yeshiva was “right” as a sort of moral quandary. And so, I set out to ask as many people as possible which yeshiva was objectively the best and which was best for me. Then, as now, I was a curious sort of fellow, and I had friends from different walks of life. I was open to hearing everyone’s suggestions, as I agonized endlessly over a question I thought would determine the rest of my life.
At the time, my life was split between three or four institutions, depending on how you counted them. In the mornings, evenings, and Shabbatot, I was a member of the religious Zionist community in Melbourne, as well as a religiously dedicated member of Bnei Akiva. However, I attended a Chabad school for my general studies, and studied Gemara in the mornings and early evenings at the Lakewood Kollel. All in all, I had many different people with many different views that I could solicit. To this day, I don’t know if I have experienced a similar intellectual ferment with so many ideas and people seeking to pull me in different directions.
There was one particular gentleman, a man in the Lakewood Kollel in Melbourne, who wanted me to attend the yeshiva that he was attending. I can picture him now. He was neither tall nor short for a Jewish man, had dark hair that thinned quite a bit on top, and always wore a white shirt and dark pants. He was not brilliant, but he was a dedicated student in his Talmudic studies, and he seemed to be a dedicated father and husband as well. While he was, at the time, studying in the kollel, this was, if I recall correctly, a temporary situation. He was on his way to a career in accounting or law; I cannot remember. He may not have been quite over 30, though, to a 17-year-old, he looked rather ancient. I suspect he was younger than I am now, though I cannot remember his name.
This man – we shall call him Shmuel – was a nice man. It would not be so bad to be like him, I thought. I could not be an accountant, but perhaps a lawyer or a businessman.
When Shmuel pitched me on his yeshiva – as he did a number of times – he told me that it was a small yeshiva, where I was sure to receive attention from the rosh yeshiva, a world-class scholar. Not only that, but this was a yeshiva where I could be myself. Shmuel himself, when he studied there, had asked for and received special permission to play piano during his off hours. Other yeshivas, Shmuel said, did not understand that a young man might need to play piano. But his yeshiva did.
I did not at all like this anecdote. Do you mean to say that the yeshiva thought that playing the piano needed a special dispensation? I could not quite articulate why this bothered me so deeply at the time, but I gave his yeshiva no further thought.
Now, I will tell you clearly: in my opinion, a yeshiva that thinks that playing piano is something childish to grow out of, something that can be tolerated but that should eventually be excised, has a too narrow view of the human condition. The proper and full life is far too complex and variegated for everything other than Torah study to be discarded as soon as possible. I felt that Shmuel’s piano playing was a stand-in for all of these things – for music, art, history, friendship, politics, teamwork, discovery, passion. In the religious life, within the right framework, these are part of our broader avodat Hashem, our broader service of G-d, our personal growth as His children and students. To this day, I shake my head that there can be a yeshiva where they think that the full human experience is found between its walls. There is too much of life outside. Such teachers are robbers. They rob people of parts of their souls.
What happens to the person who submits to this worldview? What happens in the yeshivas where the true student is the one who has no personality beyond what he learns in class? Does the deeply religious person lack a personality? Does the spiritually committed person not live a full life? It seems wrong. We cannot imagine that this is right.
Indeed, the students of Rabbi Eliezer ask him just this question (Additions to Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer, ch. 5, and Seder Eliyahu Zutta, ch. 23):
The students of Rabbi Eliezer asked him: How can we do teshuva and live?
They are asking, says Rav Asher Weiss, our question. We know that someone can repent and die; we know that one can repent and leave life behind, turn his back on the world, recede from view. But is it possible to do teshuva and live?
If I do teshuva, do I need to stop having fun? Do I need to quiet my mind? Close my heart?
Friedrich Nietzsche challenged the religious life on this, among other grounds. He held that the religious life is self-denying, it prevents us from living life to the fullest. Religious life, argued Nietzsche, is a life driven by guilt, torture, self-denial. The religious man
Has taken over the religious presupposition in order to drive his self-torture to its most gruesome severity and sharpness. Guilt before G-d: this thought becomes an instrument of torture for him…
This is a kind madness of the will in psychical cruelty that has absolutely no equal: the will of man to find himself guilty and reprehensible… (GM 2:22)
We should enjoy ourselves. Wracking ourselves with guilt is a double sin. First, it feels bad to feel regret. Second, such guilt prevents us from enjoying ourselves, which we ought to do. There is so much in life to enjoy; it is backwards to turn away from it.
Of course, Rabbi Eliezer has a response for his students, as we do to Nietzsche.
Immediately, Rabbi Eliezer began a discourse and said: “It is written: Hashem will answer you on the day of distress.” (Ps. 20:2)
Repentance is not the cause of tension in our lives; it is the soothing balm. As King David says: G-d will answer you on your day of distress. When you are oppressed by moral failure, when you hurt for missing out on your potential, then you may turn to Torah, to tradition, to mitzvot, to G-d, and receive help through teshuva. This is how you will start to live, says Rabbi Eliezer.
Rav Kook treats this idea at more length, responding as it happens, directly to our favorite atheist philosopher:
Repentance is the healthiest feeling of the soul. A healthy soul in a healthy body must necessarily arrive at the great joy of repentance and such a soul feels this to be the greatest natural enjoyment.
Rav Kook turns the terms around. Nietzsche says that passion is the be-all and end-all of human life. If you want to eat chocolate, eat it; If you want to shout at someone when they get on your nerves, let loose; if you want to scratch an itch, metaphorical or otherwise, embrace it, delight in it, do not look back.
Yet, we know the truth. Sometimes we say what we are really feeling, only to regret it as wrong the moment clarity strikes; our words were cruel, ill fitting, based on unfair presumptions. Likewise with food, and other, very powerful drives. Many great people have marred their legacies by their inability to hold back their passions; many more small people have done the same.
In contrast, a life of moral success and accomplishment brings about the greatest natural joy, says Rav Kook. Nothing feels better than knowing we are good, we are worthy of blessing because we are a blessing to others, we are beloved because we love others and G-d.
In the end, we must promote a complex doctrine. The students of Rabbi Eliezer, and Nietzsche, ask a very good question. Isn’t it true that life should be full, passionate, interesting, exciting, joyful? Indeed, this is so. But the premise misses out on something very important. The spiritual life is not cut off, it is not narrow, it is not a life of self-denial, self-torture, and hiding. It is the fullest life precisely because the religious life is the passionate life that enables us not only to soar but to feel good about it; we may dip our toes into every water, but the way we do it is enlivening, helpful, beautiful even. When we wear the life woven from the fabric of Torah, we dress with confidence, verve, joy. We go everywhere armed with meaning, a happy sense of balance, boundaries and purpose.
Teshuva should not scare us off, then, because to engage in teshuva is not to sublimate ourselves and sacrifice our lives. On the contrary, it is the step upwards and forwards to greater meaning, health, happiness, passion, depth, and complexity. Our full human selves await; we need only make our way up the steps.
