Why are we here? What are we doing? Where are we going? What’s the point of it all?
So many nagging questions relentlessly pondered by man since the day he first opened his eyes to walk this earth.
Humans have long grappled with their existential turmoil in various ways: philosophically, intellectually, artistically, and, of course, religiously. The many faith traditions formed over time have helped men gain a more secure footing on earth and imbue life with meaning, fulfillment, and hope.
Critics, however, insist that religion is no more than a soothing “opiate for the masses.” In other words, all religions are presumed to lack any divine source, having instead been designed by man for the purpose of giving “the masses” a firm handle on this life while providing the comforting assurance of an eternal afterlife.
This critique is not altogether inaccurate. But what about Judaism? Can we formulate a solid defense to the allegation that Judaism is fundamentally no different from other religions? Can we confidently show that our Torah is not just another “opiate” merely granting its adherents relief from a vexing existence? Can we prove that Judaism is not just another example of a blind-faith ideology designed to soothe souls, comfort minds, and warm hearts?
Fortunately, we need not look far for a resolution of these pressing questions.
The answer has been implanted in the very name of the nation: Yisrael. “Ki sarisa im Elokim v’im anashim.” The Torah makes its intention explicit from the start by calling its people the nation of struggle.
From the beginning, it was made abundantly clear to the Jews that their life’s direction would not be an easy one, and that the Torah’s declaration of God’s existence is not meant to smooth away man’s anxieties. In this vein, the focus of the written Torah is on everyday earthly life rather than on Mashiach and the World to Come.
So what is it that the Torah wants from its particular people, this small tribe, this family united under the curious banner of “they who struggle with God and with men”?
The answer is that the Torah’s primary concern is with establishing a vital and enduring relationship between God and the Jews, with all the ups and downs and joys and miseries any relationship will inevitably entail. Ani l’Dodi, v’Dodi Li – I am my Beloved’s and my Beloved is mine.” It really is all about relationship.
When the wisest of Israel’s sages were pressed to whittle down and express the finest thread of Judaism’s meaning, they pointed to the essential concept of relationship. “Love you neighbor as yourself; this is the overarching rule of the Torah.” “What is hateful to yourself, do not do to your neighbor.”
The very kernel of Torah truth – that which germinates and blossoms to encompass all else – starts and ends with relationship. Just as Sefer Bereishis is full of stories depicting the interactions between husband and wife, brother and sister, brother and brother, sister and sister, and parent and child, so the moment at Sinai is depicted by our Sages as a wedding between God and the Jews.
Here then is how the Torah distinguishes itself in the most vivid, colorful, and multifaceted of ways. The word “religion” turns out to be a wholly inappropriate description of the Jewish endeavor. For the Torah at its core is about relationship, which has nothing to do with man’s quest for attaining absolute truth. It is not about a supernatural revelation providing easy answers to life’s difficult questions.
Just as, to quote Rabbi Abraham Twerski, “marriage is not a hospital” to heal one’s personal flaws, so too Judaism is not a salve for man’s existential angst.
