"Sing to the L-rd a new song, His praise in the assembly of the pious."
--Psalms 149: Part of the morning prayer service

There are old men in my synagogue who have been reciting these words for over seventy years. I often wonder if they still mean them. I have been saying them for a much shorter time and must struggle daily with their repetitiveness. The same is true of ritual. The same is true of study. The same is true of meditation. So much of spiritual work seems to revolve around deeds that quickly become routine. Judaism, with its vast canon of cyclical laws, is not unique in this. Ritual and repetition are at the heart of every religious tradition. And even the most inspired seeker may soon find himself aground in the shallow waters of daily observance. It's known that the essence of spiritual work is to come to an ever-renewing vision of G-d. Although the heart and mind search for this, and the soul cries out for it, the tradition maintains its stoic insistence on the necessity of the discipline. Where, then, is the voice of the Living G-d?

Kabbalah perceives reality as multi-dimensional, composed of myriads of concentric spiritual worlds of ever finer substance. Creation is like a rose-bud with each petal gently enfolded in the next. At the heart of them all is G- d, the most concealed, the most intimate. G-d's presence is the innermost point of creation, and it is He who enlivens and sustains all existence. Likewise, on the personal dimension, the consciousness of G-d is at the center of all human activity. Thus, at the heart of all loves is the love of G-d. The basis of all fear is the awe of His power. And the constant desire for the new and unique is, in actuality, a longing for the revelation of G-d, who recreates the entire world anew each second. Yet we can neither see nor feel this presence, because creation is too "thick," and G-d is obscured. According to Jewish mystical thought, this is a direct result of the sin of Adam.

When classic Rabbinic sources speak of Adam--the primary human image--they refer to a being so transcendent that, according to the Midrash, the angels mistook him for G-d. Whereas the fall of man is understood to mean afall into the physical, from a body of light to "garments of skin" (Genesis 3:21). And when Adam--whose being embraced all of creation--fell, so did everything else. So to, in the realm of consciousness, Hasidic texts speak of fallen loves, fallen fears, in which a lesser, and often debased, emotion takes the place of that which rises out of true communion with the Divine. Every relationship is a relationship with G-d, but when that core truth is hidden, the external world takes on an independent reality that deceives and entices the individual.

Thus, the goal of all spiritual work is to detach the seeker from the preoccupation with the outer trappings of reality and redirect the energies inward, to that place where infinity touches the soul. The fallen attributes can never equal the power and ecstasy of the being in its source. Whereas fallen love is selfish, love of G-d is expansive. Fallen fears are obsessive, true fear is edifying. In Judaism, the return to the source is accomplished through the path of Torah, which lifts the fallen world back to G-d.

At first glance, the practice of Torah may seem exceedingly difficult. There are 613 explicit commandments found in the Pentateuch, and together with the details of their observance, the number reaches the tens of thousands. Positive commandments require action of some kind, while negative ones demand a degree of restraint. There is barely an act in the day that does not come under the jurisdiction of the Law. Many are repetitious and a fair amount restrictive. Nonetheless, the purpose ofall the mitzvot--the commandments--is to disengage the practitioner from the fallen aspects of reality and reinvest that energy in a vertical movement of the soul. For when the being no longer disperses itself horizontally, it begins to turn inward for fulfillment. "And G-d saw that the light was good," says the verse (Genesis 1:4). "Therefore he hid it away for the righteous," comments the Midrash. To which the Baal Shem Tov added, "Where did he hide it? In the Torah!"

One simple illustration of this process: Jewish law establishes a dress code for both men and women which puts great value on the trait of modesty. The sight of long-frocked Hasidim is a common one in many American cities. This is meant less as a denial of the outside world than a cultivation of the inner one. It is a type of monastic gesture, albeit a worldly one, that understands that through modest dress and behavior, one comes to touch a depth of spirit within. The same holds true for most religions, and donning the "robes of initiation" signals a commitment to the pursuit of the inner life. The entire Torah can be understood in this way, the laws and rituals help define our relationship with G-d. Negative commandments preserve the purity of the soul, while positive ones direct its energies in spiritual channels. "Do not stray to another field, my daughter," they tell the soul, "Turn not away from here" (Ruth 2:8).

In the Jewish tradition, masters of the spirit are known as Tzaddikim--the Just. According to the Talmud, in every generation there are thirty-six hidden Tzaddikim through whose merit the world is sustained. These individuals have touched the very core of truth within themselves yet, from without, are completely unrecognizable. In this they reflect their Master, whose Presence is also hidden in the world. It is not through any intrinsic lack that the soul is hidden, rather, it is the very nature of spirit as something so personal, so interior and ultimately, so boundless, that it can never be fully expressed in this world. "I know that G-d is great," says the Psalm (Psalms 135). "I know," commented Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, "but I cannot tell another." The story is told about Rabbi Yosef Yitzchok Shneersohn, one of the great Hasidic Rebbes of the previous generation and an outstanding public figure, who was once asked by his Hasidim, "We believe that youare a Tzaddik,yet how is that possible? Tzaddikim are supposed to be hidden, and we see you." "How do you know you see all of me?" he replied.

The purpose of the mitzvot is to engender a union with G-d. The very word mitzvah is from the grammatical root of the word "to join." Furthermore, Judaism does not consider the mitzvot as merely expedient means of reaching the goal of enlightenment, they are themselves considered the ultimate expression of G-d's will, and Kabbalah speaks of their mystical nature as conduits for divine influx. The practice of mitzvot refine the being and open it to movements of the spirit. Commitment to their observance, despite repetition and boredom, is what ultimately revealsthe inner light. Slowly, a window is opened to the soul, which begins to shine in all the corners of one's life.

This same process is reflected in every discipline, be it art, religion or craft. No great artist ever mastered his field without first being mastered by it. And nothing new was ever created that did not build upon the achievements of the past. Only commitment to the exterior form of the craft, despite the tediousness of the process, allows the inner source of creativity to reveal itself. Ultimately, a person touches the core of life, which then flows out and fills the previous static forms with new meaning. When, through the ritual, one reaches the point of infinity in the soul, the ritual itself becomes the setting for the revelation of infinite content. "A person who studies Torah selflessly," says the Talmud, "becomes like an ever renewing spring." Likewise, in the mystical consciousness, every detail of creation has the potential for infinite meaning, because the presence of the Infinite G-d is beneath the surface waiting to be revealed.

So it is on the spiritual path. Inner rejuvenation only comes when the outer vessel has been set in place. Then the very forms that originally seemed restrictive become liberating, for the practitioner has been freed from the fallen nature of reality. The rose of the tradition unfolds to reveal the presence of the Holy One within, and the flow of life released finds no better vehicle of expression than the very words of prayer one has been saying all along.

Thus, in Judaism, this world is never abandoned. It provides the tools with which we search for G-d, and ultimately becomes the channel through which G-d reveals Himself in our lives. If our words of prayer have become routine, it is because we have not been saying them long enough. One must persevere with the practice despite the difficulty, until the forms reveal their inner meaning. To keep digging for treasure long after one has abandoned hope of ever finding it. G-d gives us the tools, and we must work with them. In doing this, we build the vessels to receive. Ultimately, G-d, in His love and compassion, fills them with His presence. "The hidden things are the L-rd our G-d's, but the revealed things are ours and our children's forever, that we may do all the words of this Torah" (Deuteronomy 29:28).

(C) Eliezer Shore, Bas Ayin

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