2008 Woodie Awards
On Leaving Yeshiva
Alex Ozar
Issue date: 9/4/07 Section: Kol HaMevaser
- Page 1 of 1
Taken as a whole, Judaism is a religion which confers spiritual value on the entirety of human experience. A Jew can and must be a Jew whether in the hallowed walls of the shul or bais Medrash, his place of business, or his home. Further, on a personal level, Judaism addresses not only the realms of external action and expression, but rather guides and confronts the Jew in totality, from his most basic emotions to his most sophisticated faculties. There is no decision in any area of Jewish life and living, no matter how minor, mundane, and apparently insignificant, which is not in some way affected, if not directly legislated, by the corpus of Jewish law and thought. In short, the profane, those areas apparently devoid of spiritual content, provides no sanctuary from the holy, rather it itself becomes a sanctuary for the holy. Thus, the Jew is both enabled and obligated to experience the totality of his life, even his most mundane activities, no differently than were he a Kohen serving in the beis Hamikdash.
In this light, the central Jewish concept of a beis hamikdash is, prima facie, out of place in Judaism. For one, the very idea of having a specific geographic center of holiness and worship is difficult. If the Jew sees the whole world as G-d’s sanctuary, why does he need one in miniature? Secondly, the Mikdash was dedicated totally and exclusively to holiness and the ritual worship of G-d; it and its contents were forbidden for profane uses, and profane activities in its confines was a grave offense. Further, the Mikdash and its service demanded, in various degrees, the suppression of the human self, a point illustrated strikingly in the Torah’s account of the deaths of Nadav and Avihu. They were struck down for the sin of performing a service of their own innovation, or, according to the Midrash (See Rashi and Sifrei ad loc.), for some form of arrogance in connection with the service. Apparently, the Mikdash could not tolerate such an expression of autonomous human selfhood. Even more striking, in the aftermath of Nadav and Avihu’s death, Aharon and his sons were proscribed from any showing of grief in the face of their tragic loss, instead being required to complete the temple dedication as if unaffected. Again, the Mikdash demands that the human nullify himself entirely before G-d. Now, if indeed the Jewish ideal is the sanctification of life in its entirety, profane included, it seems odd that its most important place could tolerate the holy exclusively.
I believe the solution to this problem can be found through a careful reading of the chapters following the Nadav and Avihu narrative, paying close attention to the progression of ideas. After the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, the Torah enjoins the kohanim against entering the Mikdash inebriated, and then devotes many chapters to detailing the various laws of ritual impurity, along with some of the dietary laws. After this, the Torah resumes the narrative with Acharei Mos (these words indicating that these chapters are to be read as a unit), where Aharon is given the details of the Yom Kippur service. Following all this, we find parshas Kedoshim, with its vast array of laws governing every aspect of life. What is the meaning of this progression?
As is made evident from the context, the function of the laws relating to ritual defilement and proscription of alcohol is to ensure the sanctity and integrity of the Mikdash. The deaths of Nadav and Avihu pointedly demonstrated the absolute necessity of maintaining that sanctity, as its violation resulted in tragedy. The laws of ritual defilement proclaim that while defilements exist and must be dealt with appropriately, they must remain outside the Mikdash. At this point, the narrative is resumed with Acharei Mos and the details of the Yom Kippur service. With the Mikdash secured against defilement, Aharon could be given instructions as to the proper method of positively engaging the Mikdash. So far so good, but in what way does parshas Kedoshim follow from this?
I believe that the message is as follows: Kedoshim, with its laws for all areas of Jewish life, from agriculture to business to interpersonal relationships, expresses the Jewish ideal, in which no place, activity, or inner experience, no matter how apparently mundane, remains unsanctified. The Jew can and must be a Kadosh in the totality of his life experience. However, the Torah reminds us that while this is the goal, it is not the first step. Parshas Kedoshim is to be seen against the backdrop of the parshiyos preceding it, which proclaim loudly the centrality of a Mikdash uncompromised in its sanctity. The message then, is clear: In order to ultimately transform the entire world, profane included, into a Mikdash, we must first build and protect the spiritually pure Mikdash at our core.
II
In recent years, it has become accepted for post-high school students to spend a year or two studying in an institute of higher Jewish learning in Israel. This is a special opportunity for the students to dramatically grow and develop in terms of their learning and yirat shamayim, and for many it is a truly transformative experience. Students feel that they have finally found themselves and their place in the world, dedicating themselves to a life of self-fulfillment in the world of Torah. This sense of purpose and direction, along with the nurturing, often idyllic setting of the Yeshiva, provide the student with a profound feeling of contentment and inner-peace. Unfortunately, this experience does have one definite shortcoming: it ends.
With the exception of a select few, most students return from their time in Israel in order to attend college and begin the path towards their professional careers. The students must once again deal with the difficulties, obstacles, and banalities of a secular and pragmatically driven world. In place of spending their days and nights engaging their spirits in the worship of G-d and the study of His word, they are forced to attend classes in which they are often uninterested and fight for the advantages requisite for a successful career.
Understandably, this transition is for many a difficult one. No longer in the nourishing, insular walls of the Yeshiva, the students’ commitment to Torah and yiraat shamayim begin to fade, while, at least at first, their thirst and desire do not. Both because of the straining demands made on their time, and the various distractions involved, the students’ quests for spiritual development are stunted, leaving them frustrated and yearning for those days past when they were still in Israel. These students bemoan the fact that they have been forced by the exigencies of life to abandon their beloved yeshivas in exchange for a life of secular and pragmatic pursuits, the so-called "real world." This they consider a crushing blow to their spiritual development. While I certainly understand this sentiment, and I admit to experiencing it myself, I believe that in most cases it is fundamentally misguided.
First of all, we must clarify the actual value and function of the spiritual development accomplished in the sheltered confines of the Yeshiva. That it does exist is apparent to the naked eye; no one can deny the change and growth of countless individuals. What does raise an eyebrow though, is that once outside the Yeshiva, this apparent change, growth, and commitment often seems transient and short-lived. It seems that often the spiritual development and commitment that results from the Yeshiva experience, as great as it may be, has no backbone. And I do not believe that this phenomenon can be blamed entirely on overwhelming forces and pressures of the secular world. I can testify personally that commitments which I had genuinely felt to be ironclad while in Yeshiva, simply evaporated upon my return home, not because of any external pressure, but simply due to reverting to eighteen years worth of deeply ingrained habit. In other words, while in Yeshiva I appeared to be a different person, and to be sincerely dedicated to certain principles and modes of behavior, the truth was that the changes, at least on a practical level, were often only surface deep.
Why is this the case? To put it bluntly, the Yeshiva is an artificial environment. The reason so many people grow so rapidly and so drastically is because it is easy. The Yeshiva student is provided with a schedule and structure entirely dedicated to developing his learning and yirat shamayim, is surrounded by fellow likeminded students all working towards the same goals, and is supported and encouraged by a dynamic and powerfully influential staff. In this environment, spiritual growth is for many simply the path of least resistance. Therefore, when the environment disappears, we should not be shocked if the spiritual growth goes along with it.
I believe leaving the Yeshiva to return to the "real world" can actually be a positive and productive step in one’s development as a ben Torah. First, it provides the student with the ability to gauge himself and his growth accurately, an obvious prerequisite for continued development. Furthermore, what development one does achieve, while it may not compare quantitatively to that of the Yeshiva, is qualitatively so much greater. Gains achieved through challenge and struggle are always more rewarding, and in this case I believe they are also more real. To change in a difficult environment, certainly one in which the forces of habit are the strongest, one must truly change himself, which is the only change that really counts.
Most importantly, the place of the Jew cannot be in a protected fortress only, but must extend to the world at large, encompassing the whole of human experience, the mundane included. We must, at the very least, have the ability to be Jews not only in the spiritually pure environment of the Yeshiva, but also in the home, school, and workplace. Religious commitment that can be sustained only within the narrow confines of the Yeshiva, but not in the university or workplace cannot be genuinely Jewish. The world in its entirety must be our Mikdash.
What then is the value and function of the sheltered Yeshiva experience? It is in the Yeshiva where we have the opportunity to grow and cultivate our spiritual core, our most fundamental beliefs, perspectives and commitments, the Mikdash within us. Free from the corrupting impurities of the world, we develop uninhibited our inner identity as Jews dedicated to avodas Hashem and the ultimate realization of His kingdom on earth. What we must take from our Yeshiva experience is not mere quantitative behaviors, but rather a deep, personal commitment and orientation to the values of Judaism which colors, whether greatly or subtly, all our decisions as we confront the world. To be sure, our external religious behaviors and commitments will often whither, and we will find ourselves sliding backwards on the path of spiritual development. However, even when we fall, we will be facing in the right direction, always yearning and striving for our goals. In the Yeshiva we have the opportunity to create and fortify a spiritual core, our own personal Mikdash. We can then confidently and proudly act and assert our identity as Jews in the totality of human experience, from holy to profane, and from success to failure, making the whole world our mikdash.
For clarity’s sake, I am not saying that leaving Yeshiva is always a positive step; it often isn’t. It is truly a challenge, and many do not succeed. My point though, in too few words, is this: We should view leaving Yeshiva to engage the world at large as nothing less than an opportunity to further our spiritual development in both quality and scope. It is an opportunity to allow our spiritual core, the holiness of the Yeshiva, to permeate the whole of our existence.
Alex Ozar is a Staff Writer for Kol Hamevaser
In this light, the central Jewish concept of a beis hamikdash is, prima facie, out of place in Judaism. For one, the very idea of having a specific geographic center of holiness and worship is difficult. If the Jew sees the whole world as G-d’s sanctuary, why does he need one in miniature? Secondly, the Mikdash was dedicated totally and exclusively to holiness and the ritual worship of G-d; it and its contents were forbidden for profane uses, and profane activities in its confines was a grave offense. Further, the Mikdash and its service demanded, in various degrees, the suppression of the human self, a point illustrated strikingly in the Torah’s account of the deaths of Nadav and Avihu. They were struck down for the sin of performing a service of their own innovation, or, according to the Midrash (See Rashi and Sifrei ad loc.), for some form of arrogance in connection with the service. Apparently, the Mikdash could not tolerate such an expression of autonomous human selfhood. Even more striking, in the aftermath of Nadav and Avihu’s death, Aharon and his sons were proscribed from any showing of grief in the face of their tragic loss, instead being required to complete the temple dedication as if unaffected. Again, the Mikdash demands that the human nullify himself entirely before G-d. Now, if indeed the Jewish ideal is the sanctification of life in its entirety, profane included, it seems odd that its most important place could tolerate the holy exclusively.
I believe the solution to this problem can be found through a careful reading of the chapters following the Nadav and Avihu narrative, paying close attention to the progression of ideas. After the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, the Torah enjoins the kohanim against entering the Mikdash inebriated, and then devotes many chapters to detailing the various laws of ritual impurity, along with some of the dietary laws. After this, the Torah resumes the narrative with Acharei Mos (these words indicating that these chapters are to be read as a unit), where Aharon is given the details of the Yom Kippur service. Following all this, we find parshas Kedoshim, with its vast array of laws governing every aspect of life. What is the meaning of this progression?
As is made evident from the context, the function of the laws relating to ritual defilement and proscription of alcohol is to ensure the sanctity and integrity of the Mikdash. The deaths of Nadav and Avihu pointedly demonstrated the absolute necessity of maintaining that sanctity, as its violation resulted in tragedy. The laws of ritual defilement proclaim that while defilements exist and must be dealt with appropriately, they must remain outside the Mikdash. At this point, the narrative is resumed with Acharei Mos and the details of the Yom Kippur service. With the Mikdash secured against defilement, Aharon could be given instructions as to the proper method of positively engaging the Mikdash. So far so good, but in what way does parshas Kedoshim follow from this?
I believe that the message is as follows: Kedoshim, with its laws for all areas of Jewish life, from agriculture to business to interpersonal relationships, expresses the Jewish ideal, in which no place, activity, or inner experience, no matter how apparently mundane, remains unsanctified. The Jew can and must be a Kadosh in the totality of his life experience. However, the Torah reminds us that while this is the goal, it is not the first step. Parshas Kedoshim is to be seen against the backdrop of the parshiyos preceding it, which proclaim loudly the centrality of a Mikdash uncompromised in its sanctity. The message then, is clear: In order to ultimately transform the entire world, profane included, into a Mikdash, we must first build and protect the spiritually pure Mikdash at our core.
II
In recent years, it has become accepted for post-high school students to spend a year or two studying in an institute of higher Jewish learning in Israel. This is a special opportunity for the students to dramatically grow and develop in terms of their learning and yirat shamayim, and for many it is a truly transformative experience. Students feel that they have finally found themselves and their place in the world, dedicating themselves to a life of self-fulfillment in the world of Torah. This sense of purpose and direction, along with the nurturing, often idyllic setting of the Yeshiva, provide the student with a profound feeling of contentment and inner-peace. Unfortunately, this experience does have one definite shortcoming: it ends.
With the exception of a select few, most students return from their time in Israel in order to attend college and begin the path towards their professional careers. The students must once again deal with the difficulties, obstacles, and banalities of a secular and pragmatically driven world. In place of spending their days and nights engaging their spirits in the worship of G-d and the study of His word, they are forced to attend classes in which they are often uninterested and fight for the advantages requisite for a successful career.
Understandably, this transition is for many a difficult one. No longer in the nourishing, insular walls of the Yeshiva, the students’ commitment to Torah and yiraat shamayim begin to fade, while, at least at first, their thirst and desire do not. Both because of the straining demands made on their time, and the various distractions involved, the students’ quests for spiritual development are stunted, leaving them frustrated and yearning for those days past when they were still in Israel. These students bemoan the fact that they have been forced by the exigencies of life to abandon their beloved yeshivas in exchange for a life of secular and pragmatic pursuits, the so-called "real world." This they consider a crushing blow to their spiritual development. While I certainly understand this sentiment, and I admit to experiencing it myself, I believe that in most cases it is fundamentally misguided.
First of all, we must clarify the actual value and function of the spiritual development accomplished in the sheltered confines of the Yeshiva. That it does exist is apparent to the naked eye; no one can deny the change and growth of countless individuals. What does raise an eyebrow though, is that once outside the Yeshiva, this apparent change, growth, and commitment often seems transient and short-lived. It seems that often the spiritual development and commitment that results from the Yeshiva experience, as great as it may be, has no backbone. And I do not believe that this phenomenon can be blamed entirely on overwhelming forces and pressures of the secular world. I can testify personally that commitments which I had genuinely felt to be ironclad while in Yeshiva, simply evaporated upon my return home, not because of any external pressure, but simply due to reverting to eighteen years worth of deeply ingrained habit. In other words, while in Yeshiva I appeared to be a different person, and to be sincerely dedicated to certain principles and modes of behavior, the truth was that the changes, at least on a practical level, were often only surface deep.
Why is this the case? To put it bluntly, the Yeshiva is an artificial environment. The reason so many people grow so rapidly and so drastically is because it is easy. The Yeshiva student is provided with a schedule and structure entirely dedicated to developing his learning and yirat shamayim, is surrounded by fellow likeminded students all working towards the same goals, and is supported and encouraged by a dynamic and powerfully influential staff. In this environment, spiritual growth is for many simply the path of least resistance. Therefore, when the environment disappears, we should not be shocked if the spiritual growth goes along with it.
I believe leaving the Yeshiva to return to the "real world" can actually be a positive and productive step in one’s development as a ben Torah. First, it provides the student with the ability to gauge himself and his growth accurately, an obvious prerequisite for continued development. Furthermore, what development one does achieve, while it may not compare quantitatively to that of the Yeshiva, is qualitatively so much greater. Gains achieved through challenge and struggle are always more rewarding, and in this case I believe they are also more real. To change in a difficult environment, certainly one in which the forces of habit are the strongest, one must truly change himself, which is the only change that really counts.
Most importantly, the place of the Jew cannot be in a protected fortress only, but must extend to the world at large, encompassing the whole of human experience, the mundane included. We must, at the very least, have the ability to be Jews not only in the spiritually pure environment of the Yeshiva, but also in the home, school, and workplace. Religious commitment that can be sustained only within the narrow confines of the Yeshiva, but not in the university or workplace cannot be genuinely Jewish. The world in its entirety must be our Mikdash.
What then is the value and function of the sheltered Yeshiva experience? It is in the Yeshiva where we have the opportunity to grow and cultivate our spiritual core, our most fundamental beliefs, perspectives and commitments, the Mikdash within us. Free from the corrupting impurities of the world, we develop uninhibited our inner identity as Jews dedicated to avodas Hashem and the ultimate realization of His kingdom on earth. What we must take from our Yeshiva experience is not mere quantitative behaviors, but rather a deep, personal commitment and orientation to the values of Judaism which colors, whether greatly or subtly, all our decisions as we confront the world. To be sure, our external religious behaviors and commitments will often whither, and we will find ourselves sliding backwards on the path of spiritual development. However, even when we fall, we will be facing in the right direction, always yearning and striving for our goals. In the Yeshiva we have the opportunity to create and fortify a spiritual core, our own personal Mikdash. We can then confidently and proudly act and assert our identity as Jews in the totality of human experience, from holy to profane, and from success to failure, making the whole world our mikdash.
For clarity’s sake, I am not saying that leaving Yeshiva is always a positive step; it often isn’t. It is truly a challenge, and many do not succeed. My point though, in too few words, is this: We should view leaving Yeshiva to engage the world at large as nothing less than an opportunity to further our spiritual development in both quality and scope. It is an opportunity to allow our spiritual core, the holiness of the Yeshiva, to permeate the whole of our existence.
Alex Ozar is a Staff Writer for Kol Hamevaser