Do We All Want Relationships on Our Terms?

Barbara Walters, of Television's 20/20, wrote a story about gender roles in Kabul, Afghanistan, several years ago before the Afghan conflict. She noted that women customarily walked five paces behind their husbands.

She recently returned to Kabul and observed that women still walk behind their husbands. From Ms. Walters' vantage point, despite the overthrow of the oppressive Taliban regime, the women now seem to walk even further back behind their husbands and are happy to maintain the old custom.

Ms. Walters approached one of the Afghani women and asked, 'Why do you now seem happy with an old custom that you once tried so desperately to change?'

The woman looked Miss Walters straight in the eyes and without hesitation said, 'Land Mines.'

The moral of the story is (no matter what language you speak and where you go): BEHIND EVERY MAN, THERE'S A SMART WOMAN].

What is Judaism? Is it about G-d or man? Is it about G-d trying to be here for a man or about a man trying to be here for G-d?

To understand the question, let us employ an example of human relationships:

If I have a very close friend—my best friend in the world, my spouse, my childhood buddy, my brother, my child, etc.—the relationship includes two components:  1) I am there for him or her. 2) He or she is there for me. But which of the two constitutes the core of the relationship?

This is not just a theoretical question for Socrates’ Cafe. It has real ramifications. Say that my beloved wife asks me to do something for her that I cannot understand or appreciate, with what level of delight and pleasure do I do it? If for me the primary element of the relationship is about her being here for me, obviously I will still do it, realizing that a relationship must go two ways, you take but you must give, but not with the same zeal and passion as if it were something I can truly appreciate, since after all, in this act I am abnegating myself.

However, if in my eyes the core of the relationship is about me being here for her, then I will garner equal delight and pleasure from doing something for her simply because she desires it, whether I fully relate to her need. To the contrary:  It is in these gestures and acts that I find even more joy since it is these very acts that allow me to go beyond myself and truly connect to her on her terms, not on mine; and this—in my eyes—is the essence of a relationship.

In this definition of a relationship, what matters to me is not so much what she asks me to do as the fact that she, the person I cherish, is asking me to do it. I may not understand the wisdom, but it does not matter; it is not what she asked me; it is that she asked me. 

The same question applies to our relationship with G-d. G-d transcends our minds and psyches; there is no way we can truly wrap our brains around His reality, any more than your iPhone can wrap itself around the essence of your psyche. Our mind is a creation of G-d. How can a creation grasp its creator, especially when its creator is infinite?

[The Kotzker Rebbe once remarked: A G-d who every ‘putrid seed’ can comprehend and understand, is not a G-d I would ever worship…]

Now G-d gave us the Torah as a tool to construct a relationship with Him. Like in any relationship, there are two aspects to the Torah: Those “laws” which are on “G-d’s terms,” transcending our understanding; as well as the many laws that are “on our terms,” affording us the opportunity of a better, deeper and more meaningful life. Which of the two constitutes the essence of Judaism? Which aspect should be accentuated?

This exactly is the argument between Rabbi Yishmel and Rabbi Akiva in the Talmud. For Rabbi Yishmael, the primary value and beauty of the Torah is what it does for the human being. It is the Torah’s gifts to the human condition that ought to be so cherished. G-d presented a “manual for living,” to allow a person to actualize his or her potential in the maximum way and to live a life reflective of man’s true core. Yes, as in every relationship, we must sometimes “yield the way,” and do something even when misunderstood by our finite minds; a relationship goes both ways. Yet the true power and celebration of Judaism is its appeal and relevance to man; it is a human celebration.

For Rabbi Akiva, the value and beauty of the Torah is the opportunity it gives to man to “be here for G-d,” to transcend himself or herself and touch the Divine. Judaism, at its core, is not so much about enhancing man, but about the ability for man to go beyond himself and touch the Divine. The great celebration of Judaism is doing a mitzvah not because we can appreciate it, but doing it because we know that it is G-d’s will. This, for Rabbi Akiva, is far more exciting and exhilarating than grasping the mitzvah, for it is this that allows me the opportunity to transcend myself and go beyond my “terms and conditions,” doing something for G-d on His terms. In a way, the less I understand, the more excited I am. Because for me the meaning of a relationship is being here for you, so my greatest delight and celebration is when I know that this is something for you, not for myself. What matters to me is not so much WHAT G-d is telling me to do, but that HE is telling me to do it.

“To be or to be not—that is the question.” For Rabbi Yishmael, Judaism is about the celebration of “being.” For Rabbi Akiva, it is about the celebration of “non-being,” of transcending human finiteness and becoming submerged in the Divine.

So when G-d presents the Ten Commandments to the Jewish people at Sinai in this week’s Torah portion Yitro, Rabbi Yishmael—who insists that the primary aspect of Torah is it being a tool for human growth and development—says that they affirmed the commandments by saying “yes” on the positive commandments and “no” on the negative commandments.  For Rabbi Yishmael, each mitzvah has a particular theme and message, and the response of the people was according. For Rabbi Akiva—who insists that the primary aspect of the Torah is man celebrating G-d, on His terms, what mattered most was not what G-d commanded, but that G-d commanded it to them. In this sense, all mitzvot are identical—they all illicit an identical resounding “yes” from the human heart, affirming his commitment to implement G-d’s will. From Rabbi Akiva’s perspective, we don’t accentuate the fact that there are “positive” and “negative” commandments; what is accentuated in every mitzvah is that it is G-d’s will, and in that sense, all mitzvot have a singular and an identical theme: an opportunity to fulfill G-d’s intimate desire.

G-d said “Keep the Shabbat;” G-d also said, “Don’t covet your friend’s wife.” For Rabbi Yishmael, you can’t compare the two injunctions. One is positive; the other—negative. One demands activity, the other passivity (to abstain from coveting). One adds serenity and meaning to your life; the other keeps disaster away from your heart’s door. One elicits a “yes”—I will celebrate the Shabbat; I will embrace the weekly light and energy of the Shabbat. The other commandment elicits a “no”—I will not covet something that does not belong to me, I will not fall prey to my base instincts telling me to go and take something that belongs to somebody else.

But Rabbi Akiva has a different take on the matter. The difference between positive and negative commandments is relevant to the person’s way of implementing them; here you must engage in an act, while here you must abstain from an act. But as far as G-d is concerned—they are all Divine commandments. If your focus in the mitzvah is man, there is a division between “yes” and “no.” If your focus is on G-d, all mitzvot are equal: an opportunity to do G-d’s will. Therefore, says Rabbi Akiva, the Jews gave the same response to all of the commandments: “Yes.” Yes, we will fulfill Your will.

For Rabbi Yishmael, mitzvot are “particles.” 613 Divine particles. For Rabbi Akiva, all of the mitzvot are a “wave”—a single and identical experience of transcendence.

This is reflected in the above stories: Rabbi Akiva views life not from the human, finite, perspective, but from the Divine, transcendent, perspective.

Rabbi Akiva was traveling with his students and came upon a city but was unable to find lodging. He said, "Everything G-d does is for the good" and went to sleep in the fields. He had with him a rooster, a donkey, and a candle. A wind came and extinguished his candle, a cat ate his rooster, and a lion devoured his donkey. He said, "Everything G-d does is for the good." That night an army took captive all the inhabitants of the town. He said, "Did I not tell you everything G-d does is for the good? His candle may go out, his rooster eaten, his donkey killed, but he knows all came from G-d and it is good.

And even in the darkest moment of Jewish history—when foxes ran freely in the Holy of Holies, Rabbi Akiva saw only the good: This was proof that the serene and hopeful vision of Zechariah would be vindicated.

And in his final moments, as the evil of Rome came crashing down on his sacred body, he saw that too as an opportunity to fulfill G-d’s mitzvah: You shall love G-d… with all your soul.”

Rabbi Akiva died with the word “Echad,” one, on his lips—because his entire life was “Echad:” One. His life was not comprised of “particles;” his life was a single wave. There were no fragments in his psyche; there was not even a “yes” and “no.” There was oneness in everything and everybody: everything and everybody allowed him the opportunity to connect to G-d. In Rabbi Akiva’s view, even the negative in life constituted a “yes,” a positive phenomenon, not because he was naïve, but because he was always connected to the source of everything; to the “Echad,” in everything he saw the opportunity to grow closer and become one with G-d.

A story is told about a soldier who is finally coming home after having fought in Vietnam. He called his parents from San Francisco.  “Mom and Dad, I’m coming home, but I have a favor to ask. I have a friend I’d like to bring home with me. “Sure,” they replied, “we’d love to meet him.”

“There’s something you should know,” the son continued, “he was hurt pretty badly in the fighting. He stepped on a land mind and lost an arm and a leg. He has nowhere else to go, and I want him to come live with us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, son. Maybe we can help him find somewhere to live.”

“No, Mom and Dad, I want him to live with us.”

“Son,” said the father, “you don’t know what you’re asking. Someone with such a handicap would be a terrible burden on us. We have our own lives to live, and we can’t let something like this interfere with our lives. I think you should just come home and forget about this guy. He’ll find a way to live on his own.”

“Dad, but you will love this guy.”

“I’m sure I will,” said the father, “but he will still be a very big burden and we will resent him for it. Son, love can’t alter reality. This young man will turn our lives into hell.”

At that point, the son said thank you and hung up the phone. The parents heard nothing more from him. A few days later, however, they received a call from the San Francisco police. Their son had died after falling from a building, they were told. The police believed it was suicide.

The grief-stricken parents flew to San Francisco and were taken to the city morgue to identify the body of their son. They recognized him, but to their horror, they also discovered something they didn’t know, their son had only one arm and one leg…

We cannot judge people and their reactions. But there is a profound lesson here: We all want relationships but on our terms. We find it easy to tolerate and celebrate being together with people who are good-looking or fun to have around. Rabbi Akiva teaches us that sometimes we have to develop the courage to celebrate a relationship that is not on our terms. Celebrate the fact that you have an opportunity to transcend yourself and touch something far deeper and truer than your own identity.

Your children don’t always turn out the way you expected them to turn out. They may have challenges you never asked for and never anticipated. You may take care of them nicely but begrudgingly.  Comes Rabbi Akiva and says, learn how to celebrate the opportunity to be there for someone else you love on their terms, not only on your terms. There is unique joy in surrendering your expectations and embracing the reality of the other genuinely.

It is true with people, with family, with our spouse, with our friends, with our community, and with G-d as well. We all do mitzvot. But sometimes it is the mitzvot that we appreciate and internalize which we tend to embrace. There comes a moment in life when Rabbi Akiva says this: Ask not what G-d can do for you; ask what you can do for G-d…

Yes, that mitzvah that never sat well with you—embrace it. And not only because you are a Jew and this is what a Jew does, but do it with happiness, with joy, with passion and enthusiasm. Why? Because with this very act, you are allowed to transcend finite man and touch the Divine.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky