Expressing Divine love to one's fellow

Anyone who's spent the evening pacing the hallway while worrying about their child, felt their stomach turn over at a PTA meeting, or found themselves irrationally upset about a relative's actions, has probably noted that love is a funny thing.

On the one hand it's the source of much of the joy in our life, on the other, it's the source of much of our misery.

Even as we try and escape the misery part, we know on some level that we can't — they go together. A friend whose child is giving her heartache said to me, "I wish I didn't care so much." But as long as this friend keeps on loving her son, she will care and with him acting the way he is, she will be in pain. There's no way to escape the pain because love makes us vulnerable.

The only way to protect ourselves from that thudding heart or the sinking feeling of betrayal when our spouse or child doesn't meet our expectations is by denying ourselves the pleasure of love.

It is hard to wrap our minds around the fact that a successful peple such as ourselves, who manages fine in every area of life, can be reduced to a puddle on the floor when a loved one is hurt or hurts us — but there it is.

In the midst of the pain, we many even fantasize about how peaceful it would be if we were completely on our own. Imagine if we needed no one and no one needed us! Then we could be free of all this: no more disappointment, anger, guilt, worry; no more demands on our time, energy, and resources.

But many would agree that this isn't such a great solution; life without love is a very lonely island, even as love and vulnerability are flip sides of the same coin.

Of course, you don't have to enter into a relationship of love — love cannot be forced — but once you do, you're no longer a free agent. The strongest, most capable person in the world, once in love, becomes as weak and 'dependent' as a baby. True, no one is forcing him to stay; he could just say "I'm out of here." But while he's not restrained by chains of steel, he's bound by chains of velvet. All the bluster in the world doesn't let us escape the fact that you can't both love and not care at the same time.

Since being vulnerable is pretty scary, it's human nature to try and avoid it as much as possible. But while a bestower might be able to fool himself that he doesn't need anyone, a receiver by definition can't escape the fact that she is vulnerable—the definition of being a receiver is being aware of a lack, and yearning to have that lack filled. However, being vulnerable has its benefits — even if it's uncomfortable--because it makes us more aware of how much we need each other. We begin to realize that even when we ourselves are in the bestower mode; we need someone to give to as much as whomever we are giving to needs what we have to give.

Rebbitzin Rivka Ezrachi, the daughter of the great rabbinic sage, Rabbi Chaim Shmuelevitz (d. 1979), told me about the tremendous gratitude her father had to the people who came to his lectures.

Once, on a cold, stormy evening,he traveled someone's bar mitzvah, despite being old and ill. When he was asked why he was making this tremendous effort for someone he barely knew, he answered that he had gratitude to the bar mitzvah boy's father for coming to hear his classes every week for years.

Hundreds of people flocked to do the same and it's highly unlikely this particular man was coming to the shiur in order to do Reb Chaim a favor, and yet in his greatness, Reb Chaim Shmuelevitz was able to acknowledge his need for people to listen to and absorb his Torah.

We've grown up knowing that giving leads to love; imagine the intensity of the tightly-woven relationship when both sides are aware that not only is the giver giving to the receiver, but the receiver gives to the giver the gift of being receptive to what the giver has to give.

This mutuality creates the strongest bond. A woman carries that precious awareness of vulnerability into every interaction, even when she is ostensibly cast as bestower. In the many-layered parallel of this world, the psychological pain of the giver who has no one to give to is mirrored in the actual physical pain that a nursing mother (human or animal) experiences when she is engorged with milk and cannot feed her young.

Visiting a petting farm with my children, we came across a mother goat separated from her nursing kids. While the baby goats frolicked around happily, the mother made her distress known very vocally. It was painful to observe, and prompted a number of their visitors to approach the owner and ask him to relieve her of her agony.

Most of us would claim that we nurse our babies because it's good for them, and of course that's part of the equation. But we also nurse because it is good for us; we enjoy the closeness of the relationship, it is pleasurable to nurture, it makes us feel like good mothers, etc. If the baby can't nurse for whatever reason, it is not only physically painful, but also emotionally so.

When we offer to help someone and they refuse our offer, when we make an overture of any kind and it is rebuffed, it hurts, even if we are cast as the one with more power. Real strength is being honest about our need for others to need us.

We think of independence as strength, but perhaps someone who builds his persona on independence is just demonstrating his weakness. Out of his desperation to shore up his own weak sense of self, he denies his most basic human need: connection and love. In truth, hiding from the basic vulnerability that's intrinsic to being human is exhausting and ultimately undoable. To remain alone on your proud island may be a sign of strength in the Western world, but in a world where the whole purpose is love, it's a sign of weakness—a fear so great that it cuts you off from life itself.

THEORETICALLY SPEAKING

This awareness of the symbiotic relationship between bestower and receiver — where each of them is vulnerable to the other —is mirrored in our relationship with G0D. In one of the most successful outreach campaigns ever recorded, Onkelus the Ger chose this intrinsic, reciprocal vulnerability as the distinguishing feature of Judaism.

Onkelus the son of Klonimus converted to Judaism. The Caesar sent a troop of Romans after him and he spoke to them…and they all converted. The Caesar sent a second troop and told them not to say a word to Onkelus. The soldiers arrested Onkelus and as they were leaving, Onkelus said to them, 'when you go out to war, the lowest officers always hold the torch for the higher ones. Does it ever happen that the highest officer holds the light for the lowest officer? When they said no, Onkelus explained that for the Jewish people it works differently. G0D Himself, 'held' the torch for us with the 'amudei eish.' Upon hearing this, the second troop also converted. The third troop were commanded not to enter into a discussion with Onkelus at all; but as they dragging him away, he put his hand on the mezuzah and said, "In every culture, the servants stand outside to guard the king; with the Jewish people, the King stands outside to guard us." The third troop also converted and the Caesar gave up trying to bring Onkelus back. (Tractate Avoda Zara 11:1, free translation)

What did these soldiers find so thrilling about the fact that the Divine holds the torch for us, and guards our gates instead of the other way around? At first glance this doesn't seem to be the kind of tactic that would go over so swimmingly at a religious debate, aton, but since this is the message that Onkelus chose to impress upon the Roman soldiers the beauty and truth of his lifestyle, clearly there's more here than meets the eye.

For as long as civilization has been around, it has been human nature to believe in a higher power; even today, most people on the face of this earth believe in G0D. The question is how people translate the idea of a higher power. Idol worshipers saw the gods as capricious despots who needed to be appeased and tiptoed around so as not to incur their wrath.

Even Western religions, who did believe in One G0D, often perceived Him as an all- powerful tyrant in the sky that yanks us around like marionettes and whom we must plead to for some undeserved grace. Of course, there's a difference between the two approaches; while the 'powers' of the gods the pagans worshiped existed just in their own mind, G0D really is omnipotent and really could crush us completely into oblivion. And yet, He doesn't. Instead of forcing us into obedience, G0D reaches out His hand to us, and offers us a relationship. What could be more 'vulnerable' then reaching out your hand and allowing for rejection?

In the way G0D has set up this world, the Jewish people are not just powerless, impotent beings shaking and quaking before an All Powerful G0D. In fact, since relationship is always determined by the one who wants it less — as unlikely as it might sounditt's we who decide if and when there will even be a relationship.

Onkelus was telling the soldiers that Judaism is not about G0D's power over us, but about His desire for a relationship with us. Maharal explains that Onkelus used G0D's lighting the way for us in the desert and protecting our gates as an expression of the weight He has granted us in this relationship. Instead of us just serving G0D, which would be representative of our need for Him, His 'serving' us shows G0D's 'need' for us. Though He could override, and overpower us, instead He enters into a 'mutual' relationship with us that, by its very nature, makes Him, like anyone in a relationship of love, 'vulnerable' to us, as it were.

Similarly, on Rosh Hashanah, we are told that our main task is to crown Him King. It's a strange concept: who are we to crown Him King?! We are so puny in relation to G0D, who cares what we think? And yet, Onkelus was telling the Roman soldiers about the uniqueness of the Jewish relationship with G0D; our relationship with G0D is not one just of awe, or fear of retribution, but a relationship of love—in which, as we've seen, it makes no difference how great, mighty and powerful you may be, you still are 'needy' towards the one you love.

Judaism is not about us lying there like unmotivated dishrags begging for grace from an unfathomable being. Being in reciprocal relationship means both sides are crucial. By making Himself 'vulnerable' to us—by allowing us to crown Him king, as it were, G0D has placed the responsibility for our destiny right in our own laps.

IN REAL TIME

Being aware of our need for each other has many ramifications. One is that we begin to notice how many people give to us on a daily basis. While Western society thrives on the 'I did it all myself' myth, a willingness to acknowledge vulnerability makes us more honest—and then more grateful.

Joyce Fletcher, in an interesting book called Disappearing Acts, describes the tendency 'to disappear' supportive and collaborative acts. By ignoring these acts, people can trick themselves into thinking that they don't need anyone else. Realizing our interdependence opens the door to a more empathetic, cooperative investment in each other's successes. Instead of hoarding our accomplishments to ourselves we share our knowledge and expertise freely, and rejoice in other people's accomplishments as well as our own.

Being honest doesn't just make us more grateful, it also clarifies our motivations. If we allow ourselves to be vulnerable—to acknowledge our need—instead of being angry because that person never calls, we may be brave enough to say, "I miss you" Unlike anger, such a message is very hard to resist.

Previously:

• 'Why aren't all religious people vegetarians?'

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Miriam Kosman is a lecturer for Nefesh Yehudi, an organization that teaches Torah to thousands of Israeli university students. Her forthcoming book, "Circle, Arrow, Spiral, Exploring Gender in Judaism" is slated to be in bookstores on October 20, 2014. Or order a copy via her website MiriamKosman.com