Jonah & me

Among the Biblical characters I have most sympathized with recently is Jonah. I first felt a strong connection last year having been through and recovered from severe chronic depression. I noticed that is exactly what happend to Jonah. I also realized we both recovered in similar ways: we find comfort in physical pleasures. I believe I recovered by tasting water and feeling its refreshment , even in my darkest moment, when I knew I have nothing to live for. I also found that the only therapy that actually worked for me was Dialectical Behavior Therapy, which involves observing and describing, and living in the moment. True, I'm oversimplifying and cherry-piccking, but I'm explaining the aspects that worked for me. I actually learned to use it as a form of escapism; whereas it encourages you to be in the moment, I get lost in the moment to escape the rest of the story.

I therefore had a better grasp of Jonah who, right after expressing his preference for death because of a substantive issue, rejoices at the shade provided for him from the qiqayon. It is as though he just wants to be left alone, comforted, hidden, indeed lost. And the shade provides that cover.

Perhaps this is not the best therapy for leading a happy, productive life. It does not change negative thought patterns. I still live my life in fear. These fears do hold me back. It is a coping mechanism. But, while people often use that term disparagingly, as something the weak cling to, I now believe that a coping mechanism is often the best thing (especially if it does not involve dishonesty or harming others, as some mechanisms that involve thought pattens, often do). Perhaps I am weak, but being able to cope makes me strong. I may not live to be the best Doda I could be, but I can't do that anyway. So at least I live. At least I get up in the morning, do my job, help others, and find and create moments to enjoy.

Of course, this attitude runs counter to much of my religious upbringing. We read in musar books, in some mishnayos and gemaras, and in much of the rishonim that we should mainly strive for ruhniyus (spirituality) and here I am pursuing havle v'sa'anuge olam hazzeh. I seek and find solace in gashmiyus, and gashmiyus alone, even when it goes against ruhniyus.

But that does not mean I need no ruhniyus; I have not abandoned the Torah. Disobey, question, yes; but not abandon. I cannot live my life without it. In the words of Kenny Rogers, You are always on my mind. Perhaps I am Halakhic Rebel. But not even. I still try, where I can, and where I am sure that it won't lead to depression, to keep the Torah. I just can't completely give myself over anymore. Overall, I have adjusted to this kind of life over the past year. Perhaps I am lying to myself, trying to have it both ways. Or maybe I am confused, pulled in different directions by various aspects of emotions and intellect, and this is the best I can do.


This year, as I wrote in my last post, Yom Kippur was especially hard to deal with. I just could not make peace with all that's going on: Asking God for a good year when I do not expect or try to deserve it; not believing anything I do will matter; and willingly not changing my ways and abandon sin. Most of Yom Kippur was indeed empty. But then I read Jonah again. (I must admit, it was during the rabbi's uninspiring speech for ne'ila where he said that now that we have rid ourselves of sin, we are trying to get rid of re'ah ha'avera. I could never relate.) And I found a way to relate.

It occurs to me that Jonah is a book about religious struggle, and eloquently depicts teh interplay of our emtions, intellect, and actions. Quite simply, Jonah does not know what to do. And his shipmates also do not know what to do. They try so hard not to throw him off, but it seems initially they at least suspect it's his fault; he's the only one not praying so they wake him up. They cast lots, presumably to know whose fault the storm is. They must have faith in tis system. But after they cast lots, and the lot shows it's Jonah's fault, they do not just throw him overboard but ask him a bunch of questions, including באשר למי הרעה הזאת. They ask him, the one on whom the lot fell, whose fault the storm is! Isn't it obious? Wasn't that the point of the lots?Then v. 10 tells us they were afraid because they knew he was fleeing God since he'd told them so. It sounds like he volunteered this information. So it seems even more obvious they need to throw him overboard. Instead, they ask him what to do to save them from the storm. He tells them to throw him off. Instead, they try to dock safely. Then, before actually throwing him off, they pray to God (interestingly, no longer their gods) for forgiveness for what they are about to do. They then throw him off, and predictably, the storm stops. They obviously did the right thing. What more of a sign could one want? But their reaction is not relief, but fear! So they take measures to be mekhapper!

It makes no sense.

I can only surmise that they felt emtional anguish. Of course, I may be projecting, and it might have something to do with the idea of appeasing God (or gods) that existed in the ancient world, but I still believe emotions play a part in our determining what is right and deciding what to do. We do not only do what we know to be right, but it also has to feel right. And they do seem like they want to do what's right; they keep emphasizing morality. But the point is we do not just do what our mind tells us we need to, we still try to make ourselves comfortable. And when the two do not match, chaos ensues and we act in an illogical manner.

In fact, I noticed a significant convention: בשל: The prefix ב shows an internal focus. On the outer level, this is referring to who is causing the storm (which is the most obvious issue). On the inner level, we can say it refers to a personal problem. Thus, to determine who caused the storm , the shipmates ask בשלמי הרעה הזאת לנו :In whom is the bad. We can interpret the bad as sin. Of course this makes sense as sin is bad, and since there is a direct correlation with punishment: The sinner is the cause of bad. Using the same word underscores this relationship.

Jonah answers בשלי הסער הגדול הזהעליכם: The storm is in him. Could there be a more poignant way of describing an inner struggle?

G'mar tov?

Each year, this time of year becomes more and more disappointing and empty. When I was young, I belived my teachers to some extent and did view each year as a chance at a clean slate. I did believe that I could change, and that my life could change accordingly. Even though I could not live up to my resolutions, I believed that even if I had the right intentions God would take pity on me and reward me. So I always tried. I am not saying that I never sinned or was a tzadekes. But I tried. I had to or I would think Yo Kippur was a joke, and God would know it, and my teshuva would not count (ehta v'az ashuv doesn't count.) I avoided sin at every turn and even pushed doubts out of my mind; I felt guilty if I did doubt, and that guilt served as a somewhat effective barrier.

Of course, it was not only guilt. I think that what lay at the heart of every devotion, guarding from sin, and avoidance of guilt was fear. Fear that if Yom Kippur did in fact seal my fate for a whole year, I had to do the right thing. Otherwise, my life would be a mess, and it would be my fault. All I had to do to avoid it was repent and that would save me. Of course, a lot of the liturgy is very effective with this approach. How could one who is fearful not feel terror at hearing U'nsanneh tokef? And who is not then filled with hope and relief when we hear: ותשובה ותפלה וצדקה מעבירין את רע הגזרה. Of course I'd want to repent and was hopeful that through repentance my bakashos would be answered. And so I tried, and I davened, and the davening moved me.

But with all these devotions and efforts, my life has turned out to be only a series of tragedies and failures. The k'lalos of the Torah always seem to happen, but never the b'rakhos. At night I wait for day, at day for night. I work hard but nothing bears fruit. I see these tragedies and it hurts, and there is nothing I can do. No matter how hard I tried to do the right thing, God has always been there to punish me. As we read in Ekha, דוב ארב הוא לי.

So I can no longer stand self-abnegation. I will suffer no matter what. Waiting for Olam habba is too much; I need to deal with my life now. And I can no longer be hopeful that God will reward me: I am resigned that my life will only get worse. So I cannot take u'nsanneh tokef seriously anymore. I do not feel awe. I do not tremble. I only go through the motions. Yes, I enjoy the davening. I have come to feel an attachment to rituals I grew up with. I could never imagine not fasting or going to shul on Yom Kippur. But it no longer motivates me; it has become meaningless to my life.

Whereas most Jews (and I used to as well) live by the mantra גם כי אלך בגיא צלמות לא אירא רע כי אתה עמדי I now live by a different גם
גם כי אזעק ואשוע שתם תפלתי

To everyone else, I wish a g'mar hasima tova. But I know I'm in the bad book.