אַתָּה קָדוֹשׁ וְשִׁמְךָ קָדוֹשׁ וּקְדוֹשִׁים בְּכָל יוֹם יְהַלְלוּךָ סֶּלָה: כִּי קל מֶלֶךְ גָּדוֹל וְקָדוֹשׁ אָתָּה: בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה’ הָקל הַקָּדוֹשׁ – You are holy and Your Name is holy and holy beings praise You every day, forever. For a great and Almighty King— great and holy—are You. Blessed are You, Adonoy, the Almighty, the Holy One.
Intro
This blessing closes out the opening section of the Amida that corresponds to our ancestors. Aside from the overarching theme of our ancestors in general, there is also a specific blessing corresponding to each Patriarch in particular, each embodying unique attributes that laid the foundations of our spiritual identity – אלקינוּ וֵאלקי אֲבותֵינוּ. אֱלקי אַבְרָהָם. אֱלקי יִצְחָק. וֵאלק יַעֲקב.
We open with Avraham’s blessing, Avraham the first, for whom kindness was first and foremost, mirroring and tapping into the Creator’s predominant mode of interacting with the universe. We follow this up with Yitzchak’s blessing, the embodiment of strength or might, the manifesting of determination and resilience during the Akeidah, linking him to the concept of resurrection of the dead as a symbol of ultimate power.
This blessing praises God’s sacred separation and is associated with Yakov, who is identified with the traits of truth and beauty. Truth tempers kindness with justice, which results in beauty, splendor, meaning, and permanence, synthesizing his forebears’ attributes, integrating kindness and might in harmonious balance, where the sacred finds expression in life.
Yakov is holy
In Moshe’s parting speech to the Jewish People, he comments that there is no one like the God of Yeshurun, a term of endearment for Israel associated with Yakov that highlights uprightness or straightness.
Our sages suggest an alternative reading: no one is quite like God, but who is? Yeshurun – that is, Yakov. The Midrash defends this reading by noting a comparison: God stands alone, and Yakov also stood alone at the river when he wrestled with an angel, a defining moment that led to his transformation into Yisrael – ויותר יעקב לבדו / ונשגב ה’ לבדו.
A common adjective or verb is a simple function of how language works. Two people can speak, but it doesn’t suggest they are similar! Moreover, the simple reading makes sense that there is no one like God, which we affirmed in the first blessing – מִי כָמוךָ בַּעַל גְּבוּרות וּמִי דומֶה לָּך.
Quite profoundly, our sages teach that the common terminology is not coincidental but intentional, inviting us to consider an association between the Creator and our ancestor Yakov; the Creator is unparalleled and is entirely alone and unique, but so is Yakov in many respects, both in his experiences and in his spiritual journey.
There is one particular sense in which Yakov stands alone that marks a point of departure from his fathers and enables the bold claim of the Midrash. In the narratives of our ancestors, the chapters of Yishmael and Esau serve as narrative counterpoints to the archetypes of our ancestors, representing potential divergences from the spiritual ideals their fathers exemplified. In a certain respect, Yishmael and Esau can be seen as metaphoric husks surrounding the fruit, symbolizing the challenges and externalities that can envelop and obscure the core spiritual legacy.
The question of whether God creates spare or side characters in the form of individuals like Yishmael and Esau invites us to consider the broader purpose and potential within every human being and the complexities of spiritual development. The Torah portrays Avraham’s path as one of becoming a journey and uses fatherhood as one of the symbols of this theme. Initially childless, Avraham’s path gradually unfolds with divine purpose and transformation. The birth of Yishmael before Yitzchak is not a detour but a critical phase in Avraham’s evolution, symbolizing the trials, growth, and preparatory work necessary before reaching the point of readiness to father Yitzchak, the child of promise. Yishmael, therefore, is not disposable but plays a significant part in the narrative that shapes Avraham and the unfolding divine plan.
Similarly, the birth of Esau alongside Yakov is laden with symbolic potential and intention. Far from an extra, Esau represents a path that, while ultimately divergent from Yakov’s, carries its own lessons. Our sages suggest that Esau had the potential to be Yakov’s partner and might yet be; every individual is born with potential and purpose. Divergences from these paths are not indications of worthlessness but are integral to the human experience and spiritual journey; this teaching ought to shift our perspective of the Torah’s characters from being merely protagonists or antagonists to embodying the complex interplay of choice, potential, and the divine plan.
Regardless, Yakov stands apart from Avraham and Yitzchak in this regard. He established perfect continuity in the holistic and integrated spiritual legacy he left his children, underscored by his family’s adherence to his path. Yakov’s life and legacy distinguish him and suggest a direct, undivided transmission of values and divine connection, symbolizing the ideal of a seamless continuation, a culmination of the spiritual trajectories set forth by Avraham and Yitzchak, achieving a synthesis where Yakov distilled their core spiritual essence without any of their associated encumbrances.
Perhaps for this reason, our prayers speak of how the Creator sits on the prayers of Israel in holiness, that is, Yakov – וְאַתָּה קָדוֹשׁ יוֹשֵׁב תְּהִלּוֹת יִשְׂרָאֵל.
Being Holy
The word “holy” means dedicated or consecrated to God or a religious purpose or sacred. It’s an abstract term that is hard to relate to in a modern setting.
When something is sacred, it is imbued with a sense of holiness, transcendence, or the divine. It stands in contrast to the profane, which represents the ordinary, mundane aspects of life. The sacred reveals an utterly different order of reality from that we encounter daily. It is characterized by its wholeness, its significance as being wholly other, and its capacity to provide orientation and meaning to human existence.
For religious people, an encounter with the sacred enables individuals to perceive the ultimate reality or truth, and the manifestation of the sacred establishes a fixed point, a center, the axis around which ordinary living revolves. Judaism has sacred times, like Shabbos and the Chagim, sacred spaces, like Jerusalem and the Beis Hamikdash, and sacred actions, like mitzvos. These sacred elements create a framework through which it becomes possible to encounter God, history, and the community in a way that transcends the mundane aspects of daily life.
A classic example in Jewish law is when someone sets aside an animal or contribution from their personal property, designating it as a sacrificial offering in the Beis HaMikdash. This act of separation transforms the object from the moment of consecration; this designation alters its interaction with the world, imbuing it with a sacred purpose that elevates its status long before the fulfillment of the holy purpose. This act is called consecration, and the formerly profane has now become sacred and holy, existing in a state of heightened potential that transcends ordinary use or function – מקדיש / הקדש.
A sacred object is not inherently inaccessible or otherworldly but is interwoven with the fabric of daily life; a consecrated sheep in a field is still just a sheep in a field but must be treated differently. Maintaining the sanctity of the sacred in the mundane world requires attention, responsibility, and reverence. To treat something holy in a profane manner is not merely a violation of a commandment but a profanation of the sacred itself; if someone were to shear the sheep for wool or slaughter it for meat, it would be a crime of embezzlement or misuse, disrespecting and desecrating the sacred- מעילה.
Unlike-ness – אַתָּה קָדושׁ וְשִׁמְךָ קָדושׁ
God is sacred; God is holy; God is separate.
The intrinsic nature of the Divine is a concept that transcends mere separation from the mundane or profane. In this context, holiness does not imply a hierarchical superiority but rather a state of being that is fundamentally different and inaccessible to human comprehension. This understanding of holiness challenges us to reconceptualize our approach to the divine and the sacred, not in terms of elevation or spiritual hierarchy, but as a recognition of the profound otherness and incomprehensibility of the Divine essence.
And yet, the Torah itself suggests that despite the infinite gap between Creator and Creation, the sacred is a tantalizing link that bridges a relationship between the Divine and humanity – קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ כִּי קָדוֹשׁ אֲנִי. At first glance, any comparison to God is paradoxical. What compares to the Creator?
Holiness cannot mean something entirely separate from Creation; humans are deeply integrated with and part of Creation, so any notion of human holiness must emphasize the potential to reflect divine attributes within the constraints of our embodied existence.
It suggests that our pursuit of holiness is not about aspiring to leave the human condition behind but infusing our very human lives with values and actions that reflect a commitment to something beyond ourselves. Rather than emulate the incomprehensible, this means acting with attributes and behaviors that align with the Divine will, such as justice, compassion, and integrity, sanctifying our lives and the world around us.
When someone detaches from the world, they might imagine emulating God. Ironically, the attempt to act like God feels satisfying but utterly fails. If it seems evident that our nature and God’s nature are different, the Torah nonetheless reinforces the difference between our holiness and God’s because there is a ceiling capping ours; as the very following words affirm, only God detaches like that – קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ כִּי קָדוֹשׁ אֲנִי.
The prophet opens the book of Isaiah with a lengthy rebuke in God’s name to a self-righteous generation that constantly came to the Beis HaMikdash in prayer and sacrifice, always careful to observe Shabbos and the holidays. But the prophet says that God was disgusted, sick of their performative holiness, that their spirituality was self-serving and not about serving God at all. It was entirely hollow, and God didn’t want it.
It’s easy to get caught up and obsessed with purity and spirituality; it’s a seductive and sinister pitfall because it feels like giving yourself up to God, with all the trappings of religion and spirituality. But the prophet saw through their actions and recognized the self-indulgence that underlay it all; his words stand for posterity and tell us today that spirituality can be as self-indulgent as any other vice.
There is a spark of God that lives inside each of us – קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ כִּי קָדוֹשׁ אֲנִי. The Creator is not bound to predispositions, and we don’t have to be either.
Separate
The Creator is unique, wholly unlike anything we are familiar with, unlike anything we can experience or imagine – אַתָּה קָדושׁ.
And just the way the Creator is unique, the Creator’s names are unique as well, unlike the way names work in every other context – וְשִׁמְךָ קָדושׁ.
Especially in Hebrew, a name is more than a label and captures the essence of its bearer, a form of nominative determinism; in the Creation story, Adam names the animals, an act signifying not only dominion but a profound understanding of their inherent nature. R’ Shamshon Raphael Hirsch notes that the word for name is the same as the word for place; labeling something properly puts it in its place – שֵׁם / שָׁם.
God’s essence and name don’t conform to this principle; they are different from the kind of holiness or sanctity we are familiar with, fundamentally distinct, wholly other, entirely alien, and ultimately incomprehensible, not accessible to human cognition and language.
God doesn’t have a name in the conventional sense. Our sages teach that at Moshe’s first encounter with the Creator at the burning bush, he asked to know the Creator’s name, and the Creator declined to answer. Instead, the Creator offered a fluid identity, preferring to be associated with actions and deeds, a dynamic state of constant becoming. In fact, the Zohar suggests that the entire Torah is just names of the Creator.
God’s essence is beyond our comprehension, so the names and descriptions we use to refer to the Divine are necessarily limited. They do not describe God as He is in His essence but as we experience Him. This limitation of human vocabulary means that our language about God is always metaphorical or analogical, pointing toward the Divine without fully encapsulating it. This teaching reminds us that our understanding of God is ultimately shaped by our limited perspective; the sharp contrast to our lives, the utterly different order of reality that this touches upon, is what we call sacred – אַתָּה קָדושׁ וְשִׁמְךָ קָדושׁ.
But all the same, it’s something we ask to know every day – וְנִהְיֶה אֲנַחְנוּ יוֹדְעֵי שְׁמֶךָ.
The holy ones praise every day forever – וּקְדושִׁים בְּכָל יום יְהַלְּלוּךָ סֶּלָה
There is continuous, daily praise emanating from those considered holy.
It could be a reference to the angels, the righteous and saintly people, the Jewish People, or perhaps all of these. Whichever it is, it leads to the humbling realization that, no matter how earnest or refined, even the most spiritually elevated among us are faint and insignificant on the grand cosmic scale.
This opens up a key aspect of the divine-human interaction in general and prayer in particular. The significance of the praise offered by the holy ones is not found in the magnitude of their holiness but in the fact that God desires, loves, cherishes, and values this praise. It’s not the comparative size or quality of the praise or its source that matters, but the relationship it signifies, a relationship in which the Infinite chooses to engage with and delight in Creation in a way that transcends the vast differences in our natures.
This suggests that what makes our praise meaningful is not its ability to enhance God’s glory but its capacity to express the depth of our yearning and mutual desire for connection with the Creator, the longing of the created to touch the Creator, the finite to reach for the Infinite.
Filters
One of the defining features of the human experience is that when we encounter something we can’t understand, we have a natural predisposition to curiosity that leads us to attempt to figure it out. Faced with a complex puzzle, we will approximate and estimate as best as we can with analogy, metaphor, and narrative to get closer to understanding what lies before us; it’s not a limitation but a fundamental aspect of how we interact with the world.
So, for instance, we can’t understand the Creator, but we use human anatomy and emotions as metaphors to describe interactions with the divine that are beyond our full comprehension. God’s essence does not change; it is beyond time and not subject to the flux of states or emotions. Yet, in our attempt to grasp the nature of divine justice or interventions, we draw upon what is familiar as a close proxy for what we experience.
The proxy isn’t quite what it is but an attempt to describe what it is like.
In a certain sense, everything we think is great or sacred is filtered and interpreted through the lens of familiar concepts and experiences; our descriptions and analogies are filters through which we interpret qualities that lie beyond our direct comprehension. Every great person we look up to as a spiritual leader and role model, a source of wisdom and virtue that is otherwise beyond our direct understanding, has a lineage of teachers of their own, extending further and wider than we can imagine.
As R’ Samson Raphael Hirsch observes, Judaism’s heroes are not hermits on hilltops or scholars in ivory towers; they actively drive positive change in their communities by publicly living out the Torah’s teachings – צַדִּיקִם בְּתוֹךְ הָעִיר.
The teacher you have, the teacher you know, is great, is wise, is inspiring, is fantastic, is holy. That’s enough to understand the concept. The teachers you look up to and respect are not perfect, but they embody the paradigm of the sacred: the different order of reality they live for, the wholesomeness they live with, and the meaning and purpose they live with and teach. They are part of the community, in the community, but not too caught up in the petty parts of community life.
The people we look up to praise God every single day – וּקְדושִׁים בְּכָל יום יְהַלְּלוּךָ סֶּלָה.
Every day forever
Forever isn’t a long time; it’s a concept that transcends time, something eternal, without end.
This sense of forever isn’t like that.
The word here is associated with the word for path – סֶּלָה / מסלה. The people who walk this path understand that our spiritual journey is an ongoing process of continuous movement, growth, praise, and discovery. You have walked this path; you are one of the holy ones.
This journey is inherently personal and unique for each individual, marked by different starting points, challenges, and rates of progression. The emphasis, therefore, shifts from the destination to the journey itself, where the act of moving forward, of engaging in this spiritual walk every day, becomes the essence of what it means to exist for always.
There is no state of perfection to reach, no endpoint beyond which there is nothing else to seek or to learn. What makes the difference is recognizing that the process itself, the daily steps we take on our individual paths, with all the bumps and scrapes, are what connect us to the timeless – וּקְדושִׁים בְּכָל יום יְהַלְּלוּךָ סֶּלָה.
Closing
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה’, הָקל הַקָּדושׁ – Blessed are You, O Lord, the holy God.
In the first blessings, we have praised God’s might and power, refracted through God’s predominant attribute of kindness. This blessing concludes by blending might and power, kindness, and separation – הָקל הַקָּדושׁ.
(!ed Shlomo – this section needs work)
This touches on a key point in Jewish thought, the apparent contradiction of transcendence and immanence. If the Creator is totally separate and removed from Creation, how can the Creator also be deeply present and concerned with Creation?
The answer lies in how the Creator’s kindness is not like human kindness; it has an aspect of detachment and separation as well. The Creator can have deep and intimate engagement and involvement with our universe but can remain transcendent.
God is in the world, and God participates in the world, but unlike how we do. The world does not consume God; God is not immersed in it like we are. We cannot affect God, change God, or manipulate God. God is in the ugly moments and places, illustrating God’s ultimate separation and unlikeness. God can be amidst difficulty, evil, pain, and suffering and not be impacted by it. That’s separation, unlikeness—a part of and yet apart from. Together, yet detached.
We conclude the blessing with wonder at the complexity and depth of God’s might, in the ability to remain utterly holy and transcendent while also being the ultimate source of kindness, involvement, and care for Creation – הָקל הַקָּדושׁ.
Not so separate
In a military setting, a general would never fraternize with enlisted soldiers; it would be wildly inappropriate to violate the boundaries of discipline and respect, so both must maintain distance. When decision-makers form close bonds with the people whose lives are in their hands, it clouds their judgment and changes how they think, for better or for worse.
The Chasam Sofer critiques asceticism and the nature of spiritual purity, challenging a fundamental assumption. A monk who withdraws from the world, depriving his body of food, drink, warmth, companionship, or speech, may appear to embody a form of holiness through separation and avoidance of worldly temptation. There is a school of thought that espouses this view, but sanctity achieved through withdrawal raises the question of whether any form of mastery over one’s environment and desires has been attained.
Quite arguably, does it not show the exact opposite?
Is it more difficult to remove oneself from the temptations and trials of the world or to live within the world, experiencing its pleasures, challenges, and complexities, without being spiritually compromised?
Is it harder to fast, be silent, shut your eyes, and avoid the world? Or is it harder to eat kosher and follow all the laws, to speak to everyone you normally would without a word of gossip, and engage the world with your eyes open and look away from the negative influences that inundate us all? If the only way to show restraint is to withdraw from the world, you aren’t in control at all.
But humans are sponges, and our brains are plastic; what we absorb is an essential choice because everything leaves a trace. Which words, ideas, impressions, attitudes, preferences, and prejudices should we absorb or repel?
This reinforces how the sacred is not merely a matter of physical separation or avoidance of the profane but a dynamic engagement with the world in a manner that is both conscious and controlled, not inherently inaccessible or otherworldly but interwoven with the fabric of daily life. Living with sanctity, the world can be familiar but not indulgent, and we can enjoy what life has to offer without being dominated by it. Sanctity comes from the ability to navigate the complexities of life, making conscious, controlled choices that reflect spiritual values and discipline.
Judaism doesn’t ask us to pull back from the beautiful world the Creator made us or to neglect the incredible equipment we have been given to appreciate it; it asks us to engage but not indulge. Enjoy your food but in this way. Talk all you like, but not about that. Fall in love, but with your spouse. Judaism’s conception of holiness is control and mastery, not indulgence. It is much easier to die for God than to live for God.
The measure of holiness is not in how far one distances oneself from the world but in how one can be in the world but not of it. This balance allows for a more challenging and meaningful sanctity, as it demands constant awareness, choice, and discipline. It represents a holiness achieved not through isolation but through the deliberate sanctification of everyday existence.
Our sages tell of Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi, a leading sage at a time of transition and upheaval. He was fabulously wealthy and had fresh fruit and vegetables on his table all year round in an era when importing was prohibitively expensive. Despite having fresh culinary delights daily, he swore that he never took an ounce of pleasure from this world.
At face value, this story makes no sense if holiness and sanctity are associated with abstinence and asceticism. But if they are associated with how to interact and separate from objects, control, and mastery, then it’s a far more modest and realistic claim; he could sit at a full table, make the blessings, partake, and perhaps even enjoy the food, but with no gluttony. He didn’t crave it; he wasn’t a slave to his desire. He could sit at a full table of fine food, immersed in an environment of materialism, and consume without being consumed, engaging with the material world in a way that was governed by spiritual values and discipline, utilizing it for blessings – קדושה.
Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi’s deathbed declaration highlights a path of holiness that is characterized by a deliberate and conscious engagement with the world. His ability to enjoy the world’s offerings without being ensnared by them illustrates a mastery over the self that is deeply rooted in spiritual awareness and discipline. This approach advocates for a life where the physical and the spiritual are not in conflict but are integrated, with the physical world serving as a vehicle for spiritual expression and growth; history has given him the title of Rabbeinu HaKadosh – the holy.
In Judaism’s conception of holiness, a righteous person is separate from and unlike other people in that the world does not suck them in. They can eat and enjoy a steak but don’t lust for it. They understand that food nourishes and sustains our bodies, giving us health and strength, and that flavor and texture are merely biological adaptations that reward us for taking care of our bodies. They have separated themselves from the other aspects of food.
(!ed Shlomo: following paragraph example is questionable for correctness and sensitivity)
Imagine hosting two guests, both recovering from alcoholism, unknown to you, and you offer them a drink. One of them gently refuses outright and states that he has overcome his alcoholism and no longer drinks. The other graciously accepts one drink and no more informing you that he has rehabilitated himself. The person who is more in control is, perhaps counterintuitively, the person who can moderate themselves to one drink without relapse. This is so difficult to do, which is precisely why it displays more control. When you can have one drink without indulging and getting consumed by it, that’s holiness, a mode of being unlike what is familiar.
In a certain, limited sense, that’s a reflection of how God interacts with the universe, intimately engaged with the world and its inhabitants the Creator’s presence permeates all of Creation, entirely unaffected by it – melo chal haaretz kevodo.
At the same time, the Creator will not be affected or diminished by this engagement; we cannot control, force, manipulate, or tamper with God in any way, and God can be present for the good parts and the bad parts kadosh kadosh kadosh / shochen btumasam.
This dynamic highlights a complex aspect of the relationship between the Creator and Creation. Even in the moments when life seems devastatingly harsh or unfair from our perspective, it is guided by a comprehensive vision that transcends human understanding; there is a plan. A healthy human will struggle to put the people they love through difficult times. It is challenging for a loving parent to stay the course when enforcing necessary discipline; how do you make your children sad when you love them and would give them anything to your dying breath? Where a human might crack under pressure or be swayed by emotions, God’s judgment and actions are informed by an all-encompassing perspective, God holds the objective, separate, macro view, seeing beyond the immediate to the ultimate good that is often beyond human comprehension – הָקל הַקָּדושׁ.
This does not negate the pain or suffering people experience in any way, but it does offer a framework within which to understand the role of such experiences in a broader divine context. It suggests that God’s separateness allows for a kind of engagement with the world that is both deeply compassionate and fundamentally unswayed by the fluctuations of human affairs. God’s unique ability to be separate yet fully present in the intricacies of Creation invites us to recognize that every aspect of existence is enveloped within God’s overarching vision of goodness and purpose.
The Ohr HaChaim observes that Avraham and Yitzchak, identified with kindness and might, must overcome or dispel certain imperfections or challenges as part of the divine plan to pave the way for Yakov, the embodiment of truth. Each contributed essential qualities, but it was Yakov’s synthesis of them, in combination with his discernment of when to exercise them, that distinguished him as a person of balance and discipline; he embodied what was best in each of them, which allowed him to weather a life immersed in difficulty and loss, yet he was not consumed by it.
Where strict justice would require might or where kindness would require softness, Yakov’s characteristic of truth allowed for a detached, impartial, and more objective response to what the circumstances called for, calibrating a moderate path. He could be inundated with challenges and difficulties but could be detached enough to act properly.
There is a vast difference between helping and enabling; helping too much deprives individuals of the opportunity to learn, grow, and become self-reliant. The act of helping appears to be kind but does not align with the deeper truth of what is genuinely beneficial for the person in the long run.
The truth is that we need to face challenges. Learning how to do homework, study, budget, stay healthy, and develop skills is hard but good. The critical factor is balance. If you always do someone’s homework for them, give money to someone who spends irresponsibly, ignore or cover up bad behaviors, and shield someone from consequences, are you really helping them in the long run?
When people need help, you should help them. But if it ever gets to a point where they stop putting in the effort, it would be an inappropriate expression of kindness to enable them; they need to learn how to get by on their own, and a virtue has become a vice. The proper response is to ease the immediate strain and ultimately let them struggle until they succeed.
God can make our troubles disappear instantly and remove all disease, death, and financial problems in the world. Everyone could find their soulmate and have children, and no one would ever fight with their family. But that doesn’t seem to be the universe we live in, and it’s precisely because the Creator is kind yet detached.
The universe is a lot bigger than our personal wish lists. Beyond our own lives, God is concerned with the Jewish People’s future, the world’s safety and security, and the well-being of the environment and all its creatures, the solar system, the Milky Way, the smooth operation of the universe, and everything in it and how all the parts move together; the Creator’s separation and unlikeness is what enables kindness and connection.
It is axiomatic that we need to face our challenges, and we can only pray they are of the ordinary kind. The attribute of truth is how the Creator can be dispassionately detached from the local pain with no misplaced softness. Without being harsh or kind, our lives unfold in just the way they need to – הָקל הַקָּדושׁ.
You’re not better
There is a crucial distinction between negative liberty, the freedom from, and positive liberty, the freedom to. Negative liberty means freedom from restrictions placed on you by others; positive liberty means freedom to control and direct your own life, consciously make your own choices, create your own purpose, and shape your own life.
The trouble with negative liberty on its own is that we are inevitably enslaved to someone or something, even if it’s our conscious habits or subconscious instincts. Someone with negative liberty can do as they please, like someone on infinite vacation. They may have a good time first but will eventually become enslaved to some form of addiction, desire, or laziness. They aren’t free; they are lost. True freedom requires positive liberty and taking responsibility for yourself by committing to an idea or purpose, such as a diet and workout regimen for good health. However forced it may seem, making those choices is the highest expression of freedom, and you ultimately only stand to benefit in the long run.
The Midrash suggests that freedom not only exists in the responsibility of service to God, but it is also the only way ever to be truly free. When the Torah says that God carved the Ten Commandments, the Midrash suggests we alternatively read it as liberation through the Ten Commandments – חָרוּת עַל־הַלֻּחֹת / חֵרוּת עַל־הַלֻּחֹת. We earn freedom through the Torah’s framework by assuming responsibility for our lives and destiny. It’s an externally imposed responsibility to be more human, kinder, and compassionate, but it bestows ultimate positive liberty, freeing us from slavery to our worst inclinations.
God offers us positive liberty, the freedom to take control of our lives and realize our fundamental purpose. We can’t give anything to God, which means that we are the only beneficiaries of the relationship between God and us – it’s the only thing that allows us to be free because we can utilize our freedom to thrive, tapping into our highest and best selves and making our lives matter. God offers humans positive liberty and, through it, cosmic significance.
If we do not serve God, even if we have rid ourselves of all desires and possessions, it’s still entirely possible to be self-righteous and self-serving and truly believe they are holy and above it all. Yet King David would dance like a madman in front of the Torah, and when his wife said he was disgracing himself, he replied that the only disgrace would be if he didn’t disgrace himself before the Torah. He didn’t think he was too dignified or important to revel in the Torah celebration. Being able to let go of his self-consciousness and self-absorption demonstrated that he worshipped God, not himself, the ultimate expression of freedom.
It’s essential to be able to detach, even from your own self-image. When a person is arrogant, they are subservient to their self-image; they won’t do the correct thing because it’s beneath them.
Everyday holiness
R’ Elchanan Wasserman remarked that his teacher, the Chafetz Chaim, was a people person and loved to chat with his visitors. But for all the people he spoke to, for all the time he spent talking, he avoided the pitfall of gossip; he retained control and mastery of his speech.
It’s lazy and cliche to say the world is struggling with immorality and impurity or that our generation is bad and weak. Humans have always been human, and those things have always existed; the prophets had plenty to say a long time ago.
But what is certainly true is that the modern world has gotten a lot more efficient. With abundant opportunities to indulge, endless waves of materialism, consumption, and instant gratification, it’s just too easy to be consumed. Has anything you could ever dream of ever been more accessible than right now?
In an era marked by unprecedented connectivity, the virtue of balance and tolerance emerges not just as a moral ideal but as a foundational pillar. Beneath the interconnected expanse lies a pervasive spiritual malaise, a symptom of our collective inability to moderate the very connections that bind us. This malaise manifests as massive overindulgence, an addiction to the ceaseless consumption of information, experiences, and materialism, leading us away from meaning and what matters.
It’s not foreign ideas, images, media, or substances in particular that are the issue, but a deeper, more insidious problem, the inability to disengage, to recognize when abundance turns to excess. The failure to establish boundaries and say “enough” entangles us in a stranglehold, stripping away sanctity and self-respect from our lives. It’s not a function of the world we engage with but of the relentless grip of unchecked desires.
The world needs holiness, and humans need the sacred. The spiritual practice of navigating the world with wisdom and discernment is what allows us to find balance in an age of excess.