Having It All

A close college friend asked if I wanted to join him for the annual Columbia Barnard Hillel dinner, so I said sure.  As he had driven down from Boston for it, I figured I could take the train into New York City. 

So we met, mingled and had the reality check of recognizing that even though being among college students made us feel like college students, the students are the ages of our children.  And they weren’t looking at us like peers, they were looking at us as, well, potential funders for the programs they want to continue to enjoy.

But this will not be a discussion about the egos of middle-aged men, which are, frankly, predictable and not so interesting.

It will be a discussion about the challenge to “have it all” that these college students pose.

The students, whom we spoke with individually and who addressed the entire dinner crowd, want to have it all. 

They want to be fulfilled as individuals.  They want to find fulfillment in the Jewish community.  They want to make a difference with humanity at large.  And they want to help prevent the world from depleting its resources before they might bring their own children onto the global stage. 

It’s easy to dismiss this as naïve idealism, but we shouldn’t.  And it isn’t narcissism either, because the aspirations of these young people pulsate with a desire to give, not just to receive.  

What should we do about that?

100 years ago, a young rabbi, trained in some of the best yeshivot in Lithuania, made his way to Palestine to become the rabbi of Jaffa.  It was hardly the community in which you would expect to find an Orthodox rabbi with connections to Hasidic dynasties.  Much of the Jewish community in Jaffa at the time was ardently secular.

The rabbi was Abraham Isaac Kook and he went on to become the first Chief Ashkenazic Rabbi of Palestine.

He was a Talmudic scholar, a mystic and a poet.  He saw the virtue in every Jew, religious as well as secular.  He saw the virtue in all human beings.  And he was a staunch proponent of vegetarianism because he believed that it promoted a more harmonious relationship between human beings and the animal kingdom.

Rabbi Kook, Rav Kook, believed it was possible to integrate different spheres of concern and, poetically, identified them as four songs that a person can sing.  The song of oneself.  The song of the nation.  The song of humanity.  And the song of all existence.

I want to read the passage, subsequently referred to as “Fourfold song,” and then I want to suggest how we might enable, not just college students, but people of all ages, to “have it all” in the most profound and effective way.

From Orot Hakodesh, by Rav Kook:

’There is a person who sings the song of his soul.  He finds everything, his complete spiritual satisfaction, within his soul.
        There is a person who sings the song of the nation.  He steps forward from his private soul, which he finds narrow and uncivilized.  He yearns for the heights.  He clings with a sensitive love to the entirety of the Jewish nation and sings its song.  He shares in its pains, is joyful in its hopes, speaks with exalted and pure thoughts regarding its past and its future, investigates its inner spiritual nature with love and a wise heart.
        There is a person whose soul is so broad that it expands beyond the border of Israel.  It sings the song of humanity.  This soul constantly grows broader with the exalted totality of humanity and its glorious image.  He yearns for humanity’s general enlightenment.  He looks forward to its supernal perfection.  From this source of life, he draws all of his thoughts and insights, his ideals and visions.
        And there is a person who rises even higher until he unites with all existence, with all creatures, and with all worlds.  And with all of them, he sings.  This is the person who, engaged in the Chapter of Song every day, is assured that he is a child of the World-to-Come.
        And there is a person who rises with all these songs together in one ensemble so that they all give forth their voices, they all sing their songs sweetly, each supplies its fellow with fullness and life: the voice of happiness and joy, the voice of rejoicing and tunefulness, the voice of merriment and the voice of holiness.
        The song of the soul, the song of the nation, the song of humanity, the song of the world—they all mix together with this person at every moment and at all times.
        And this simplicity in its fullness rises to become a song of holiness, the song of God, the song that is simple, doubled, tripled, quadrupled, the song of songs of Solomon—of the king who is characterized by completeness and peace.’
        Orot Hakodesh II, p. 444

Rav Kook suggests that there’s an upward progression and not everyone makes it to every level.

Some people are content to sing their own songs, to focus on their own souls.  Some people make it further, to embrace the song of their people.  Some get further still, to appreciate humanity overall.  Some progress beyond that to acknowledge all living things.  And some manage to get to the pinnacle, which is to integrate the self, the people, all humanity and all living things.

I want to suggest that the more comfortable we are at each level, the more capable we are of climbing to the next.

Let’s start at the beginning.  The song of our own souls.  People who are miserably uncomfortable in their own skin have a hard time relating to anyone else.

Rabbi Edwin Friedman, also a psychologist, wrote about the importance of self-differentiation, understanding who you are well enough that you present yourself with confidence and strength.

The more aware and comfortable we are with ourselves, the more likely we are to be loving partners and productive professionals, the more creatively we will find our place, first of all, in the story of our people.

If we try for uniformity when we teach children about Judaism, we’re missing the point.  Children, and adults, should feel free to bring their questions, personalities, conclusions, likes and dislikes to our tradition.  If we feel pressured to be someone else, the song of our people won’t take.

What good is it, for example, for agnostics to pretend they have no doubts? 

To the extent that we understand the songs of our own souls, we are more receptive to appreciating the song of our people.

Let’s take it up a notch.  Some people find the song of humanity so compelling that they virtually bypass the song of our people – taking up universal causes in greater number and with greater resources than Jewish causes.

Here too, I would say that the more attuned we are with the story of our people, the greater our capacity to appreciate the human drama, overall.

It’s no secret that Jews, based on our own experience of persecution, have identified with the struggle for universal rights regardless of race, religion, gender or sexual orientation.

We are more attuned to the song of humanity when we appreciate the song of our own souls and the song of our people.

And ultimately, to the extent that we hone our sensitivity to the plight of humanity overall, we recognize the interdependence between human beings and the planet we inhabit.

We can’t farm and hunt indiscriminately forever.  Those who have studied natural resources occasionally remind us that will come a time when we suck the last drop of natural gas out of the earth.

In this regard, it may not surprise us that Israel continues to spearhead research into electronic cars and efficient food production. 

Also not surprisingly, the Torah presents a pretty sophisticated blueprint for how we might navigate the “four songs.”

There are many examples of this, but I’ll just offer a few.  Each individual Israelite who brought first fruits to the Kohen was asked to recite the story of the people.  The bringing of first fruits and the giving of the torah are associated with Shavuot, which we will celebrate in less than two weeks.

Israelites were told to protect one another from hostile strangers. 

And yet, again and again they were instructed to take proper care of the stranger, the non-Israelite in their midst, because they knew the experience of being a stranger from their time in Egypt.

And finally, the land itself needed to rest.  Moreover, it was not to be sold in perpetuity – כי לי הארץ Ki li ha’aretz, God says – the Land belongs to me.

Self, nation, humanity and earth – spheres of concern that are articulated within the Torah and given poetic expression by Rav Kook.

B’nei mitzvah, college students, newlyweds, elder statesman, we all sing many songs.  But one can lead us to the other, one can inform the other. 

We should not have to choose between being a Jew and being a fulfilled human being, or being committed to our faith and caring for humanity overall, or caring for humanity and guarding the earth’s resources. 

If we are thoughtful, we can climb higher and higher, from one song to the next, and we can bring all of these songs together, so that, in the words of Rav Kook, we create:  Shir Kodesh. A Holy song.

The college students that I saw a few days ago are asking the same question that we’re asking, the same question the Torah asks.  Why choose which song to sing when we can, and should, have it all?

Originally delivered at Temple Israel of Great Neck on May 4, 2013