The Soul of Community
By Eliezer Shore
Several times in my life I have tried to escape the everyday world. In mountain huts, on ocean bluffs, in the still predawn hours, I sought a truth that I could not find among friends. Yet there was always something missing, something incomplete that kept calling me back.
Several times in my life I have tried to enter the world – with community projects, group discussions, the routines of family and workplace. But I was always pulled back. Something was missing, an inner point that was not being addressed.
Most spiritual seekers, at some time in their journey, must struggle with the dilemma posed by these two opposites. While personalities differ, some tending towards solitude, others to community, most of us waver uneasily between the two, constantly searching for the proper balance with which we might best serve God. In the midst of joyous community celebration, a small voice can make itself heard, whispering in the pause between speeches, reminding us that there is something more. And in a quiet forest glen a peculiar loneliness echoes through the woods, calling us back to the world, to share our discoveries with others.
The greatness of community is that it provides us with a context for our lives. Before we can know God, we must come to know ourselves. Without a sense of identity, a person cannot be whole; it is community that gives a person his name. Social relationships, responsibilities, larger values, all help us know who we are. In an ideal community, each person’s place would be so clearly defined as to make him indispensable. This engenders a sort of horizontal growth, as our lives touch and are touched by many others, and it fosters in us a greater compassion and awareness of the human condition. In Judaism, we find the ultimate curse to be that of exile, the dispersion of community, the loss of one’s place.
On the other hand, solitude speaks to the part of us that has no name, that wants to break free of the limitations imposed upon us by the thoughts and expectations of others. Solitude holds the promise of such complete and utter commitment to God – such pure vertical growth – that one completely transcends the mundane concerns of this world and moves into a realm of pure spirit. There, everything is good, everything is holy, and God alone is real. “Abraham was one,” say the verse (Ezek. 33:24). Like our father Abraham, a person who wants only God must learn to be one and alone.
The validity of both these positions, and the pull they exert on our lives, stems from the fact that solitude and community are two necessary components in the metaphysical makeup of man, based upon the interplay of body and soul. Community is a function of the body. Not only because the body has needs that can only be met by the community; Judaism understands that physical needs, and even emotional ones, are products of man’s corporeality. The body, as a composite entity, intrinsically relates to the “body of the community,” with its integration and interrelation of parts. In Chassidic writings, the community is often referred to in physical terms. The head of the community is its leaders; the heart, its poets and dreamers; the hands, its workers; the legs and feet, its financial supporters. Every single element is necessary, for if even one is missing, it causes a defect in the entire communal body.
Solitude, however, is the domain of the soul. Kabbalah understands the soul to be a portion of God Himself. As such, it shares in His total and unique Oneness and Transcendence. The soul does not need this world, and God must force it to remain in the body, for it cannot bear limitation. Chassidic writings often compare the soul to a flame, burning with a constant love and awe of God, seeking at every moment to rise upward and be reabsorbed in its source. “The soul of man is a candle of God, searching out all the chambers of the heart’ (Prov. 20:27). It is precisely in solitude that soul feels most at home, in a setting closest to its own essential nature.
Solitude has always been an important aspect of Jewish spirituality. Inherent in the Biblical image of the Patriarchs as shepherds is the idea that these men were contemplatives seeking a truth beyond the false Gods of society. Throughout Jewish history, and especially in the lives of the great mystics, solitude has played an important role. The great Sixteenth Century Kabbalist, Rabbi Yitzhak Luria, spent six years in a hut on the Nile contemplating the mysteries of the Zohar, the Kabbalistic Book of Splendor. The Baal Shem Tov developed the path of Chassidism during his years of solitude in the Carpathian Mountains. His great-grandson, the famous Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, went so far as to say that one hour of solitude a day is a religious obligation as important as the formal daily prayers.
Nonetheless, even the great mystics eventually put aside their solitary endeavors to reunite with the community – Rabbi Yitzhak Luria became the leader of the holy community of Kabbalists in Safed in Northern Israel, and the Chassidic movement of the Baal Shem Tov was eminently communal. This is because the path of Judaism, while recognizing the need for solitude, clearly emphasizes the primacy of community as a vehicle for the revelation of God and the transformation of the world.
From its very inception as a nation – the deliverance from Egypt and the group revelation of God at Mount Sinai – community has been the focus and backbone of the Jewish nation. The Torah, including both the Bible and the Talmud, is by and large a testament of communal spirituality. In this, it is something of a holy constitution, whose main concern is to reveal God’s presence in the mundane aspects of life. It speaks of business and finance, agriculture, family relations, and national holidays. In personal ritual observance as well, community is central. Prayer should be offered in a quorum of ten, Torah study is traditionally conducted with a partner. Life’s major transition points, such as circumcision, bar-mitzvah, and marriage are, above all, milestones in one’s deepening commitment to the community.
This emphasis on community in no way denies the validity of solitude; rather it seeks to engage the contemplative in an even higher pursuit, namely, that of bringing the entire community into an enlightened relationship with God. It is the purpose of all the mitzvos, the Divine commandments, to “draw down” God, who is utterly holy and removed into the world (the Hebrew word for holiness – kedushah – means “separateness”), so that from within the world itself, a new revelation of the unity of the Creator should emerge.
So important is community that Kabbalistic writings consider Knesset Yisrael, the congregation of the People of Israel, as synonymous with the Shechinah, the Divine Presence on earth. For they share the same purpose, that of revealing God in the world, of being “a light to the nations,” in the words of the prophet. The Shechinah is the feminine element in creation, for it receives God’s light, nurtures it, and reveals it in the world. Thus the union of God and the Shechinah, of the transcendent and the immanent, is not a static act. It is the constant bringing to birth of a new and ever-increasing awareness of God. Every single act, performed according to the laws of the Torah, brings about a greater revelation of God in the world, a greater unity between the Soul of the creation and the physical. Every act becomes a prayer, and as the mystics have said, “Prayer without intention is like a body without a soul.”
This, then is the role of mankind – to lift back up to God that which is furthest away. It is the reason why the soul leaves its pristine abode to dwell in the body, why God descends to create a world, and why the contemplative must eventually leave his retreat and unite with humanity. The contemplative is to the community what the soul is to the body. He gives it life, inspiration, and leads its members to a higher level. Then, if he finds that he must retreat once again to his solitary path, it is because the final rectification has not yet been accomplished. He retreats, to draw from the source of inspiration, and he returns again to water the garden of souls. This oscillating movement will continue until peace is finally made between body and soul, and God’s presence so fills the earth that there is no place empty of Him.
“When will the Messiah come?” asks the Talmud. “When all the souls have come into the body.” Then there will be no need for solitude, for the whole world will reveal His glory. The duality of God and the world will no longer exist, and the words of the prophet will be fulfilled: “On that day God will be One, and His Name One” (Zech. 14:9). d
Several times in my life I have tried to enter the world – with community projects, group discussions, the routines of family and workplace. But I was always pulled back. Something was missing, an inner point that was not being addressed.
Most spiritual seekers, at some time in their journey, must struggle with the dilemma posed by these two opposites. While personalities differ, some tending towards solitude, others to community, most of us waver uneasily between the two, constantly searching for the proper balance with which we might best serve God. In the midst of joyous community celebration, a small voice can make itself heard, whispering in the pause between speeches, reminding us that there is something more. And in a quiet forest glen a peculiar loneliness echoes through the woods, calling us back to the world, to share our discoveries with others.
The greatness of community is that it provides us with a context for our lives. Before we can know God, we must come to know ourselves. Without a sense of identity, a person cannot be whole; it is community that gives a person his name. Social relationships, responsibilities, larger values, all help us know who we are. In an ideal community, each person’s place would be so clearly defined as to make him indispensable. This engenders a sort of horizontal growth, as our lives touch and are touched by many others, and it fosters in us a greater compassion and awareness of the human condition. In Judaism, we find the ultimate curse to be that of exile, the dispersion of community, the loss of one’s place.
On the other hand, solitude speaks to the part of us that has no name, that wants to break free of the limitations imposed upon us by the thoughts and expectations of others. Solitude holds the promise of such complete and utter commitment to God – such pure vertical growth – that one completely transcends the mundane concerns of this world and moves into a realm of pure spirit. There, everything is good, everything is holy, and God alone is real. “Abraham was one,” say the verse (Ezek. 33:24). Like our father Abraham, a person who wants only God must learn to be one and alone.
The validity of both these positions, and the pull they exert on our lives, stems from the fact that solitude and community are two necessary components in the metaphysical makeup of man, based upon the interplay of body and soul. Community is a function of the body. Not only because the body has needs that can only be met by the community; Judaism understands that physical needs, and even emotional ones, are products of man’s corporeality. The body, as a composite entity, intrinsically relates to the “body of the community,” with its integration and interrelation of parts. In Chassidic writings, the community is often referred to in physical terms. The head of the community is its leaders; the heart, its poets and dreamers; the hands, its workers; the legs and feet, its financial supporters. Every single element is necessary, for if even one is missing, it causes a defect in the entire communal body.
Solitude, however, is the domain of the soul. Kabbalah understands the soul to be a portion of God Himself. As such, it shares in His total and unique Oneness and Transcendence. The soul does not need this world, and God must force it to remain in the body, for it cannot bear limitation. Chassidic writings often compare the soul to a flame, burning with a constant love and awe of God, seeking at every moment to rise upward and be reabsorbed in its source. “The soul of man is a candle of God, searching out all the chambers of the heart’ (Prov. 20:27). It is precisely in solitude that soul feels most at home, in a setting closest to its own essential nature.
Solitude has always been an important aspect of Jewish spirituality. Inherent in the Biblical image of the Patriarchs as shepherds is the idea that these men were contemplatives seeking a truth beyond the false Gods of society. Throughout Jewish history, and especially in the lives of the great mystics, solitude has played an important role. The great Sixteenth Century Kabbalist, Rabbi Yitzhak Luria, spent six years in a hut on the Nile contemplating the mysteries of the Zohar, the Kabbalistic Book of Splendor. The Baal Shem Tov developed the path of Chassidism during his years of solitude in the Carpathian Mountains. His great-grandson, the famous Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, went so far as to say that one hour of solitude a day is a religious obligation as important as the formal daily prayers.
Nonetheless, even the great mystics eventually put aside their solitary endeavors to reunite with the community – Rabbi Yitzhak Luria became the leader of the holy community of Kabbalists in Safed in Northern Israel, and the Chassidic movement of the Baal Shem Tov was eminently communal. This is because the path of Judaism, while recognizing the need for solitude, clearly emphasizes the primacy of community as a vehicle for the revelation of God and the transformation of the world.
From its very inception as a nation – the deliverance from Egypt and the group revelation of God at Mount Sinai – community has been the focus and backbone of the Jewish nation. The Torah, including both the Bible and the Talmud, is by and large a testament of communal spirituality. In this, it is something of a holy constitution, whose main concern is to reveal God’s presence in the mundane aspects of life. It speaks of business and finance, agriculture, family relations, and national holidays. In personal ritual observance as well, community is central. Prayer should be offered in a quorum of ten, Torah study is traditionally conducted with a partner. Life’s major transition points, such as circumcision, bar-mitzvah, and marriage are, above all, milestones in one’s deepening commitment to the community.
This emphasis on community in no way denies the validity of solitude; rather it seeks to engage the contemplative in an even higher pursuit, namely, that of bringing the entire community into an enlightened relationship with God. It is the purpose of all the mitzvos, the Divine commandments, to “draw down” God, who is utterly holy and removed into the world (the Hebrew word for holiness – kedushah – means “separateness”), so that from within the world itself, a new revelation of the unity of the Creator should emerge.
So important is community that Kabbalistic writings consider Knesset Yisrael, the congregation of the People of Israel, as synonymous with the Shechinah, the Divine Presence on earth. For they share the same purpose, that of revealing God in the world, of being “a light to the nations,” in the words of the prophet. The Shechinah is the feminine element in creation, for it receives God’s light, nurtures it, and reveals it in the world. Thus the union of God and the Shechinah, of the transcendent and the immanent, is not a static act. It is the constant bringing to birth of a new and ever-increasing awareness of God. Every single act, performed according to the laws of the Torah, brings about a greater revelation of God in the world, a greater unity between the Soul of the creation and the physical. Every act becomes a prayer, and as the mystics have said, “Prayer without intention is like a body without a soul.”
This, then is the role of mankind – to lift back up to God that which is furthest away. It is the reason why the soul leaves its pristine abode to dwell in the body, why God descends to create a world, and why the contemplative must eventually leave his retreat and unite with humanity. The contemplative is to the community what the soul is to the body. He gives it life, inspiration, and leads its members to a higher level. Then, if he finds that he must retreat once again to his solitary path, it is because the final rectification has not yet been accomplished. He retreats, to draw from the source of inspiration, and he returns again to water the garden of souls. This oscillating movement will continue until peace is finally made between body and soul, and God’s presence so fills the earth that there is no place empty of Him.
“When will the Messiah come?” asks the Talmud. “When all the souls have come into the body.” Then there will be no need for solitude, for the whole world will reveal His glory. The duality of God and the world will no longer exist, and the words of the prophet will be fulfilled: “On that day God will be One, and His Name One” (Zech. 14:9). d