Yearning for Unity

Approaching Rosh Hashanah has felt different for me this year. I won't lie. Spirituality is a fraught topic for me. My experiences have not always been positive, especially around the topics of guilt, repentance, and repair. Attending Hasidim and Heretics (and dancing and singing with others there), though, broadened my horizons for what a spiritual practice might look like during the month of Elul, and forced me to reconsider how my actions stack up against my words. 

I've been drawn to neo-Hasidism for some time now. Growing up in Colorado and reconnecting to Judaism with the Jewish community of Fort Collins, which has been significantly influenced by the Renewal movement and the legacy of Reb Zalman, will do that to a person. I have struggled, though, to engage the texts. Most of what I've read has been secondhand through platforms like Gashmius Magazine, podcasts, and Youtube videos. I think I've been influenced away from the original works by my own preconceived notions about what Hasidism is, what Orthodox practice entails, and my belief that as a queer woman who grew up assimilated, I wouldn't be welcomed into that world. Honestly, I find myself very happy in the non-denominational world that both my shul in Fort Collins and Der Nister occupy… but if I claim that I want to explore Hasidic thought and practice, I should probably actually read the works, right?

I have just begun to read Likkutei Etzot, which is a collection of teachings from Rebbe Nachman, a Hasidic rebbe who founded the Breslover movement. It's the only Hasidic movement which has not had a living rebbe for almost two centuries. Despite this lack of living leadership, it thrives. Rebbe Nachman is known for his teachings on joy, refusal to despair, and the importance of song and dance; it's not hard to see why the movement survives. With that said, those are not necessarily the teachings that are sticking out to me from Reb Nachman as we approach the High Holidays. 

In the spring and summer, I was in deep despair. The political moment we find ourselves in, combined with a deep and persistent homesickness, meant that I spent my days in anger and depression. I felt helpless. I spent my days arguing, seeking out posts that made me angry online and challenging people in person. I felt that if I didn't speak about the daily horrors in a loud enough voice, in a public enough way, I wasn't doing enough. On the other hand, every time I posted or spoke up, I felt a deep sense of anxiety and discontent. I felt that I could no longer connect to others. The only paths I could see forward for our society led through violence, and I, who have always been a staunch pacifist, could not find it in myself to feel sadness over the death and brutality that surrounds us daily. It scared me. It scared me deeply. I didn't know what I believed in anymore, nor did I have a sense for how to find the right path. As part of my teshuvah this year, I decided to take a step back from speaking, turn inwards, and reconsider my values. Right after I made this decision, in Likkutei Etzot, I encountered the teaching, "Controversy and divisiveness can cause even the most G-d-fearing people to start having doubts about their beliefs. The answer is to be silent, and to leave the battle to G-d."

I should say that I believe that there is value to speaking up and engaging each other in difficult conversation. We grow through discussing with others and with having our beliefs challenged. An echo chamber is not a healthy environment. However, I don't believe that the "silence" that Reb Nachman speaks of in this teaching always requires a lack of verbal dissent. Instead, I believe that the teaching is encouraging us to slow down and carefully consider what others are actually saying, rather than rushing into a debate based upon what we think the other person means. In our current societal moment, there's not a lot of room for that. We're trained to start formulating our response before the other person even finishes speaking. It puts us on the defensive, protecting ourselves against attacks which may or may not come, and prevents us from seeing each other in the fullness of our humanity. Of course, there are also some topics that the community is best served by leaving alone and leaving the battle to Hashem. If silence allows us to see each other for the human beings that we are, that silence is worthwhile. The only way forward is through love and a desire to solve the problem which causes our conflicts, not a desire to fix each other.

Love for all the people Israel and love for all humanity are central to my core beliefs. Learning how to be silent and listen to others, inside and outside of our community, even when I strongly disagree with them, has helped me in my process of return. In closing, I'd like to share a Chabad nigun called Kalos HaNefesh. This is a nigun attributed to R'Hillel Potcheper, a 19th century Hasid of the Rebbe Rashab. It's a song for Shabbes, a song for davening, and a song which expresses a desire for such closeness with Hashem that the soul literally expires, joining in unity with the Divine. I suggest that such a yearning could also be directed towards such unity with each other, that we cease to see ourselves as a collection of beliefs, which allow for no disagreement without conflict, and instead see ourselves as sparks of light that are truly, ultimately, working towards a common goal.

After the High Holidays, we're hoping to start up a synagogue choir that will meet on Thursday evenings when there is no event. All voices and all experience levels are welcome. If you're interested, please email reslercs@gmail.com or golden@dernister.org.