“How long, Lord? How long will you forget me? Forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day-after-day have sorrow in my heart?”
—Psalm 13:1-2—
“I know you can do all things, no purpose of yours can be thwarted. You asked, ‘Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?’ Surely I spoke of things I did not understand. Things too wonderful for me to know. You said, ‘Listen now and I will speak. I will question you and you shall answer me.’ My ears had heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you.”
—Job 42:1-5—
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Do you ever feel like you’re not “good at” being a child of G-d? That you don’t say enough prayers or do enough good deeds or think enough “spiritual thoughts” or… or… or…
We tend to conflate personal holiness with constant effort. And while personal holiness does indeed require actions and not just words, I think our conflation of personal holiness with nonstop effort still—in a way—gives us a distorted view of G-d and our relationship to Him. We begin to think of G-d as a father whose love is conditional upon our meeting certain expectations, and if we fail to meet those expectations, then He’ll no longer love us; like one of those Tiger Parents who sends their kid to bed without dinner if the kid makes an A on a test instead of an A+.
And I think what partially contributes to us having this mentality (which most of us hold unconsciously, not deliberately) is that there’s this weird pressure that accompanies contemporary “religious content” that makes those who consume it feel like they’re not up to par if they don’t display the same levels of enthusiasm as the people featured in said content.
In the course of consuming religious books or videos, audiences are given the impression that the “good believer” or “believer in good standing” is constantly high energy, expressive, lighthearted by default, free from prolonged doubt, effortlessly consistent, and spiritually “on” at all times. We begin to internalize that the level of our relationship with G-d must be at the same level as the best friend we meet for lunch three times a week. And if we’re not checking all of those boxes, then we must “not truly love G-d” and something must be “wrong” with how we’re “doing religion”.
But if we removed religion from the equation, every one of us would admit that no relationship actually works like this.
In all relationships there are periods of high engagement and periods of “autopilot”. There are periods of trust and periods of doubt. There are periods of stability and periods of uncertainty. There are periods of clarity and periods of confusion. This is true of romantic relationships, friendships, families, and coworkers.
And when it comes to our faith, likewise, there are highs and lows. We tread over mountains and valleys. Acknowledging this doesn’t make you a “bad believer”. We serve a G-d that is not seen or audibly heard, and He is well aware of the limitations of the imaginations of His creation (as well as our frustrating fickleness).
There are times in life where G-d’s presence is felt sharply and unexpectedly. It surprises us—like bold color in a sea of gray, a sharp musical note in the middle of quiet, or a sudden sweet scent in an otherwise odorless room—and this presence of His permeates every aspect of our daily life in a really nice way. Our sense of wonder and curiosity and security fill us with a type of joy so rare and mysterious that no human or earthly activity can yield it; a joy that softens us almost to the extent that we become playful like children again, and in entering such a state, feel in our marrow (not just our minds) that G-d is the purest form of love; a love so pure and holy that its intensity—if ever we came into direct contact with an unmediated version of it as mortal beings—would evaporate us like we would evaporate on the surface of the sun. (This is why in Tanakh, we read about the veil which separates G-d’s dwelling place—the “holy of holies” containing the Ark of Covenant—from the rest of the tabernacle. And also why that one guy’s face melts off in Indiana Jones.)
Yet other times it feels as if G-d’s presence “hums in our background” like low steady white noise, always there but barely detectable. We know He is calling us toward greatness, but in times like these, knowing that He is calling us toward greatness is not the same as knowing what greatness we are specifically being called toward. And that mystery coupled with emotional flatness is frustrating. Yet even in certain periods of our lives where busyness and distraction and other people mean that we may not experience G-d the same way we did during better periods… we also never forget Him. We recognize in the “inactive” times that our awareness of G-d and our worship of Him does not always have to result in fixation on rituals and giant displays of affection (although rituals and affection are important). Even in times when my emotions are dulled and my ritual observance is mediocre or lacking motivation, there is still (at least for me) a constant awareness of G-d and a willingness to serve Him.
One thought that occurs to me as I write this is that in no realm does the difference between these two spiritual seasons become more apparent than in the realm of daily prayer. I’ll make a confession now: prayer does not come natural to me. I have to remind myself to do it. Even in moments of crisis or risk.
There’s a morning prayer in Judaism called the Modeh Ani which I’m supposed to say at the beginning of each day:
מודה אני לפניך מלך חי וקיים, שהחזרת בי נשמתי בחמלה, רבה אמונתך
“I offer thanks to You, living and eternal King, for mercifully restoring my soul within me. Your faithfulness is great.”
But even remembering to do this is—as of now—an uphill battle.
The “problem” with prayer, as a man, is that like other men I want to solve problems by myself and especially my own problems. Asking for help means admitting to being incapable and incompetent (or so we men tend to think). So when there are problems that I’m facing or that others are facing, my solutions to those problems usually focus on human action more than prayer to the One who made humans. Despite spirituality being a large subject in most of my essays, integrating it into my daily life is still a substantial difficulty. I just don’t think along those lines naturally.
But I don’t beat myself up over this, and you shouldn’t either if you’re the same way.
We all want to be this person.
We adore and envy this person.
But sometimes we’re this person.
And that’s fine too, as long as it’s temporary.
So if religiosity is a thing that ebbs and flows, what do I mean by faith being constant?
I only mean that faith is constant within people who—through a combination of study and life experience—are truly convicted about the reality of G-d’s existence. People’s faith can be easily shaken if they only loosely maintain a belief in G-d based on upbringing alone or based on having a whimsical personality, as opposed to arriving intellectually at G-d’s existence via serious arguments (like Maimonides’ Necessary Existent, Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover, or Aquinas’ Five Proofs); because people who arrive at belief in G-d purely through sentiment or emotion usually have a tough time holding onto that belief after experiencing the deaths of children, or sudden financial ruin, or the infidelity of a partner, or a cancer diagnosis, etc. But if one’s belief in G-d is grounded in thorough philosophical and theological investigation, then the certainty of G-d’s existence sort of by extension “carries you” no matter what you’re going through. So even if you get to a place in life where you feel “bored” by religious practice or experience a devastating tragedy, that ever-present knowledge of G-d being real is enough to “nudge you along your miserable path” until you reach a place later where you can adopt a better attitude.
