Between Rupture And Idealism

There is a longstanding tradition in preparation for the Yomim Noraim for people to undertake new resolutions—to generate additional merits as we approach the Day of Judgment.

But perhaps even more important than the resolution itself is the place from which it originates.

A resolution can emerge from sincere aspiration, from a genuine desire to become closer to Hashem and more aligned with the person we know we ought to be. But sometimes the very same resolution can originate somewhere else entirely: from a desire to make a statement, to distinguish ourselves, to push back against something—or even to project an image of righteousness rather than earnestly becoming changed people.

That nuanced distinction occurred to me this past Monday, Chai Elul, as I got out of bed and stood in front of my closet contemplating whether to reach for my kapota and Shabbos pants in honor of the birthday of the Shnei Meoros Hagedolim, the two great luminaries, the Baal Shem Tov and the Alter Rebbe, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi.

Although my paternal family descends from a long line of Chabad Chassidim, my grandfather was less outwardly Chassidic than his younger siblings. He, like my father after him, married someone from outside the Chabad community. And although my father and his siblings grew up in the Chabad enclave of Crown Heights, their home was more broadly Orthodox than distinctly Chassidic.

That pattern continued into my own upbringing. My siblings and I were raised primarily within the mainstream yeshiva world rather than in Chabad institutions.

Consequently, many of the Chabad customs I eventually adopted were things I chose on my own, without familial pressure. If anything, there was an understandable desire for us to acculturate outwardly to the schools and communities in which we were being raised rather than stick out or call attention to ourselves.

For me, however, that would eventually become complicated by an encounter that took place when I was eight years old.

Following the shivah for my paternal grandfather in January of 1990, our extended family passed by the Lubavitcher Rebbe one Sunday morning for dollars and condolences. The encounter was captured on video. You can watch our family—uncles, aunts, and cousins—filing past the Rebbe, receiving a dollar and the customary blessing of beracha v’hatzlacha.

Naturally, the Rebbe spoke with my grandmother and her children, who had just gotten up from shivah, as well as with my grandfather’s siblings.

But there was one other person he stopped to address.

Me.

I was eight years old, holding my mother’s hand as she passed before the Rebbe. He slid two dollars toward her as she walked by with me in tow. Noticing that I had gone unintroduced, the Rebbe stopped the line and asked who the little boy holding her hand was.

“Dos iz mein zun, Yochanan,” my mother answered. “This is my son, Yochanan.”

The Rebbe asked whether I had been named after my great-grandfather. My mother nodded.

The Rebbe then said, in effect: “Mistama—you will presumably see to it that he follows in the footsteps of his great-grandfather.”

Many years would pass without me—or anyone else, really—thinking too deeply about that encounter.

Still, I grew up with tremendous pride in my pedigree. And despite being raised at a distance from Crown Heights, both geographically and existentially, I grew up in the late 1980s and early 1990s with an acute awareness of the Rebbe and of Moshiach’s imminent arrival.

I remember attending a family simcha, either while I was dating or shortly after my wife and I became engaged. My cousin Rabbi Moshe Klein—who, incidentally, was our matchmaker—turned to me and said, “Yochanan, you’re anyway going to grow a beard one day, so you might as well just do it already.”

I remember thinking, as clearly as if it happened yesterday: I hate to burst his bubble, but I have absolutely no intention of growing a beard.

Apparently, he knew something I didn’t.

Whether because of the potency of the Rebbe’s blessing—or, perhaps more accurately, the Rebbe’s supposition—I would eventually begin learning sichos and maamarim and develop a deep fascination with the Rebbeim and with Chabad history, thought, and tradition.

Before my wedding, I had a strong desire to purchase a custom-made kapota. My father was on board, although I don’t believe my mother had been consulted. I wore the kapota at my wedding, concealed beneath my trench coat, and changed into a regular suit for the dancing.

A few months later, I began wearing the kapota publicly on Shabbos.

When my father’s friends would notice it, they would inevitably comment. I distinctly remember one occasion when my father responded:

“It was either this or ripped jeans. I’ll take this any day.”

It was funny then, and it’s still funny now.

But thinking about it all these years later, I realized there was something surprisingly perceptive hidden inside that joke.

He had framed my kapota, in a sense, as an act of rebellion.

And perhaps, at least partially, it was.

For years I proudly wore my kapota on weekday Chassidishe yomim tovim. But looking back, I have to acknowledge that somewhere within that pride was another feeling as well. There was a part of me that enjoyed, as they say in Yiddish, oisreisen di oigen—provoking those who were uncomfortable with the whole notion of Chassidishe yomim tovim and demonstrating that their discomfort wasn’t going to dictate how I practiced my Yiddishkeit.

Interestingly, that expression itself reminds me of my grandfather.

I recall a story from when he bought my grandmother an expensive mink or shearling coat. One day they were walking together when someone remarked about her fancy coat.

My zaide responded sarcastically, “You think I care about mink coats?”

And then he added in Yiddish:

“Ich vil oisreisen di oigen.”

I just want to poke their eyes out.

It’s a funny line. But perhaps it also reveals something that traveled through the generations.

There is a kind of religious growth that emerges from rupture, and there is a kind that emerges from idealism.

Rupture says: I refuse to be defined by your expectations.

Idealism says: I want to become who Hashem wants me to be.

Sometimes they can look exactly the same from the outside.

And perhaps rupture even has an important role. Sometimes we need a little rebellion to break through inertia, convention, or the expectations that other people have imposed upon us. Sometimes becoming ourselves requires the courage to disappoint the image others have constructed for us.

But rupture is an ignition, not a fuel source.

Eventually there is nobody left to rebel against. The people whose eyes we once wanted to poke out stop watching. The novelty disappears. The statement has been made.

And then we discover whether there was something deeper underneath it.

Which brings me back to my closet this Chai Elul.

As I stood there wondering why I had lately become lax about wearing my kapota on Chassidishe yomim tovim, an uncomfortable thought occurred to me.

Perhaps part of what had originally motivated me was no longer there.

Perhaps, over the years, there were fewer eyes left to poke out.

And if that was true, then the question wasn’t simply whether I should put the kapota back on.

The question was: Why?

That, I think, is an important question as we approach the Yomim Noraim.

We are encouraged during these weeks to make resolutions. And we should. But the resolution itself is only half the work. We also have to examine the place within ourselves from which it arises.

Am I doing this because I want to be seen differently?

Because I want to prove something?

Because I’m reacting against someone or something?

Or because, quietly and sincerely, I want to become closer to Hashem?

A resolution born from rupture may be powerful enough to change what we do.

But when the thrill of rupture disappears, the resolution often disappears with it.

A resolution born from idealism is different. It doesn’t require an audience or an adversary. It isn’t sustained by the people who approve of it or the people who are bothered by it.

It comes from somewhere deeper.

And because it comes from somewhere deeper, it has the capacity not merely to change what we wear or what we do, but to change who we are.

So by all means, as the Yomim Noraim approach, make resolutions.

But before asking yourself what you are prepared to change, ask yourself something even more important:

Where is the desire to change coming from?

Because rupture can begin a journey.

Only idealism can sustain one. 

Yochanan Gordon can be reached at [email protected]. Read more of Yochanan’s articles at 5TJT.com.