Divine Satiety

By: Yochanan Gordon

With most of our kids away in camp over the summer, I’ve been trying to focus on something that I’ve neglected for far too long: my health.

At forty-five years old, I have to admit that I haven’t worked out in any meaningful way since my wife and I got married nearly twenty years ago. As a kid and a teenager, I played endless hours of ball, was constantly active, and enjoyed the kind of metabolism that allowed me to eat virtually anything without consequence. Taking care of my physique was never something I had to think about.

Perhaps what makes it most difficult is when people tell you how good you look. As flattering as those comments may be, lev yodea maras nafsho—a person knows the truth about himself. There comes a point where no compliment can drown out the quiet realization that changes need to be made.

With the house a little quieter this summer, my wife and I have been walking the boardwalk almost every night, averaging nearly 25,000 steps a day, while I’ve added a short regimen of military calisthenics from YouTube. One of the biggest obstacles for me was always the gym. Between work, family, and the little free time I have, I always felt that I’d rather spend an extra hour learning Torah than lifting weights. Discovering workouts that I can do at home has been a genuine game changer.

The exercise, however, has been the easy part.

The difficult part has been changing the way I eat.

I’ve never struggled with weight before, and I’ve always had what I like to call a sophisticated palate. Bagels were a daily staple. If I wanted a muffin, I had a muffin. If I wanted something sweet, I didn’t think twice about it. Food was something to be enjoyed, and I enjoyed it.

How does someone who has eaten the same breakfast for decades suddenly become disciplined? How does one replace impulsive eating with intentional eating?

Somewhere in that internal dialogue I found myself thinking about the familiar teaching of Chazal: Ta’anug temidi eino ta’anug—constant pleasure is no pleasure.

I always understood this to mean that if a person indulges in something often enough, he eventually grows tired of it. But the more I thought about it, the less convinced I became.

I’ve eaten bagels almost every morning for as long as I can remember, and I can tell you with certainty that I haven’t grown tired of them. I may change what’s inside the bagel from time to time, but the bagel itself has never become boring.

Perhaps, then, Chazal meant something deeper.

It’s not that the pleasure itself disappears. The pleasure remains pleasurable. The problem is that the consequences of unrestrained pleasure gradually erode the quality of life that the pleasure was meant to enhance. We don’t stop enjoying the food. Rather, we begin living with the physical and emotional consequences of never having learned to say no. The pleasure remains, but it no longer leaves us feeling fulfilled.

That thought took on a new meaning for me when I came to this week’s parashah.

“Ki lo al halechem levado yichyeh ha’adam, ki al kol motza pi Hashem yichyeh ha’adam”—“Man does not live by bread alone, but by every utterance of Hashem.”

We naturally assume that food nourishes us because of its protein, carbohydrates, vitamins, and nutrients. We spend endless time discussing calories, healthy fats, and balanced diets. All of that is true. But the Torah reminds us that those are only the garments through which nourishment arrives. The real source of life is the Divine word that continuously recreates every piece of bread from moment to moment.

Perhaps the same is true of satisfaction itself.

We spend our lives searching for satiety through physical means, believing that if only we consume enough, acquire enough, or indulge enough, we’ll finally feel full. But if the source of nourishment is ultimately spiritual, perhaps the source of true satiety is spiritual as well.

That may explain why physical pleasure so often becomes an endless rabbit hole.

If a person loses the ability to derive fulfillment from the realm of the spirit, he instinctively tries to replace it with greater physical consumption. More food. More entertainment. More possessions. More experiences. Not because any of those things are inherently bad, but because we’re asking them to satisfy a hunger that they were never designed to satisfy.

I recently came across a beautiful insight in Shema Shlomo from the great tzaddik, Reb Shlomo of Karlin, of whom the Alter Rebbe famously remarked that he walked a tefach above the ground. He explains the verse, “V’achalta, v’savata, u’veirachta.” We usually read it to mean “You ate, became satisfied, and bless Hashem.” But perhaps the blessing is itself part of the satiety. Perhaps true fullness comes not only from what enters the mouth, but from recognizing the One from Whom it came.

This idea also sheds light on the remarkable statement attributed to Reb Nochum of Chernobyl, who was known to be quite heavy. He once remarked that he became fat from answering “Amen yehei Shmei rabbah.”While clearly not meant as a nutritional statement, it expresses a profound truth: when a person lives with genuine spiritual sensitivity, the soul leaves its imprint upon the body. Spiritual realities are no less real than physical ones.

Perhaps this idea is also hinted to in a fascinating Yiddish word: engshaft, which means constriction or confinement. Embedded within it are the very letters that spell the Hebrew word oneg—pleasure.

Pleasure is meant to expand a person. A beautiful meal, a Shabbos table, the company of loved ones, all have the capacity to elevate and broaden the soul. But when oneg becomes manufactured, overindulged, and detached from its Divine Source, it undergoes a subtle transformation. The very pleasure that was meant to bring freedom becomes engshaft. Instead of expanding the soul, it confines it. Instead of mastering our pleasures, we become mastered by them.

Perhaps that’s why the Torah insists, “Lo al halechem levado yichyeh ha’adam.” Bread can fill the stomach, but only the Divine spark within it can satisfy the soul. When we lose touch with that spiritual satiety, we inevitably try to compensate with more physical pleasure, only to discover that the pursuit itself has become another form of confinement.

That doesn’t mean I’ve arrived.

Far from it.

I still crave artificial sweetness. A cousin of mine from Crown Heights, who is something of a health enthusiast, was aghast when I told her that I’d eaten bagels virtually every day for years. She insisted that sugar is one of the hardest habits to break. Whether or not that’s scientifically accurate, I can certainly attest to the fact that changing lifelong eating habits is no small task.

Lately, I’ve been trying to train myself to look for sweetness in a different place—to derive a greater sense of satisfaction from the realm of the spirit rather than instinctively reaching for the quickest physical fix.

But if you happen to pass me on the street with a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in one hand or a milkshake in the other, don’t be too disappointed.

Divine satiety, like physical fitness, is still a work in progress. 

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