Thank G-d, I'm an atheist - CONCLUSION

Part 3 of Chapter 17 from "Be Like The Moon: a Chassidic memoir."

Trying to find myself, by myself.

I had flown there by myself, to find myself. My head was naked, bereft of a yarmulke. I sat at a wooden bar table, smoking a cigarette in an attempt to look cool, and downing vodka shots with the guys and girls I had befriended from my hostel.

The dancing expats around us gyrated to the thumping beats of the DJ, whose obvious goal was to beat out all our prudish inhibitions. I laughed and took another swig of colorless elixir, concocted for the obvious purpose of erasing the color of my past. Two of my new friends were artists from London, whose day job was painting the hills and valleys of nude women. But it was not this subject matter they wished to talk about.

No, while they popped pills, took shots, and otherwise indulged in the pleasures of hot-blooded youth, they peppered me with questions about Torah.

To this day, I have no idea how it happened. But, somehow, we got to talking about the spiritual depth of the Kabbalah and the wisdom of the very Torah I thought I was running away from. They were loving it. I began expounding on an idea from a Maamar (Chassidic discourse) about peeking into the mind of the Creator through unclothing His words. These London creatives called the concept “exquisite.”

They asked more questions: I shared more Torah. Some of the dancers sat down for a break and snuggled in around us. Pretty soon, we were all engaged in a lively conversation that I would have called a farbrengen back in yeshiva. We stayed up way past the bedtime of responsible people. It reminded me of staying up late with my family for the annual Passover seder back home in Berkeley.

Hold on a second. I peered down at what was transpiring as if from a bird’s eye view. Who am I kidding? I’m no atheist. I’m a ‘believer, child of believers’ (See Talmud, tractate Shabbos 97a). Faith is in my kishkes (guts)— my spiritual DNA — bequeathed to me from my ancestors and shepherded to me from the Moses inside my soul (See Likkutei Sichos, Vol. XVI, pp. 47-55).

There, in a random nightclub, my prayers were answered as if by a whisper from Heaven. I packed up my bags and returned home. As Rabbi Chaninah taught in the Talmud, “All is in the hand of Heaven, except for the awe of Heaven” (See Talmud, tractate Berachos, 33b.)

Nowadays, I don’t consider myself an atheist. Thank G-d, just an agnostic theist who appreciates the intellectual honesty of “I don’t know.”

In my adolescence, I had thought I’d find all the answers within the four walls of yeshiva. But maybe the point of Torah is to teach us how to ask more questions and seek more wisdom, even in the face of doubt. After all, isn’t the highest accolade for a Torah scholar to be called a “Talmid Chocham” (a student seeking wisdom)?

Look, if I had an infinite amount of time to live, I could afford to debate, theorize, to intellectually indulge. But life is short. I can either spend my life pontificating G-d’s existence or spend my life doing G-d’s work.

This is the Torah I had witnessed in my parents’ home. This is the Torah that matters.

My mother and father, Dr. Sharona and Rabbi BenTzion, may they live long and prosper.

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Those strangers in Europe, who I have never seen since that night, opened my eyes to see things differently. As Reb Menachem Mendel of Kotzk once said, “Where is G-d? Wherever you let Him in.” Or as the Lubavitcher Rebbe told Elliot Lasky when he returned from a road trip with the Rolling Stones in 1972 and pressed the Rebbe to “show [him] where G-d is.” The Rebbe smiled and replied, “In your heart if this is how you’re asking.”

Take, for example, the following verse from Psalm 37:25: “I was young, I grew older, and I have not seen a righteous man forsaken nor his children seeking bread.” Many Jewish communities sing this verse as part of the liturgical “Grace after Meals.” Before that fateful night in Europe, this would have set me off into a tizzy of incensed remonstration.

How dare the Torah instruct us to utter such a despicable lie — and with a full belly no less!

There are so many righteous, innocent, and vulnerable who suffer daily and whose children starve while the Almighty (seemingly) does nothing!

But now I see things differently. Now, I understand that this verse is not telling me that it is Heavenly Father who has not seen a man forsaken nor his children in need.

It is I.

It is I who must utter the words of this verse.

It is I who must stand up to shield the righteous and protect the forsaken.

It is I who has not seen the suffering of the innocent because it is I who must fight and refuse to allow such suffering.

And every day, at every meal, it is I who must make this verbal contract not to stuff my belly but to nourish my soul. With Torah. With prayer. With the saving grace to become the G-d I wish to see in the world.¹

When I was young, I wondered if the world needed a G-d.
When I grew older, I realized that G-d needed me.

1. See Maimonides, Hilchos Deos, 1:5-6 and Rashi on Genesis 33:20.