“You should love the Lord Your God,” we are told in the second paragraph of Shema. But there is an obvious problem with this passage: how can love be commanded?

Imagine a young couple on their first date, with all their anxious smiles and nervous toe-tapping. Just before they part ways, the young man tells the woman, “You gotta love me!” Suddenly, this budding relationship comes to a screeching halt.

Love is something that is earned through time, trust, and commitment. It is not something that can be given through demands. So how can Hashem command us to love?

Rav Kook (Musar Avicha, Ahava 4) teaches that a blazing flame of love for Hashem is constantly burning in the soul, giving pleasantness and sweetness that no words can describe.

If this is so, then why don’t we experience these intense feelings all the time (or for some, at all)?

He teaches that we disconnect ourselves from this light through an unbalanced relationship with our world. We weigh ourselves down with futile contemplations, and we prioritize the physical over the needs of the spirit. Such a lifestyle is in complete opposition to the nature of the soul.

According to Rav Kook, the commandment to love Hashem is not a directive to stir up an appropriate emotional response. It is a dictate to peel away the layers of darkness that are masking the light that is constantly shining. It is returning to our natural state of balance between body and soul, which is a place of experiencing constant love for Hashem.

Using only our physical senses, the presence of Hashem can be painfully elusive. The world can sometimes seem void of a caring, compassionate personal God. In this world filled with pain and brokenness, one could even ask the question, “Where is Hashem?”

Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, the author of the Chassidic work Tanya explains that no place is void of Hashem. The passage in the Torah, “Ain od milvado” should not be translated as, “There are no other Gods,” but rather, “There is nothing other than God” (Sha’ar HaYichud v’HaEmuna).

He teaches that the existence of the world is a greater miracle than the splitting of the Red Sea. The splitting of the sea requires a force to oppose the force of nature; but Hashem is the cause behind all nature, and is constantly willing all of life into existence. If Hashem was not involved in this constant mode of creation, then the world would return to its pre-creation state, i.e., absolute nothingness. Even an inanimate object such as a rock has a life force that Hashem is creating anew every moment.

From this perspective, the question is not, Hashem, where are you, but rather, Hashem where aren’t you? The answer is that Hashem is intimately involved with every aspect of existence in every moment. Every person and every thing that we see is constantly being created by a loving God. Our work is to open our hearts to this reality that eludes our physical sight. The more we integrate this perception into our thoughts and actions, the closer we can feel to Hashem and Hashem’s creation.

As I read through the passages that detail the giving of the Torah at Mt Sinai, I find myself experiencing Hashem’s revelation as an ominous, commanding voice, insisting on obedience.

This image may not capture the entire picture of the giving of the Torah.

Our sages teach that the tablets that Moshe received were six handbreadths wide by six handbreadths long by three handbreadths deep. At the giving of the Torah, Hashem held on to two handbreadths, Moshe held on to two handbreadths, and there were two left in the middle.

The Maharal of Prague asks why there needed to be two handbreadths in the middle; why couldn’t there be two in Moshe’s hand and two in Hashem’s hand? He answers that if that were the case, it would have implied that the Torah has two components: what Hashem decreed, and what Moshe received. But this does not express the most essential element of the Torah: the two handbreadths in the middle represent the place of relationship.

These two handbreadths represent the give and take. The Torah is not only a fixed document where Hashem acts as the omnipotent commander, but rather the Torah represents an unfolding relationship that expresses a living dialogue. This Torah is called the Oral Torah, and is as essential as the fixed letters on the tablets.

As we receive the Torah anew on Shavuot, we need to not only experience the dramatic revelation of the Written Torah, but we must also seek out the active relationship between Hashem and the Jewish people, which thrives in our study halls and in our silent contemplation.

Every year when Jerusalem Day starts to approach, I think back on my first Jerusalem Day experience. There were thousands of people, young and old, marching around the Old City walls, flatbeds filled children all waving Israeli flags, vans with massive speakers tied to the roof blasting festive music. In the place where Jordanian snipers once took aim, Israeli solders stood and waved down to the crowds.

The climax was walking through Lion’s Gate, the same path the Israeli paratroopers took when recapturing the Temple Mount. I was filled with humility and euphoria as I looked upon the Temple Mount, the place of the binding of Yitzhak, and the place where the two Temples once stood.

Despite the significance of Jerusalem, the Torah doesn’t mention its name specifically; it is always referred to by Hashem as “the place that I will show you.”

Rav Shlomo Aviner, the Chief Rabbi of Beit El, asks in his book Tal Hermon why the focal point of the Jewish people is only mentioned in hints. He answers that the most important matters cannot be revealed at the outset. There are some things so awesome that we can only understand them as we partake in the journey. Even if it was revealed at the beginning, we would not comprehend its significance. Jerusalem is a place of such magnitude that the story of the Jewish people had to unfold until its greater context could be revealed and understood.

It seems to me that Jerusalem today represents the idea of the constant unfolding process. The path of the Jewish people is intrinsically connected to Jerusalem; though we still are not exactly sure how the story will unfold, and there will be many detours along the way, we know that our story’s climax will occur within the walls of Jerusalem. This year as the parade marches by the Temple Mount, but not on it, we will again get a taste of what is to come amidst the realization that we are not yet there.

As my wife and I looked out our back window this evening and enjoyed a substantial fireworks display showering the Judean Hills with color and light, I felt overcome with gratitude. What an incredible gift the State of Israel is, and what indescribable merit we have to live here and raise our family here.

The haunting tune to Hatikva pops into my head, and I start to sing the last line: “to be a free nation in our land, the Land of Zion and Jerusalem.”

They are moving, but I find them unsatisfying. The 3,500 year journey of the Jewish people was never about freedom for freedom’s sake. We always stood for greater values: to be a light to the nations, to prepare the world for the presence of God.

The miraculous nature of our unfathomable return to our homeland should not make us forget the greater purpose of the Land of Israel. Rabbi Judah HaLevi in his seminal work The Kuzari uses the metaphor of a grapevine and vineyard to describe the unique nature of the Jewish people and the Land of Israel.

The grapevine represents the people of Israel, a unique nation with spiritual gifts to contribute to the world. The vineyard is the Land of Israel, and is the only ground that can fully actualize the potential of these grapes. True, we can survive in a hothouse, i.e., exile, but we can never fully actualize our spiritual potential there. We can never be truly close to Hashem in exile.

As I sit on the hilltop of my ancestors this evening, I can’t help but feel that this gift of freedom given to the Jewish people after 2,000 years must have a greater purpose. There are many free nations in the world, but we must look at ourselves, both as individuals and as a nation, and ask, now that we are planted back in our home soil: what are the real crops that we should produce and give to the world? According to our tradition, the fruits of our labor must focus on bringing us and the world truly closer to Hashem.