The end of the summer is nearly upon us. Many of us will soon be returning from free time and exploration, from time with ourselves and family, and heading back to a structured routine that demands productivity.

As I reminisce, some of my favorite moments this summer were spent at the park right near our home, watching my daughter Zahava take wobbly steps in the limestone pebbles, reveling in the sun-scorched rolling hills and blossoming grape vines in the background.

There is a valuable lesson we can take from such moments of serenity, and that is the importance of process, as opposed to product.

In the beginning of the Biblical creation story, God says “Let the earth sprout forth…fruit trees that produce fruit. The midrashic understanding of this seemingly wordy phrase is that God planned to have the whole tree, i.e., the bark, the leaves, etc., also have the taste of the fruit.

However, in the very next passage, the Torah writes, “The earth brought forth fruit-bearing trees.” What happened to the cherry-flavored bark that God had declared just one passage earlier? The midrash teaches that the earth sinned by not carrying out God’s command that the fruit trees themselves should taste like the fruit.

I heard a deep understanding of this midrash by Professor Yehuda Gelman from Ben Gurion University. God’s initial decision that the tree should taste like the fruit represents God’s desire that we equally focus on the process and product; in other words, the importance put on the process of creation would be as important as the end-result. The earth’s sin was its exclusive focus on the fruits, on the end-goal. Many times we are strictly (or primarily) focused on the product, the fruits of our labor, and the process becomes secondary to the product.

How much life passes us by if we miss the journey and focus completely on the destination? The Torah is teaching us an ideal—move towards your goals with alacrity, but don’t forget to pull over at the fruit stand and taste the cherries along the way.  

My father is a cancer survivor. Several years ago he suffered intensive radiation and chemotherapy treatments, along with two serious surgeries whose pain and difficulty I only experienced through my mother’s tears on the telephone.

Yet my father fought through it all with tremendous courage. He told me afterwards that he learned so much from the experience, and though he never would have chosen this for himself, he was grateful that he went through it.

His words left a powerful impression on me, and led me to a deeper realization of how the difficulties that I experienced had in the end benefited me tremendously.
Our great challenge is to seek out and find God amidst the struggle.

The Jewish tradition is no stranger to pain and tragedy, and teaches us valuable lessons about coping with them. One such teaching is from Rebbe Nachman of Brastlov, the great-grandson of the Ba’al Shem Tov, the founder of the Chasidic movement:

The Torah describes God descending on Mt. Sinai as a terrifying experience: a blazing fire and pillars of smoke covered the mountain; a ram’s horn ascending in volume filled their ears. Overwhelmed with panic, the nation retreated; God’s revelation was so intense they feared that it would kill them. They insisted that Moshe alone receive the remainder of the revelation, and afterwards he should relay it to them.

The Torah then tells us that “the nation stood back, and Moshe approached the cloud where God was.” The simple meaning of the passage is that Moshe accepted their request and went to receive the rest of the Torah.

Offering a deeper insight into the passage, Rebbe Nachman sees the cloud as a symbol for the personal challenges each one of us faces. Like most of us, the nation feared the path of most resistance, and moved away from this obstacle. But in that cloud, in that place of tension and distress, is where God dwells. The greatness of Moshe is that he knew to seek out God amidst the struggle.

It’s a natural reaction to run away from our challenges, to postpone difficult encounters, and to fear pain, whether physical or emotional. But those obstacles are truly opportunities for growth custom-made by God. Our great challenge is to seek out and find God amidst the struggle.

Jews are known for strange behavior. We strap leather boxes to our arm and head, wave palm fronds, hold our fingernails up to candles, and have strings hanging out from our clothes. Bur maybe the strangest thing that we do is pray.

Not only do we pray, but we have three daily prayer services. On Shabbat and holidays we add a fourth; on Yom Kippur we even add a fifth. But for a religion that believes so fervently in an all-powerful, all knowing God, prayer is possibly the least logical alternative.

Am I going to change God’s mind? If God wants someone to be sick, or to be poor, is prayer really going to help? God caused this person to be sick; how could praying to the same God who made him sick in the first place possibly do anything to help the situation? Is God going to say, “Well, that is a good point, I never thought about it that way. Yes, you’re right; you do deserve a larger paycheck. I’ll see what I can do about that.”

The whole thing sounds heretical.

One answer is that the whole point of prayer is not for God. God doesn’t need our prayer, and God doesn’t change His mind. But what prayer does is change us. Through the activity of prayer I change myself to the extent that I can be a different person. And as a different person, I can merit greater blessing.

Recognizing God as our source, and as the source of everything, and coming to God to ask for our needs changes our perceptive. It is not only through my own hands that I earned everything I have; all the good that I have is from Hashem. Internalizing this message in all facets of life can have a dramatic effect. Through this constant endeavor we change ourselves, and therefore can merit a different relationship with God. We may receive something now that we never could before, because we are transformed.

In this same way, a community that binds together in prayer is no longer the same community. Uniting around a common goal has transformed them as a unit.

So the question is not, “Did God hear my prayers?” but rather “Did I hear my prayers?” 

Growing up as a Jew I always felt different than the other kids. In the suburbs of Pittsburgh, where I was the only Jew in my elementary school, I heard everything from playful teasing to out-and-out racial slurs from my classmates, and once even from a teacher.

In Hebrew school, being different meant experiencing horrible tragedies: the Spanish Inquisition, the pogroms, and of course the Holocaust. If being the chosen people meant undergoing tragedy, God could choose somebody else.

Only in my young adulthood, after learning more about Judaism than the tragedies we underwent, did I embrace this difference; yet still I still didn’t fully understand it.

One insight that struck me was from the Kabbalist and philosopher Rabbi Yehuda Lowe of Prague, known as the Maharal. He explains that we have a unique relationship with God, a parent-child relationship. With our chosenness comes greater expectations, and with that greater punishment. But there is also greater consolation. This all stems from an essential difference in our nature.

One way of understanding this point is that the Jewish Nation is not bound by the laws of history. No nation has ever left its land for 2000 years (much less even a fraction of that), maintained its identity, and then returned home. The establishment of the modern State of Israel as a Jewish State flies in the face of the laws of history.  And its continuing success despite coming under constant attack testifies that Israel runs by a different set of rules.

This is only one expression of our unique identity, but it’s one that we should feel a sense of pride in. It doesn’t mean that we are better than other nations, only that we have a unique message to give to the world.  Teaching the world about the oneness of God is not a simple mission; the stakes are high, but this is our special task.

And despite the pain that the Jewish people have faced and still face, maybe the State of Israel, with all its miracles, is the beginning of the consolation that we have been awaiting for so long.

Jews like to answer questions with questions, so if you ask me, “Does God know what I’m going to do next?” my answer is, “Who’s asking?”

In other words, it’s all about perspective.

From our perceptive, we have ultimate freewill. From the moment that I step out of bed in the morning I dictate each and every move I make. I am the absolute master of my domain.

Responsibility for our actions is a fundamental principle of Judaism. The entire system of mitzvot in the Torah is predicated on our ability to choose. If we had no freewill, what would be the purpose of the
All we can do is try to make the right decisions and actualize our potential. And that is exactly what God wants from us.
Torah’s intricate legal system?

The Jewish tradition also believes in the greatness of the human being, and in our ability to better ourselves. Though the obstacles to change and growth are great, they are not insurmountable. The only way that we overcome those challenges is through our own freewill decisions.

But there is another perspective: God’s perspective. Nothing happens without God wanting it to happen. No toe is stubbed and no skyscraper is built without God’s desire.  God is orchestrating every minute detail of our individual story, as well as the greater story of all of humanity.

But how can both perspectives be true? Isn’t that a contradiction?

Yes, and this is one of the great paradoxes that we cannot grasp. This brings us to another important point: God’s ways are not always revealed to us; sometimes believing in God demands humility.

The relevant question is: where should we put our focus? The answer is firmly on our own actions. We cannot live in God’s reality; we can only see the world through our own eyes. All we can do is try to make the right decisions and actualize our potential. And that is exactly what God wants from us.