19 Letters

I haven't gone to a Torah Shiur in almost 2 years because I am a closet bitter, angry Jew and Shiurim exasserbate the fact. I don't mean to be harsh on myself, in fact I should probably take back the last statement, but maybe I am a bit self hating, or at least hating the Jew in me because I connect it to Torah learning which has always left me feeling empty and confused.

Last week a few of my good buddies invited me to learn with them, and I thought what the heck, because they know me well enough to bypass the angst I exude. We have been reading Samson Rafael Hirsch. The book '19 Letters' written in the 1830s is supposed to be Orthodoxy's response to the Reformed and Enlightened Jew. I liked the book initially because I truly identified with this enlightened figure that is portrayed in the book.

And yet, by the fourth letter, I am still tragically unconvinced. I have a difficult time using Torah sources to defend Orthodox premises, which, I am told, is the only way to do so. I understand that there is no other way to accept a universal, traditional truth without using that source to defend itself, but if the case cannot be made, then what?

And yes, my dichotomized soul is still wretchedly fighting out this ill-fated ideological struggle. Funny enough, at the end of the day, I suppose it has little influence on how I carry out my life, but yet...it still matters to me. My sense of unease is only dormant for a while, and then, while straddling two complete ideologies, I am lead only to a sense of weightedness by sudden pangs from one of my two worlds.

I find my heritage beautiful, it just hurts.

I remember...
... walking through the airport with my mom at one point as a young teenager and mentioning to her that I felt I had changed. I was 14 years old and had switched yeshiva programs the year before when I had begun high school. I remember saying to her that at my old school I had taken no responsibility for committing to yiddishkeit, but that recently I had felt a connection to the learning and was inspired to do something about it. I told her, as I shifted my backpack to my other shoulder, that I would never consider leaving the house without my siddur. I had it with me at the time, and I remember the comfortable feeling of its cover in my hand and the smell of its pages as I carried it through the terminal.

I remember her reaction. She stopped walking and turned to look at me. I saw her pride, relief, and joy that I was maturing into her child-- that as her kids grew older, they were beginning to appreciate her and my father's commitment to their faith.

My memory from that time is generally disjointed and fragmented, like a montage of film being shown to fast. but this incident is a super strong memory. I can shut my eyes and remember the entire conversation. It might be the event that keeps me with one foot in the revolving door of my heritage.