Seeing and loving. Loving and seeing

Rabbi's Notes - March 2005

by Rabbi Margaret Holub

Last Tuesday night in our Hasidism class it was time on the syllabus for the weirdest topic of all -- the strange, disturbing matter (to me, anyhow) of the tsaddik, the saint, the master, the guru. Every Hasidic court had one, and most still do. The tsaddik is "the mediator between above and below." He (or theoretically "she," but I know of none) is "the charismatic man of spirit who addresses himself towards his community… and, through their faith and attachment to him… the entire congregation ascends to a higher level of spiritual life through this mutually fructifying contact." (These quotes are from the wonderful Hasidic Thought by Yoram Jacobson.)

Over and over, there is that peculiar, disturbing notion of "attaching" oneself to the tsaddik… The great and provocative

Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav saw himself as the tsaddik ha-dor, the only tsaddik of the whole generation, something troublingly close, says Nachman scholar Arthur Green, to the Christian notion of the sole intermediary between God and the rest of us. Rabbi Nachman said that only through attaching oneself to the tsaddik -- himself -- can a person's soul be lifted up. Other masters were less grandiose, but they still offered themselves up in that shamanic mediating role, traveling back and forth between the higher reaches and everyday material reality occupied by the rest of us, repairing, reuniting, always elevating.

I came into class with my guns drawn: "Who here has ever met such a person?" I asked, figuring that no one would have, since they don't exist. I turned out to be more or less the lone agnostic. People told lovely stories of encounters with teachers of various traditions who, at crucial moments, looked straight into their hearts and offered them the particular wisdom they needed, or glowed with awake vitality, or spoke truths that pierced through their own reservations and, yes, elevated them. Some of these teachers eventually disappointed; others continue to inspire and uplift their student devotees today.

We found ourselves talking more about that piercing, looking-straight-in quality of these teachers. Somehow they manage to see us oh-so-clearly and still hold us with love. I began protesting a bit. It's not that I've never met such a person; it's that I meet them all the time. Any of you -- I looked around the room -- have lifted my soul straight up at some moment. I am inspired, uplifted, challenged all the time -- often, in fact, by the more difficult people in my life (no one in the class, I promise!) and by the lovely ones as well.

And even as I argued, I found myself feeling wistful and a bit sad. This business about seeing… I blurted out, "I think that a lot of people love me, but I don't know how many really see me…"And, as often happens when I surprise myself by saying something unguarded, for the next couple of days I couldn't stop thinking down this road.

How often do I really see anyone? I get glimpses: sweet, struggling souls, wanting good, sometimes attaining it. Sometimes in someone's company I feel a swell of tenderness for a moment. Here is a human being, a fellow neshama (soul, breath, being) in life along with me -- a miracle just for being. And a very specific neshama at that, totally unique. No two human beings have the exact same essence, any more than any two of us have the same fingerprint. How remarkable! A human being living a moment of life! Right in front of me… What could possibly be more wondrous? It sounds a bit corny to verbalize, but I hope you know what I mean. Sometimes I get these glimpses, and it is nothing short of breathtaking when I do.

But you probably know that this is not usually at the forefront of my consciousness. More typically it is, "Does she like me?" "What does this conversation mean that I have to do to follow up?" "I'm late." "I want to impress him." "I need a cup of tea." "I wonder where she gets her hair cut?" "He probably voted differently than I did." "I can tell she thinks I'm an idiot." "I want X from him." "Is it okay if I say what I'm thinking next?"

As our class conversation was winding down, someone said, "What every person wants most is to be seen." Someone else said, "Love and seeing." Someone else said, "Really seeing someone is loving them." I think a little bit of Talmudic debate followed on this point.

At that moment I told a little story from my own past. When I was ten years old, suddenly sprung to my full adult height and weight, a hormonal wreck, my family falling apart, a teacher of mine (who I suspect may be reading this "rabbi's notes" even now…) came up to me on the playground and handed me a several-page document with my name on a cover sheet, neatly hand-written and stapled, obviously prepared ahead of time. Inside was a list of characteristics he saw in me and little sentences of description about each. "Honesty," "niceness" etc. I just now pulled that sheet out of a file drawer to double-check my memory, because I can only bear to look at it about once a decade. I'm blushing, all alone in front of my computer, cringing a bit from the intensity of really being looked-at, and really being seen, thirty-seven years ago. It's wonderful -- in fact, one of the most wonderful things anyone has ever done for me -- but excruciating too. No wonder I, and some of the rest of us too, I suspect, duck our heads when someone is really looking at us, lest we get what we want most and are actually seen.

I don't have a punchline here. Being a rabbi and all, I should probably mention that this month brings us to Purim, the holiday of Esther, whose name means "hidden," the holiday of masks and costumes and every kind of hiding, obfuscation and obliteration. Purim is sometimes said to be the holiday when God is hiding too.

Seeing and loving. Loving and seeing. May the masks be only as opaque as they need to be -- happy Purim my dear community.

© 2005 Rabbi Margaret Holub

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