“Man Between Two Principles”
If we try to describe a human being as honestly as possible, without idealization and without excessive pessimism, the first thing that strikes us is an astonishing combination of two different principles. On the one hand, man is an entirely material being. He depends on food, sleep, temperature and the physical condition of his body. His mood can be spoiled by simple fatigue or hunger, and his health often determines how clearly he is able to think and act. And yet there is something in man that does not fit within the bounds of pure biology. He is able to reflect on the meaning of life, to feel the pangs of conscience, to seek truth, to strive for justice, to ask questions about God and about his own soul. In the biblical tradition this inner dimension of man is called the soul — that spiritual part which makes him not merely a living organism, but a being capable of entering into a relationship with the Creator.
And between these two sides of human nature there is a constant tension — quiet, but very real. The material pulls a person toward immediate pleasures, toward simple and quick solutions, toward whatever brings instant relief or joy. The spiritual principle in man, on the contrary, is directed toward something deeper and more lasting: toward truth, toward responsibility, toward a life that has meaning and purpose. In essence, the whole of human life consists in learning to build the right relationship between these two forces. Not destroying the material or pretending it does not exist, but gradually learning to subordinate it to a higher purpose.
Interestingly, this inner struggle is not at all a flaw in the way man is made. On the contrary, it is precisely what makes a human being human. If he were an entirely spiritual being, he would have no need to choose — he would simply exist in harmony. If he were only a material being, he would live by instinct alone. But man stands in the middle, and that is precisely why he has been given freedom of choice. He can rise above his impulses, or he can submit to them completely. This capacity to choose is one of the most serious features of human life.
At the same time, it is important to understand something that religious tradition speaks of far more subtly than it sometimes seems from the outside. Working with human desires does not mean simply suppressing them. Many people, when they first encounter religious ethics, imagine it as a constant struggle against one’s own feelings, as if the task were simply to stifle everything alive within oneself. But the approach of the Torah tradition is much more realistic. Most human desires are not evil in themselves. They are forces that can be directed either destructively or constructively.
A good example is the attraction between a man and a woman. This force can indeed become a source of trouble if a person treats it lightly and uses it without responsibility. But the very same force becomes the foundation of a family when a person marries and builds a relationship on fidelity, respect and love. What in one context can turn into lust becomes, in another, a source of joy, closeness and the continuation of life. The energy itself does not change — the way it is used does.
The same can be said of many other feelings. The desire for recognition can lead a person to pride, but it can also spur him to do his work honestly and well. The pursuit of material well-being can turn into greed, but it can also become an incentive to diligence and to responsibility for one’s family. Even anger, usually considered a negative emotion, sometimes turns out to be a reaction to injustice and can move a person to defend the weak.
That is why in the world of Torah and the commandments human feelings are not denied the right to exist. Rather, a person is invited to learn where and how to use them. In this sense spiritual life resembles the art of managing one’s inner forces more than the mere suppression of desire.
But in order to learn to manage his life, a person first needs to work out more fundamental questions. For it is impossible to build one’s life properly without understanding what it has been given for at all. A person inevitably faces questions that at some point become very personal: why do I live, what awaits my soul after death, what does the Creator expect of man, what does it mean to live rightly? These questions are not always asked aloud, but they gradually appear in every person’s life, especially when he begins to think seriously about the time allotted to him.
Sometimes a single powerful event in life is enough for a person suddenly to see his life differently. People often change their habits when they face real responsibility. A medical diagnosis can make a person give up what he could not give up for years. Understanding that other people’s lives depend on your actions makes a driver behave differently on the road. Realizing that an exam will determine one’s future can discipline even someone who is used to taking life lightly.
Such examples show a simple thing: when a person clearly understands the consequences of his actions, his behavior changes. Awareness of responsibility has an astonishing power. And in spiritual life this principle works in exactly the same way. When a person begins to understand that his life is not an accident but a gift for which he bears responsibility before the Creator, his attitude to his own actions gradually changes.
Someone who truly grasps the value of life usually stops squandering it on things that ultimately give nothing. This does not mean that a person stops enjoying life or becomes a stern ascetic. Rather, he begins to pay closer attention to what he spends his time, strength and inner energy on. He begins to understand that life is too short to waste on pointless habits and random impulses.
But understanding the purpose alone is not enough. It is important for a person to learn to see himself more clearly. This is one of the hardest tasks. It is easy to reason about morality in general, but much harder to look honestly at one’s own character. Every person has strengths that help him move forward and weak spots that can bring him back again and again to the same mistakes. In the tradition of Jewish ethics great attention is paid precisely to this inner investigation — the ability to observe oneself, to notice one’s reactions, to understand one’s inclinations.
When a person begins to see his weaknesses not as a verdict but as a direction for work, spiritual life becomes more practical. He understands where he needs to be especially careful, which habits need changing, which qualities need developing. And then working on oneself stops being an abstract idea. It becomes a consistent process in which a person gradually rises from one level to the next.
It is also important to remember that a person rarely walks this path entirely alone. In any area of life, learning usually requires a mentor. An athlete needs a coach, a musician a teacher, a doctor senior colleagues who help him master the profession. The same principle applies in spiritual life. It is good for a person to have a mentor or a wise counselor — someone who has already traveled part of this road and can advise, support, and sometimes gently point out mistakes.
Without such support, spiritual work often turns either into chaotic attempts to change oneself or into excessive severity toward oneself. A mentor helps one keep one’s balance and move forward step by step.
And all of this takes place against the background of a fairly simple reality: time is limited. A person’s life is not endless, and his strength and attention also have their limits. Jewish tradition has a well-known saying from Pirkei Avot: “The day is short and the work is great.” This does not sound like a threat or pressure. Rather, it is a calm reminder that life is a precious opportunity that must not be put off.
And when a person begins to perceive his life in exactly this way — as limited but precious time given to him for growth, for correcting himself, for building the right relationships with people and with the Creator — a natural desire to act arises in him. Not to wait for the perfect moment, not to postpone change to some indefinite future, but simply to start working on himself step by step.
Ultimately, spiritual life rarely consists of loud and heroic deeds. Most often it is made up of many small decisions: telling the truth instead of a convenient lie, showing patience instead of irritation, doing a good deed even if no one will ever know about it. It is from such steps that a person is gradually built.
And if we look at this without pathos, it becomes clear why the sages said that the work really is great. But at the same time it is worth the effort. Because what is at stake is not something external, but a person’s very life — who he becomes and how he will enter eternity.
