One of the most essential questions a person can ask of religion is not whether God exists, nor even how to fulfill His commandments correctly. The question goes much deeper: what kind of person does God wish to see before Him? What does it mean to draw near to Him? What must a person become so that their life truly expresses the Divine design?
Practically everything depends on the answer to this question. For religion does not simply offer a person certain rules of conduct. It shapes an understanding of what constitutes the highest achievement in human life, what one should strive for, which qualities to develop, and which aspects of one’s own nature need correcting. And since religious ideas have shaped the development of entire peoples over millennia, the understanding of holiness has inevitably influenced the structure of society, as well as attitudes toward work, science, art, family, the state, and human life itself.
If holiness is understood as liberation from the earthly, then the ideal becomes a person who has managed to distance himself as far as possible from ordinary human concerns. But if holiness is understood as the proper unfolding of the Divine design within the created world, then a completely different ideal emerges: a person who does not withdraw from life, but learns to live it as fully as his abilities, circumstances, and responsibilities allow.
It is precisely this second approach that holds an important place in the Jewish understanding of the relationship between man and God.
In the Tanakh, the Almighty is repeatedly called the living God — Elokim chaim. At first glance this expression seems entirely natural. Of course God is living. But if we reflect on its meaning, an important question arises: why is it specifically the concept of life that is used to describe God? After all, one could have limited oneself to such attributes as eternal, almighty, all-knowing, perfect. Yet biblical language constantly brings us back to life.
Of course, when we speak of God as living, we do not mean biological life. God is not an organism and is not subject to the laws of nature. We are speaking of a fundamentally different category. Life here means not passive existence, but active presence — a source of movement, of creation, and of the possibility of the new.
Man, created in the image of God, is called not merely to exist while observing certain restrictions. He must uncover within himself the capacity to be a participant in Divine creation.
And here we come to an important distinction between existence and life.
One can live many years having realized practically nothing of what one was given. One can avoid mistakes, conflicts, and difficult decisions, decline to take on responsibility, and yet consider such a life correct because it contained relatively few transgressions. But is that enough? Can we call it a spiritual achievement when a person has protected himself from every risk at the cost of abandoning his own calling?
Imagine a person with musical talent. He is capable of creating works that could enrich the inner world of others. But he refuses to pursue music, fearing that art will distract him from spiritual pursuits. Or imagine a scientist who could make an important discovery but is convinced that studying the material world has less value than contemplating God. Or a person with the ability to organize people, create jobs, and develop public institutions, who nonetheless considers all of this too earthly and therefore not holy enough.
From the standpoint of a certain religious worldview, such a refusal may appear to be an expression of piety. Yet a serious problem arises: if a person’s abilities are given to him by God, why should refusing to realize them be considered drawing near to God?
For a person renounces not only possible mistakes. He also renounces the possibilities for good that could have arisen through his activity.
In Jewish tradition there is the concept of tikkun — repair, bringing something to its proper state. This concept carries various meanings in different streams of Jewish thought, but for our discussion the idea itself is especially important: the world was not given to man solely for contemplation. Man is called to take part in its transformation.
Already in the first chapters of the book of Bereshit we encounter a remarkable description of human purpose. Man is placed in the Garden of Eden «to work it and to guard it» (Bereshit 2:15). Note this: even in the ideal garden, man is not presented as a being who has nothing left to do but enjoy the perfection of the world around him. He is entrusted with work.
This is extremely important. Labor appears in the narrative even before Adam’s sin. Consequently, the very need for activity is not a punishment for human imperfection. The hardship of labor after the commandment was broken is a separate topic, but creative activity has been part of human purpose from the very beginning.
In other words, a person draws near to God not only when he prays, studies sacred texts, or fulfills religious precepts. He can also draw near to Him when he creates something useful, explores the laws of nature, raises children, develops culture, and builds just social relations.
But here an essential clarification is needed.
Not every activity automatically becomes holy. A person can be extremely active, talented, and successful, yet use his abilities for destruction, exploitation, or the gratification of his own vanity. Therefore, we are not speaking of a simple glorification of activity, nor claiming that any development is a good.
Holiness arises where human activity is joined with moral responsibility and an awareness of one’s calling.
In this sense, holiness does not abolish human nature but demands its correction and unfolding. What is needed is not to destroy a person’s desires, abilities, and aspirations, but to learn to direct them so that they become part of creation.
That is precisely why in the Torah we do not find an ideal of universal withdrawal from society. On the contrary, a significant portion of the commandments concerns relations between people, trade, property, the courts, agriculture, family life, help for the poor, the employer’s responsibility toward the worker, and the ordering of social relations.
In the book of Vayikra we hear the well-known command: «You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy» (Vayikra 19:2).
But what follows this call?
The Torah speaks of honoring parents, of justice, honesty, treatment of the poor, the prohibition of deceit, and responsibility toward one’s neighbor. In other words, holiness unfolds not in some abstract space separated from everyday life, but directly within human relationships.
It is especially interesting that the call to holiness is addressed not only to particular outstanding individuals. It is addressed to the entire community of Israel.
This is a matter of principle.
In some religious systems, the highest spiritual life turns out to be the lot of the few: those capable of renouncing ordinary existence and devoting themselves exclusively to spiritual practice. In Judaism, however, there is the idea of the holiness of an entire people, and therefore of the need to build a social life in which spiritual values are present in all its principal spheres.
A people cannot consist exclusively of sages studying Torah. It needs farmers, doctors, builders, craftsmen, merchants, scientists, artists, judges, leaders, and people of many other professions. If holiness is to become a characteristic of society, it cannot be confined to a single professional or religious group.
From this follows an interesting consequence: an individual is not obliged to do everything, but society must create space for the realization of the many different human abilities.
A person is limited. He has particular talents, inclinations, opportunities, and life circumstances. An attempt to become at once an outstanding scientist, artist, entrepreneur, public figure, and religious thinker will most likely lead only to superficiality. But society is able to unite people, each of whom unfolds his own calling.
Therefore the development of society turns out to be not simply a matter of material well-being. It acquires a spiritual dimension.
And here another topic arises, one directly relevant to the modern world: how should religion relate to scientific and technological progress?
Today one often encounters two opposing views. According to the first, humanity develops to the extent that it frees itself from religious ideas. Science gradually explains what was once attributed to Divine intervention, technology expands human capabilities, and religion is perceived as a legacy of earlier eras.
According to the other view, characteristic of certain conservative religious circles, modern development is dangerous precisely because it changes the familiar way of life, destroys traditional structures, and creates new moral problems.
Both approaches proceed from the assumption that religion and the development of civilization stand in fundamental contradiction.
Yet such an opposition is by no means necessary.
If God is the Creator of the world, then the study of this world should not be perceived as an activity inherently alien to religious consciousness. On the contrary, knowledge of the laws of nature can be regarded as one of the ways of apprehending the wisdom of creation.
When a person explores the structure of the universe, studies the human body, discovers mathematical patterns, or develops technologies that save lives, he is engaging with the world which, according to the religious worldview, was created by God.
Of course, a scientific discovery does not in itself make a person moral. History has shown quite convincingly that technical power can be used both for rescue and for destruction. But what follows from this is not the need to abandon science, but the need to join its development with the moral growth of the human being.
For the problem is not that humanity has learned too much. The problem arises when its technical capabilities grow faster than its ability to answer for the consequences of its own actions.
The same applies to art and culture.
Art is able to awaken in a person experiences and insights that cannot be conveyed by rational argument alone. Music, literature, painting, and architecture help a person see the world from another side, live through another’s experience, and grasp the complexity of human existence.
Of course, art can also serve destructive ends. But this very possibility does not cancel its creative potential.
If religious consciousness declares an entire area of human culture to be fundamentally alien to God, it thereby renounces the possibility of understanding that area within the framework of the Divine design.
And here we encounter a paradox.
A person can become so focused on protecting religion from the surrounding world that he gradually ceases to see in that world the creation of God.
He will perceive God as present primarily in the house of prayer, in the sacred book, in religious ritual, but almost absent from the scientific laboratory, the artist’s studio, the family conversation, or public life.
Yet if God is the Creator of all that exists, it is impossible to maintain consistently that only a small part of human life has anything to do with Him.
Here, however, it is important not to fall into the opposite extreme. Recognizing the Divine origin of the world does not mean that everything happening in it is equally right. The world contains evil, injustice, violence, and destruction. Human desires, too, do not always deserve to be fulfilled.
That is precisely why drawing near to God means not an unconditional acceptance of life in all its manifestations, but the ability to discern what in it must be developed, and what must be corrected or restrained.
Holiness is not permission for a person to do whatever he wants. It is a demand to learn to want that which truly helps the good to unfold.
And such an understanding makes spiritual life considerably more difficult than it may seem.
For it is much simpler to divide the world into two parts: the sacred and the mundane. In one, a person prays, reflects on eternity, and keeps established rules. In the other, he deals with work, money, family matters, and social problems.
With such a division, religious life becomes relatively clear. A person knows where the territory of holiness lies and tries to spend a certain amount of time there.
But if the whole of life is to be included in one’s relationship with God, the task becomes far more serious.
Then it is not enough to be honest only in religious matters. One must be honest in business dealings. It is not enough to speak of love for one’s neighbor. One must learn to respect a person with whom it is hard to reach agreement. It is not enough to admire the wisdom of the Creator. One must strive personally to understand the world, develop one’s own thinking, and not be afraid of difficult questions.
Moreover, a person must learn to see spiritual significance in circumstances that usually seem utterly insignificant.
For example, the head of an organization makes a decision about allocating funds. At first glance this is an ordinary administrative matter. But on this decision depends how fairly people’s efforts will be rewarded, whether they will be able to provide for their families, and whether the organization will honor its commitments.
Or a doctor chooses how much time to give a patient. This is a professional situation, but at the same time a moral choice.
Or a parent talks with a child after a mistake. He can humiliate the child to obtain obedience, or he can help the child understand the consequences of his own action and learn responsibility.
In all these cases we are not speaking of religious rituals. Yet it is precisely here that we discover how deeply spiritual values have penetrated human life.
One could say that religious ritual helps a person become aware of certain principles, while everyday life tests how far he is truly able to be guided by them.
At the same time, one must not conclude that prayer, Torah study, or the fulfillment of the commandments become secondary. In traditional Judaism they possess their own independent religious value and are not reducible to preparing a person for public activity. On the contrary, we are speaking of the need to unite different dimensions of life, not to replace one with another.
Here it is fitting to recall the well-known saying from the tractate Pirkei Avot: «It is not upon you to finish the work, but neither are you free to desist from it» (Avot 2:16).
This thought conveys with remarkable precision the position of man in the world.
We cannot repair everything. We cannot solve all of humanity’s problems, eliminate every injustice, know all the laws of nature, or realize every existing possibility. Moreover, each of us lives a relatively short life and inevitably leaves behind a multitude of unfinished tasks.
But the limitation of our capabilities does not exempt us from taking part.
Man has not been charged with completing the Divine design single-handedly. He has been charged with making his own contribution.
And here an important understanding of personal calling emerges.
Not every person must make a great discovery or create a work of art that will outlive the centuries. Not everyone is capable of leading a state or changing public institutions. But everyone has a certain sphere of responsibility in which his actions matter.
Sometimes it is building a family. Sometimes — raising children. Sometimes — professional mastery. Sometimes — helping specific people. Sometimes — the ability to preserve human dignity in circumstances where this is especially hard.
What matters is not how visible a person’s activity turns out to be, but how fully and responsibly he realizes the opportunities available to him.
At the same time, fullness of life must not be confused with constant busyness. A person who works endlessly, strives for new achievements, and is unable to stop does not necessarily live more fully than one who knows how to give time to loved ones, to reflection, and to inner growth.
In Jewish tradition there is Shabbat — an appointed time for ceasing creative work. And this is extremely telling. A religion that attaches such great importance to human activity at the same time requires a person to stop regularly.
Why?
Because a person must not become a slave to his own activity. He must remember that the world does not exist solely thanks to his efforts, and that his worth is not determined only by the quantity of what he has produced or achieved.
Thus, fullness of life includes not only action, but also the ability to refrain from action at the right moment. Not only creation, but also contemplation. Not only responsibility toward society, but also the preservation of inner freedom.
This is especially important in today’s world, where a person is constantly invited to measure his own life by results, successes, and achievements.
Holiness is not identical to success.
A person may fail and yet remain faithful to his moral obligations. He may not reach the goal he set and yet acquire wisdom. He may turn down a profitable opportunity because pursuing it would have required injustice toward others.
Therefore, the question is not simply how actively a person takes part in life, but what content he gives to that participation.
It seems to me that here lies one of the most important conclusions from all that has been said.
We often imagine spiritual growth as a gradual liberation from something human. It seems to us that the fewer ordinary desires, attachments, interests, and feelings a person has, the closer he is to God.
But one can look at this differently.
Perhaps drawing near to God requires not a diminishing of the human personality, but its correction and unfolding. Not renouncing the capacity to love, but a more mature love. Not renouncing reason, but deeper thinking. Not destroying creative aspirations, but understanding what a person creates for. Not fleeing society, but knowing how to take part in its life without losing one’s moral bearings.
Of course, a person needs limits. Not every desire should be satisfied, not every opportunity pursued. But a limit has meaning not in itself, but as a means of directing life toward a higher content.
In this respect, holiness can be compared to the development of musical mastery. A musician practices for years, follows certain rules, and restrains himself with discipline. But the purpose of these restrictions is not that he should play as little as possible. On the contrary, they are needed so that he can express in music what would otherwise have remained out of reach without such preparation.
In the same way, moral and spiritual discipline should not impoverish human existence, but help a person unfold its possibilities.
And then it becomes clearer why the conversation about holiness cannot be limited solely to personal conduct.
If a person truly seeks to draw near to God, he inevitably becomes interested not only in his own inner state, but also in the world in which he lives. He comes to care how justly society is arranged, what opportunities children receive, how education develops, how scientific discoveries are used, what is happening to culture, and how people treat one another.
This does not mean that every believer is obliged to engage in politics or public life. But it does mean that religious consciousness should not declare such questions unimportant merely because they do not relate directly to divine worship.
For God created not only the space of religious life. He created the world.
And if a person seeks to build a relationship with the Creator, he cannot completely ignore creation.
Of course, human knowledge of God is always limited. It is impossible to claim that studying nature, taking part in culture, or developing technology in themselves give a person a full relationship with the Almighty. But it is equally hard to agree with the notion that none of this has any spiritual significance.
The most important task is to learn to unite the different aspects of human existence without destroying their independent value.
Science must remain science, rather than turning into a search for predetermined religious conclusions. Art must preserve the freedom of creative exploration, rather than becoming merely an illustration of moral instruction. Public institutions must develop with real human needs in mind, rather than substituting religious slogans for professional competence.
Yet at the same time, a person can view all these spheres in a broader perspective — as parts of the world for which he bears responsibility before God.
It is precisely such a perspective that makes it possible to avoid both the deification of progress and the fear of it.
Humanity does not automatically become better because it possesses more advanced technology. But neither does rejecting development make it more spiritual.
The real question is whether a person, as his capabilities expand, is able to become more responsible, more just, wiser, and more attentive to others.
And in this sense, the movement toward holiness never ends.
One cannot one day declare oneself to have reached the necessary spiritual level and consider further growth optional. As long as a person is alive, there remain before him opportunities he has not yet realized, questions he has not answered, relationships in need of repair, and knowledge he has yet to acquire.
Moreover, spiritual growth does not always mean moving toward something entirely new. Sometimes it requires returning to what a person has long known but has never learned to put into practice.
We can spend years reasoning about justice and still remain unjust in our own relationships. We can speak about the value of human life yet find no time to listen to someone close to us. We can admire the wisdom of ancient texts and at the same time avoid the questions that the present age sets before us.
Therefore, holiness cannot be measured by the number of correct words spoken.
It is revealed in what kind of person we gradually become, and in what happens to the world around us thanks to our presence in it.
Perhaps one of the most serious questions worth asking oneself is not: «What else must I give up in order to draw near to God?»
Sometimes it is far more important to ask: «What of the things God has given me have I still not dared to realize?»
Which abilities remain unused? What responsibility am I avoiding? What knowledge am I afraid of? Which relationships need repair? What good could I do, but keep postponing because my familiar life seems safer?
Not every renunciation is a virtue. Sometimes there truly is wisdom behind it, and sometimes — fear, indifference, or unwillingness to make decisions.
And not every striving for more is pride. Sometimes it is precisely the refusal to grow that turns out to be a form of ingratitude for the opportunities one has received.
A person does not choose with what abilities to be born, in what era to come into the world, or what circumstances to meet along the way. But he is to a large extent responsible for how he will use what he has been given.
Therefore, holiness understood in this way is not an escape from human existence. It is a difficult and lengthy work of repairing it.
To be closer to God does not mean to become less human.
It means understanding ever more deeply why a person has been given reason, freedom, and the capacity to love, to create, to explore, to choose, and to answer for his own actions.
And if God is the source of life, then the path to Him cannot be reduced solely to renouncing life.
It must lead to life’s deeper, more responsible, and more meaningful unfolding.
Not toward taking up as little space in the world as possible, but toward making our presence in it justified.
Not toward striving to appear holy, but toward the ability to make the world better to the extent that this truly lies within our power.
For man was not created merely to pass through this world, trying to touch nothing. He has been given the opportunity to take part in its development. And perhaps one of the most serious forms of spiritual responsibility lies precisely in not renouncing this opportunity.
