Reflecting back upon my life, it is clear that my spiritual journey began as adolescent curiosity, a thirst for stories, rituals, and truth that would eventually lead me across time and space and several religious traditions to HaShem, the God of Israel, and back into those past religious traditions with new insights. It was a journey into the dual hearts of mysticism and perennialism.
From an early interest in Greek, Norse, and Egyptian mythology, I developed an appreciation of storytelling as a means of expressing ideas that are hard to put into words directly, tales that capture our imagination and let us mentally glimpse underlying moral truths, opening the door for our minds to apprehend a reality beyond our five senses, something transcendent. Later, a study of paganism and the occult led me to look deeper into these stories and myself to seek that which was hidden from common knowledge because the transcendent seemed so mysterious and arcane. But abuse, pain, anger, depression, and discontent with the shallowness of my spiritual life prodded me to explore meditation and the teachings of the Buddha. I spent many years on this path, visiting monasteries and meditation groups across the country, finding that taking refuge in wise teachers, ethical and contemplative practices like observing the precepts and mindfulness of breathing meditation, and an earnest spiritual community of practitioners produced much benefit for my wounded yet hungry heart and mind. And Buddhism’s underlying premise is simple, practical, and deeply alluring to many seekers of peace and wisdom such as myself—remove the defilements of greed, hatred, and delusion from your heart and mind and there the door to the deathless stands, and with it, an end to suffering. But still there was something missing from the equation, and I felt drawn towards learning even more. Reading things like Plato and works on Christian mysticism, I started to see what I thought were common themes and experiences that were expressed in different words and through the lens of diverse cultures yet sharing so much. And I slowly became convinced that, if truth is indeed universal, then perhaps what I was truly searching for was the foundation of that truth, a truth that attempts to shine forth in every religion but is difficult to grasp in its essence. More and more, I saw God as that potential foundation, so I sought out God.
I cannot say that even today I know who or what God is. Ultimate reality is something I am not sure one can ever truly know in full detail, but I do think it can be touched, experienced, in a way that gives one confidence, wisdom, and strong moral character. And I think all of the great teachers and saints of every tradition are examples of those who have had some glimpse of the divine, whether through faith, practice, or study, and exude love, compassion, and wisdom as a result. Some have more indirect experiences and generalized understanding of this reality (e.g., through study and debate or mediating upon the unconditioned, uncreated, and timeless aspect of God’s being), and they tend to see God as either a separate but unconditioned reality lying outside of our experience of the five senses or as the ground of being and even being-itself. It is a more impersonal experience of God that is closer to the God of the philosophers or the deathless element realized by Buddhist arahants. And some, on the other hand, have a more direct and intimate experience and knowledge of this reality, and I believe these are the ones who tend to see God as a personal being who, while being unconditioned, still has a presence that is felt in our conditional world, like the prophets of divine revelation and religious saints. But I think that both see God in some way, and I have gone from seeking God impersonally to personally—hence, it is here that I began to dip my toes into the study and practice of the Abrahamic faiths. I found exploring Christianity the easiest and most natural as it surrounded me, has theological roots in philosophers like Aristotle and Plato (although I lean towards the latter), and has a monastic tradition that has similar characteristics to the Thai Theravada Buddhist monasteries I was already familiar with. And I have certainly found much wisdom there as well, particularly in terms of contemplative practices (such as centering prayer) and communities of kind and welcoming people.
Nevertheless, as much as I admire Jesus and seek to follow his example of radical love and compassion, I found that I had trouble seeing him as God, or God as three distinct persons. I always saw trinitarian theology as a simplified version of the sefirot — the ten divine aspects of God that, through which, God manifests in the world — and metaphors for: God as ultimate reality and ground of being (Father); our potential to have an intimate connection with, and speak to, God, being all children or creations of God, as exemplified by Jesus (Son); and the presence of God suffusing the world as it evolves along with our understanding of it (Holy Spirit). Jesus is undoubtedly one of the great spiritual teachers of the world, and has been a personal guide and example of someone who loves God and others as himself because God is love (1 John 4:7-8)—love being a creative and nurturing energy. And I see his attempts to more closely connect us to God as an example of the trinity being more about relationships than ontologies. Richard Rohr, one of my favourite Christian perennialists, has often made a similar connection while also accepting their existence. For example, he describes the trinity as a circular dance and the deepest flow of life, and notes that each ‘person’ of the trinity relates by “living in an eternal self-emptying (kenosis), which allows each of them to let go completely and give themselves to the other. They are simultaneously loving and totally loveable, one to another.” And that love is the very nature and shape of divine being: “This deep flow is then the pattern of the whole universe, and any idea of God’s ‘wrath’ or of God withholding what is an infinitely outflowing love is theologically impossible. Love is the very pattern with which we start and the goal toward which we move. It gives energy to the entire universe, from orbiting protons and neutrons to the social and sexual life of species, to the planets and stars. We were indeed created in communion, by communion, and for communion (Genesis 1:26 calls it being ‘created in the image and likeness of God’).”
Throughout all of this, I always had a fascination with Judaism, but primarily as an outsider, from afar. I would often read books about Jewish thought and philosophy or listen to podcasts and lectures and found much that intrigued me. I remember the very first book that sparked my conscious interest in Judaism was Rabbi David Copper’s God is a Verb, which I read when I was 17 or 18 and introduced me to Kabbalah and the Baal Shem Tov. Nevertheless, not being born into a Jewish family or having any close Jewish friends, I felt like it was not something I could personally be a part of. My understanding was that, even though I knew conversions did happen, it was more of a heritage and not something you could easily leap into as a gentile; and I did not think I would be welcomed into the community in that way, especially since I had no knowledge of Hebrew, which is a very important part of the Jewish tradition. So for decades, I simply admired it from afar, watching TV shows like Srugim and Shtisel, and finding my closest connection within Christianity and reading the Bible, with Jesus continually pointing me back towards the Tanakh, which contains within it the story of a people who, on the one hand, are struggling with the world they live in, full of greed, oppression, and violence, yet dreaming of a world that is filled with equality, abundance, and peace—a story of historical progress towards something better and the successes and failures that a particular people found worth recalling and reliving. And for a time, I suppose I was somewhat satisfied. But when I continued to delve into God, theology, and the various traditions and ideas contained within them, I discovered new Jewish sources such as Zevi Slavin’s Seekers of Unity series and Rabbi Dr. Samuel Lebens’ collection of books, articles, lectures, and interviews and realized that I was not truly satisfied—there was more for me to learn about this religion that I had orbited for years and was only now becoming cognizant of its gravitational pull upon my heart and mind.
Years before my immersion into Judaism, I made the Hebrew blessing that is said before eating any food not grown in the ground as my daily morning prayer: “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha’Olam shehakol nihiyah bid’varo” (“Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, through Whose word all things come into being”). I found it beautiful, simple, and containing within it all that I thought needed to be said and reflected upon at the start of the day—God, God’s word, and my place within God’s world. And studying the principles of Judaism, I realized I had already accepted the three primary principles of Judaism proposed by Rabbi Joseph Albo from my previous years of religious study and practice: (1) belief in one God and source of being; (2) belief in revelation, including (but not limited to) the divine inspiration of the Torah; and (3) belief in reward and punishment, which can also be viewed as the cause and effect relationship between our actions and their consequences in this life and any to come. Spinoza takes credit for truly convincing me of the first principle with his arguments in Ethics, with assistance from Rabbi Dr. Lebens and his arguments for Hasidic idealism in The Principles of Judaism, with Spinoza’s substance equivalent to consciousness/God’s mind in my own amalgamation of these two philosophical points of view. But whatever the theological and philosophical nature of God and the universe may be, I am firmly rooted in the belief that God is the source of all things, God is one and wholly indivisible, God’s will/intention/word created the universe and everything in it, and God continually supports existence through said will/intention/word. And in this belief, I am a panenthiest in that I think God both transcends this world (God as Mind or Substance) and at the same time God’s presence suffuses and foundationally underlies it, albeit limiting that presence at the same to make the space necessary for conscious beings to act of their own volition (i.e., reality being thoughts in the mind of God if God is immaterial and idealism is correct, hence God is in God’s thoughts yet God is greater than those thoughts; or else God produces and supports a material world that is infused with God’s presence, because what can exist without God?). This space, created through what Kabbalistic thought calls tsimtsum (divine contraction/hiddenness) is in essence the womb of God giving birth to the best of all possible worlds—a world sitting between that of perfect order (pre-Big Bang) and that of perfect disorder (the entropy at the end of the universe), a world that is ordered by natural laws and also subject to the underlying chaos of quantum level uncertainty, which together allows for the mutable order necessary for life to grow, evolve, and be given the freedom and flexibility of choice within the awareness of God’s omniscience. And I don’t think this act of self-limiting, in whatever form it may take, diminishes God or makes God deficient in any way, as some philosophers do. In fact, I think it highlights the incomparable love of God and God’s benevolent goodness to do something like that for us, much like how the medieval Jewish philosopher Crescas argues for the capacity of God to love and feel joy, and creation inherently extending out of God’s overflowing goodness and joy in communicating a love that is infinite and ultimately reflected in our existence and happiness, with God’s omnisubjectivity and ability to experience temporality and our lives with us forming the possibility for revelation, miracles, the efficacy of prayer, and union with God. This accords, I think, to the Kabbalistic saying, “God is the Place of the world, but the world is not God's place.” God is transcendent yet immanent. Without yet also within. Impersonal yet deeply involved in our lives. God is the ultimate and eternal paradox.
Consequently, revelation and prophecy, what we typically call revealed laws, knowledge, and foresight, is rife throughout creation, from the mysteries of nature to the inspiration of human intuition and imagination. God is speaking to us every moment, and there are some among us who are more attuned to the language of God, those of us who are able to listen more deeply and communicate what God is saying to us—what we call prophets in a religious context, and in other realms, what we might call philosophers and scientists. The laws of nature constitute both the physical laws that dictate what we experience as the material world (whether or not that ‘material’ world has some form of concrete existence outside of the mind of God) as well as the moral laws that dictate conscious experience within it, pleasure and pain, happiness and sorrow, satisfaction and regret, good and evil, etc. And what is revealed of the latter type of law, both written in our hearts (Jer. 31:31-34) and spoken of by prophets such as Moses (Ex. 19-31), is a complex web of interconnectedness and causality, a moral law in which our actions are like seeds that are planted and grow, the fruits of which we reap in this life and any life (or lives) to come. Much like the Eastern concept of kamma (action) or moral cause and effect, seeds that are planted with intentions of greed, hatred, and delusion tend to grow into rotten fruit, the taste of which is sour, bitter, and full of decay. With these fruits we reap punishment. Seeds that are planted with intentions of generosity, love, and wisdom, however, tend to grow into fruit that is sweet, delicious, and full of life. With these fruits we reap reward. And life is a mixture of these experiences. The more we plant of the former, the closer we get to Gehinnom (hell); the more we plant of the latter, the closer we get to Gan Eden (heaven). And the observance of halakhic law, the heart and binding tradition of Judaism, is none other than the way the Jewish people strive to live in an effort to bring them closer to God and plant the seeds for the redemption of the world to come.
The story of the people of Israel begins with liberation from slavery and captivity, proclaimed by God and fulfilled through the work of human hands, and has its hopeful end in a messianic age characterized by peace, harmony, freedom from want, and an end to sin, death, and suffering. And underlying that story and driving it towards this estimable goal is a revolutionary spirit suffused with tzedakah and mishpat (distributive and retributive justice respectively, although Rabbi Jonathan Sacks argued for keeping them untranslated) that reflects the reality of our interbeing with each other and the world, and as a result, commands that injustice be protested wherever we find it, whether those transgressions are committed at home or by the entire world:
Anyone who is able to protest against the transgressions of one's household and does not, is punished for the actions of the members of the household; anyone who is able to protest against the transgressions of one's townspeople and does not, is punished for the transgressions of the townspeople; anyone who is able to protest against the transgressions of the entire world and does not is punished for the transgressions of the entire world. (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 54b:20)
And I believe that this same spirit beats within the heart of all religions, the spirit of the golden rule, which psychologist Carol Gilligan summarizes in the Philosophy For Our Times podcast episode “A rule to live by” as, “Act as though you all live in relationship.” If we take both human experience and the teachings of all the major religions of the world seriously, the latter of which I think are seeded with an intuition of God, it is clear that our actions have efficacy, i.e., the results of those actions have effects that beget consequences for ourselves as well as for others. Moreover, we all tend to desire happiness and freedom from what we experience as painful and suffering just as others do; and just as we generally hold ourselves most dear as the Buddha taught, so, too, do others, hence we should not cause harm to anyone (SN 3.8). If our happiness comes at the expense of another’s, they will do everything in their power to upset that happiness. Conversely, if they were to infringe upon ours, would we not do everything in our power to upset theirs? It creates a vicious circle, and one of the ways to break this circle is an ethical framework that takes the happiness and well-being of others into consideration—a framework balanced by our needs and those of others as well as by what actions are appropriate for the situation (e.g., charity, compassion, forgiveness, leniency, etc. vs. abstention, confrontation, rebuke, strictness, etc.). And the world would undeniably be a better place if that spirit, characterized by tzedakah and mishpat, was our guiding light. I have a strong conviction that God’s laws are written into our hearts just as they are written into the very fabric of creation and the physical and psychological laws of cause and effect reflected in our corresponding experiences of pleasure and pain, happiness and sorrow, satisfaction and regret, and ultimately, good and evil. And to intentionally cause or even tolerate harm violates the moral laws placed upon the world by God — whether we happen to arrive at those principles through revelation, intuition, or reason — because our lives are as precious to God as they are to ourselves.
Suffice it to say that I have a profound, abiding admiration for Judaism because it has greatly influenced my understanding of God and reality, and I have always been drawn towards it even when I felt forever outside its inner circle of faithful. And I have since come to realize that the spirit of Judaism has established itself within my heart and has never truly felt far from home, finding myself called to it again and again with increasing yearning and reverence. One of the reasons I started considering myself a perennialist is that I began to see an underlying truth seeking its expression through religion, with some of the most beautiful and clearest expressions being found in Jewish mysticism. I saw that God is the author of our stories and the pages upon which they are written; God’s presence is steeped in every time, place, and soul; God guides us to live with compassion and justice, and with loving-kindness draws us close; and I could not help but affirm that, ‘Adonai is God, Adonai is one’ (Deut. 6:4). And I have always valued and endeavoured to cultivate (however imperfectly) the three cardinal character traits elucidated in the Babylonian Talmud that, according to Rabbi Dr. Lebens in the conclusion to his book, The Principles of Judaism, “are posited as essential to the Jewish identity,” traits that “God bestows upon the community which receives [God’s] Torah” and makes one “worthy to join the Jewish people” (293-95):
David said: There are three distinguishing marks of this nation, the Jewish people. They are merciful, they are shamefaced, and they perform acts of kindness.
They are merciful, as it is written: “And He will give you mercy, and have mercy upon you and multiply you”(Deuteronomy 13:18); not only will God have mercy upon you, but He will bestow the attribute of mercy upon you.
They are shamefaced, as it is written: “And that His fear shall be upon your faces” (Exodus 20:17), and the fear that is on one’s face is his shame. They perform acts of kindness, as it is written: “For I have known him, to the end that he may command his children and his household after him, that they may keep the way of the Lord, to practice righteousness and justice” (Genesis 18:19), i.e., to perform acts of kindness.
Whoever has these three distinguishing marks is fit to cleave to this nation. Those who lack these qualities, however, are unfit to be part of the Jewish people. When David saw the cruelty of the Gibeonites, he decreed that they may never enter into the congregation of Israel. (Babylonian Talmud, Yevamot 79a:3)
To me, the underlying principles of Judaism and its laws of darkei shalom (ways of peace), which prefigure the peace and harmony of the coming messianic era, are as beautiful as they are practical—finding a perfect balance between orthodoxy and orthopraxy, and offering a collective religious heritage for a social species entrusted with protecting, repairing, and improving the world (Gen. 2:15). And the more I learn about them, the more I find myself striving to adopt them into my life and consciously integrate them into my words, thoughts, and deeds. Nevertheless, I do not think that God or truth is limited to only one tradition, even if some may have a stronger connection to, or deeper knowledge of and history with, God. We are all children of God and part of the same whole, and as such, we are all heirs to God’s creation and love. I am no less deserving of truth and love than anyone else. Moreover, I see aspects of this divine reality in so many different and wonderful places, from Judaism, Christianity, and Islam to Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism, and numerous other spiritual traditions. Whether speaking about God, Spinoza’s substance or nature, the unconditioned, ultimate reality, Dhamma, Brahman, or Tao, the words and symbols and rituals may differ, but I believe they are all ultimately diverse fingers pointing towards the same proverbial moon. And I admire, appreciate, and accept all of these various traditions and what they have to offer in their own terms as well as what they offer humanity together—the means by which we are able to reach out and touch the transcendent.
With that being said, out of all the possible fingers pointing towards the ineffable, the one that speaks to me the most is Judaism. The revelations, prayers, religious practices, ethical principles, mystical insights, and communal spirit handed down by this ancient tradition for millennia, beginning with Moses and continuing down throughout generations of sages, scholars, and mystics to the present day, unceasingly call to me and draw me ever deeper into their mysteries, sparking a curiosity and joy and sense of belonging that nothing else ever has. And more importantly, they make me feel closer to God. I spent many years orbiting its teachings, but the moment I heard Rabbi Josh Rose’s concluding remarks during his Jewish Mysticism class (part of the Oregon Board of Rabbis’ Introduction to Judaism course) about everything in the world having its roots in God, encouraging us to contemplate, “Ein od Milvado” (“there is nothing than Him/God”), and then closing our eyes while trying to imagine the absence of anything other than the infinite light of God; the moment of contraction of tsimtsum to a tiny, infinite point; the moment that the infinite point of the light of God that remains emanates across the void with its divine blueprint, planting the seeds of the individual sefirot; the shattering of their vessels due to the overwhelming intensity of divine light flooding into them and the spreading of their light and remnants; the creation of a new, interconnected sefirot feeding each other and sustaining the world; and our creation and evolution within this cosmic story… I never felt closer to God and God’s absolute oneness. I pictured it all and then myself at work, helping care for patients, and literally feeling it as part of all existence, momentarily losing my sense of self and the separateness it creates and just being one with it all—an individual wave in the ocean conscious of the ocean’s oneness, who simultaneously felt itself identical to the totality of the infinite ocean and a small, individual temporal manifestation named Jason… And for just a moment, I did not simply affirm ‘Adonai is God, Adonai is one,’ I experienced a taste of it sitting in the pews of the first synagogue I ever stepped my foot into. And after attending the morning Yizkor Shabbat service celebrating the last day of Pesach led by Rabbi Rachel Joseph and Cantor Rayna Green at Congregation Beth Israel, the second synagogue I ever stepped foot into, I knew that I had finally returned home.
