(The following article was submitted to YWN by the author, and also appears in this weeks 5 Towns Jewish Times:) 

The year is 1999, Clinton is president. The World Trade Center still stands tall along the New York City skyline. My junior year of high school has just begun; a New York State driver’s license is my cherished ticket into the nascent realm of independence and adulthood.

Abercrombie & Fitch is the latest trend; I stand in line to purchase pre-faded corduroys and worn-out polo shirts with phrases like “A&F Hunting Squad” or “Varsity Cricket #6” across the shoulder line, as if to pronounce: I am a rugged outdoorsman who bikes through Himalayan terrain and spends my off time at Kandui surf clubs in the Mentawai Islands (not a spoiled Five Towns kid whose most extreme sport is swiping Pop’s MasterCard). I have been convinced that this outfit will chisel my belly into a “six pack,” build my shoulders, sculpt my smile, and transform me into that all-American Abercrombie poster-boy with bright white teeth and surfer-blond hair (although the dude on the billboard doesn’t seem to be wearing this outfit…come to think of it, he doesn’t seem to be wearing any outfit!).

As of yet, this new computer program called “the Internet” seems to be synonymous with AOL; “Welcome! You’ve got mail!” is the anthem of a budding cyberspace society, soon to re-create and restructure the entirety of world consciousness. But now it’s just about buddy lists, instant messages, a/s/l, lol, ttyl, and gtg.

In local news, a notorious landmark known as “Pizza Cave” is a new hot-spot for Modern Orthodox teenagers to “mingle” (for lack of a better term).

As is the case for many teenagers, I have but one desire: to be deemed “cool” by those who proudly exemplify “coolness.” I dedicate my every move to finding a warm and cozy spot within the “in crowd,” to maintain this imaginary throne amidst the tidal waves of peer pressure. Of course, achieving such a lofty goal demands that I disassociate myself from any inadequates, who have the misfortune of bearing the hardly honorable label of “nerd.” Don’t get me wrong—I have nothing against “nerds” per se. I’m just on a crucial mission, and am not about to sacrifice my hallowed track in the social race to play “Mr. Nice.” Perhaps when I go to Israel for a year, maybe two, maybe three, I will make my amends, I will be all-accepting; I will love my fellow brethren universally and all-inclusively. For the time being, however, social status is the primary focus of my existence.

Deep down I am uncomfortable with myself. I yearn for acceptance and validation; who doesn’t? A subtle voice echoes through the hallways of my consciousness: when do I reach the “top” of this ladder? Truth be told, such a “top” does not exist, and even if I do reach some imagined “top,” it will then become evident that my mind-made ladder has been leaning against a wall of air. Oh, what then? Crash. This seems to be the dreadful discovery of those who “make it,” collecting their dazzling prizes of stardom—and simultaneously a prescription for Prozac to battle a newfound depression. But I haven’t learned this lesson in trigonometry, physics, or European history; and if there have been a few insightful rabbis to hint at this truth, I am far from capable of hearing it. I guess these are just the types of lessons we must learn the hard way—through experience. So, the dubious climb that runs my life continues…

It is during this phase that judgmental mental strategies come in quite handy. You know—looking for another’s weakness is like a survival tactic in the social jungle. It seems to naturally develop, and it activates almost automatically, as though it were some function of the involuntary nervous system. The crooked logic goes something like this: If I can’t reach the “top,” I can, at least, pull those “above me” down by mentally assessing them, finding some area of weakness by which to undermine their apparent charm. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the books. Society seems to run on this formula. If we can’t keep up with “glamorous” celebrities and hot-shot politicians, we can, at least, humiliate them, mortify them, and publicly degrade every move they make (not that they make it very hard to do so). Works like a charm!

It seems to be a natural instinct, as I find some “dent,” some “glitch,” in each guy or girl that I feel slightly “threatened” by. Of course, this defense mechanism, as it were, is taking place completely in my subconscious. I have yet to do any true soul-searching; I have yet to confront the thick layers of denial and ego-defenses. It occurs on autopilot; I size other people up in a matter of milliseconds. It happens so rapidly, so subtly—undetectable by anyone, including myself.

For some reason, however, I don’t feel much better about myself. No, not at all.

Fast forward… The year is 2003. It’s 7:15 a.m.—Israeli time, that is.

I walk through the Old City of Yerushalayim with a cup of coffee (four shots of espresso—minimum!) and a Mesillas Yesharim. I tread along stone-paved paths, through ancient archways, observing small Israeli children run around in broken sandals, with dirt-filled miniature fingernails, screaming semi-intelligible Hebrew babble in laughter and innocence. Jerusalem stone, acoustic guitars, Na-Nach kipas, and red bendels—this is my new neighborhood, hardly reminiscent of Central Avenue or Times Square. A third year in Israel (also known as shanah gimmel) and the game of life has taken a different turn, with new rules, new players, and new agendas.

Life before yeshiva seems like a forgotten dream. There is a subtle sense of freedom. Not the “freedom” I was expecting; far from it, in fact. You know, I imagined “Yeshiva in Israel” to be some transformative, euphoric, spiritual high that instantly cures all ailments, like a magic-carpet journey into a new self, squeaky clean and primly groomed. In reality, the “freedom” is more like some breathing room, some space for self-reflection and contemplation. It is a tremendous relief to no longer feel trapped by the “in-crowd” mentality.

Away from home in Woodmere, away from Simchas Torah social scenes on the lawn of Beth Sholom, away from the overwhelmingly mammoth Eden Roc Pesach fest, away from TV and DVDs, away from pop trends and glitzy fads, away from relentless gossip, away from all that hustle and bustle of what they call “the Real World”—although I’m starting to question how real that world truly is.

For the first time in my life, there is a clear sense of direction, a deeply sacred purpose that infuses my every move with meaning. Growing up, “Torah” was a pile of old books, completely impersonal and, to be frank, painfully boring. But within Torah I’ve discovered a realm of truth and wisdom that speaks to the very essence of who I am. A skeptic by nature (and certainly by nurture), I’m not one to “drink the Kool-Aid,” as the saying goes. But my heart has been nourished by something different; something real; something, it seems, that I’ve been searching for my entire life. The path of Torah is more than a way of life; it is the very essence of life, enigmatically beaming with uniquely personal depth and purpose. To my dismay, this discovery alone will by no means be a “quick-fix cure” for my personal struggles—quite the contrary, struggle and challenge is the very quintessence of my newfound spiritual journey. Magical cure it may not be; a continuous source of strength and encouragement, however, it surely is.

The adjustment has been challenging—at times, excruciatingly so. Believe it or not, Israel isn’t quite as smooth as they make it look in those romantic yeshiva brochures, with warm smiles, ecstatic chavrusas, and candle-lit kumzitses (usually featuring at least one of the Katz brothers). Surprisingly, it’s not the intensive learning that overwhelms me. It certainly took some getting used to; this new regimen of hours upon hours, day after day, week after week, learning Gemara after Gemara. It’s like maneuvering five intertwined Rubik’s Cubes—all within your head—but, instead of working with red, yellow, and blue, you’re operating with Eiruvin, Menachos, Tosfos, Rashba, Rebbi Akiva Eiger, K’tzos HaChoshen, and Reb Elchonon. Humbling, indeed. This alone, however, is the relatively easy part. It is only a small fraction of my newfound avodah. The serious work takes place on the inside, “healing the wounds of my soul,” as the Piaseczner Rebbe so beautifully describes it.

Wearing my tzitzis out, staying up late in the “beis,” asking sharp questions in shiur—these trappings may grant my ego a momentary sense of liberation, but, like short-lived painkillers, the fleeting high wears down and the proverbial emptiness returns with all its vigor. Is it possible? Could my insecurity actually mix itself into spirituality, or, more accurately, mask itself as spirituality? Has my old friend “ego” resurfaced—just in a different costume, with peyos and a Gemara replacing cargo shorts and concert tickets?

There was a short window of time when this new spiritual path was inspirational and pure, my heart was open, and all Jews were equally beautiful. But there seems to be no escape from ego-driven insecurity, and a new hierarchy naturally emerges. There are “top” shiurim and there are “slower” shiurim; there are “sophisticated” sefarim and there are less fancy more basic sefarim; there are white shirts and there are striped shirts; there are different materials for kipas, and there are countless styles for hats. Yes, more often than I would like to admit, I still compare, I still judge others, I still find “glitches” and “dents,” I still sense an inner climb, albeit on a different ladder.

Much progress has been made; yet, within the filing cabinets of my subconscious remains a fundamentally erroneous formula. On some level, unbeknownst to my conscious awareness, I still believe that there is some “top,” some “finish line” that will ease the pain and pave a path of success through an awaited archway, bearing the inscription “happily ever after.”

So, my preconceived expectations to fly away from an “old self”—to walk off the plane, shake off the dust of my past, and instantly walk ahead through the Old City in inner peace and pure saintliness—have been extinguished. I still carry wounds, but this will remain behind closed doors, hidden from the outside world. As far as the audience is concerned, I play a “shtark” role. The show must go on.

Fast forward… The year is 2008.

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, Life goes on… Yeshiva in Israel seems like another forgotten dream. I’ve continuously made “plans” for the future, while the future has, continuously, had different plans for me.

Peers have married; peers have divorced. I’ve seen births, and I’ve seen tragically untimely deaths. Disease, panic, abuse, financial jeopardy, terror attacks, emotional crisis—everyone I know is affected, some directly, some indirectly. I guess you can say life has gotten more “real.”

“Hashkafah”(literally “outlook,” but the term has, lately, been more associated with “Jewish lifestyle”), has become a hot topic these days, especially in the dating/newly married scene, where people are deciding where to live, how to live, with whom to live—and, yes, that awful question, what to do for a “living.”

Everyone has an opinion on the matter. Opinions, approaches, standpoints, and positions—lately, with the unprecedented spread of Jewish websites, newspapers, journals, and lectures, different opinions on the “correct lifestyle” seem to rage ferociously to and fro with heated conviction. The heat turns up, particularly when the hot topic regards hashkafic matters, where you can quote Rambams and Chazals to prove any argument and justify the fervent undertone of aggression with either “yeshivish” or “modernish” convictions, depending on which flag you wave.

I’ve done it enough. Certain lines I dare not cross. I would never confront the ballpark of gedolei Yisrael and attempt to “know better,” G-d forbid—a line that some others seem to cross with conceited misperceptions of who they’re actually dealing with. I admire and revere our gedolim; it is a gravely dangerous gesture to challenge their leadership or question their judgment, and I don’t envy the fate of those who do. But countless “gray areas,” have been thorny territories for my ego. I had my stage of demeaning wisecracks toward the ambiguous movement known as “Modern Orthodoxy,” all in the name of choshuva gedolim; but deep down, I sensed a familiar need to feel “better than” through derision.

I was well armed with shtark quotations and sharp citations—all from very holy sources. But, during honest moments of cheshbon ha’nefesh, I could hear my soul cry: “Is this really what Hashem wants?!” I knew the answer to this question—so I ignored it. Besides, there must be a reason why the “shtarkest girls” refuse to date YU guys! No greater proof was needed. Many whom I considered “chashuva Yidden” seemed to loosely slip wisecracks about “modernish” or “Tzionish” matters, and smiled without hesitation. Yes, I thought, my judgmental one-liners are more than justified. But the inescapable litmus test didn’t budge from my consciousness: Is this really what Hashem wants from me? The answer was clear as day: the answer was no. I took a step back, a pause for self reflection. Wow. There it was again; the same insecure ego, now wearing a black hat and quoting gedolei Yisrael.

Yes, indeed, the climb still tugs at my mind and heart; yes, indeed, a ladder has surfaced, and resurfaced yet again. Yes, indeed, ten years later, ten years since Abercrombie & Fitch, Pizza Cave, and Eden Rock social scenes, that same socially fanatic teenager still feels the same “wounds of the soul,” the same ego-driven desire to mentally assess, to find a glitch, to discover a dent in someone or something outside of myself.

Nearly a decade of mesechtas, tefillas, and mussar shmuessen; nearly a decade of births, deaths, tragedies, and simchas. The wounds are still with me. Has anything changed?

Yes. Profoundly so. A dramatic and fundamental change has emerged. Mind you, this change, once again, is not the change I was expecting. I may continue to judge, but I now know from where these judgments stem.

I no longer buy the lies of my ego; when I find fault with another, I notice the familiar train of thought, and I recall its root within myself. My fancy quotes and shtark quotations still stream throughout my consciousness, but I know their messenger—my proverbial inner weakness, my inner hole.

Yes, I must admit: I still judge. I still climb. I am human.

Fast forward… fast forward… pause.

The date is today. The time is this moment. I walk toward my car on a gorgeous spring day. I notice a stain on my front window. I want to clear the stain, I want to rub off the dirt, I want to polish it up and have a shiny clear window. But what good will it do? The stain is on the inside.

Yes, it’s an inside job. Aren’t they all?