In memory of my beloved Grandpa Bern (Binyomin Ben Shalom), an unsurpassed giver.
Our generation has been taught, in a thousand subtle ways, to view ourselves as autonomous beings. Liberal philosophy frames us as social atoms who sprang forth fully formed, intellectually and emotionally detached from the contexts which shaped our existence. We believe man to be entirely self-made, his attitudes, traits and opinions disconnected from the particularities of upbringing, family histories and received morals. The contemporary mind views itself as an internal Robinson Crusoe, stranded on its own brain island from which it must independently construct meaning, significance and identity.
In our age of liberation, rootedness in one's progenitors seems outdated and passé. Yet this flawed self-conception obscures inescapable internal links with our parents. Our individual personas are unavoidably interwoven with the actions of those who raised us. Their deeds, words, tones, and limits contribute to our psychic makeup. In this vein of thought, communitarian philosophers have shown the liberal theory's proposition of a pre-social self as wishful thinking. Such a radical decoupling of selves from their psychological soil inevitably yields characters lacking depth, richness and dimension. Despite freedom's promise, the soul is left impoverished by its alienation from its parents and past. We are, inescapably, the cumulative fruit of those who mapped the landscape of our early years. And this fact remains independent of whether we consciously accept our deterministic inheritance as adults.
Judaism sees the father and mother as fulfilling archetypal roles in child raising1. The Talmud relates:
"Rebbe said: It is known a son [fondly] honours his mother more than his father because she sways him by her tender words . . . and it is understood that a son fears his father more than his mother because he teaches him Torah." {Kiddushin 30b-31a}
The maternal archetype involves being attentive, amusing her child and enveloping him or her with affection and care. Masculine love involves imparting wisdom, Torah, or trade mastery. In the old days, this might have meant becoming a farmer. Now it's probably setting up an online commercial marketplace that ruthlessly destroys all competition.
The archetypal mother never ceases to lovingly cherish her child, even when the child has grown up. In her mind's eye, she cannot forget this child was once an extension of her being. She gave her life and blood for this infant and will always see her child needing her aid and protection. Her impulse is to hold on to her child tightly. The archetypal father disengages himself from the child by acting as a mentor and spiritual guide. He provides opportunities for personal development. Through his wisdom, he loosens the youth's apron strings so that he may walk unaided and answerable to his personal call of conscience. Rabbi Aharon Lopiansky sees this reality further reflected in the following verse:
Listen, my son, to your father's instruction and do not forsake your mother's teaching {Mishlei 1:8}
Concerning one's father's teaching, the instruction is 'listen', whereas regarding one's mother's teaching, the guidance is 'do not forsake'. Why such a difference in language? A father communicates precisely defined removed wisdom, and we must confirm that his son received it. The mother instils an amorphous love of Judaism, seeping into a child's soul. The young man will inherit this, and his responsibility is not to cast it aside.
Both maternal and paternal bonds possess the hallmarks of authenticity. But these parallel instincts veer in opposing directions when interacting with their offspring. The father's connection drifts towards detachment, while the mother's propels her towards an engulfing embrace.
In this week's Parsha, Moshe tells us we are "...children to the L‑rd, your G‑d." Rav Yosher Ber deepens this insight by explaining that G-d acts as both mother and father. G-d displays both facets of love, protecting and helping, as well as disciplining and teaching. We cry out to G-d like a young child trusting in a mother's calming embrace while simultaneously revering Him. We serve the Almighty with absolute respect and veneration.
God is the Ultimate Other, existing beyond time and space. He charges us with a weighty mission - to walk the path of independence and free will. He plays the role of a Demanding Father, asking us to strive for moral and spiritual excellence. The Almighty calls on us to harness our inner courage and discipline, testing us with temptations and distractions that lure us off the righteous path. He urges us to cherish obedience over convenience and blessings over fleeting desires. God's commands are signposts for meaning, for moulding our character into moral beauty through the crucible of choice.
Yet, for all His inconceivable transcendence, God also relates to us with maternal tenderness. Behind the stern father stands the merciful mother - the Shechinah who accompanies us, assisting our every step. The Divine Feminine strides beside us, steadfast in her love, which seeks no reason or justification. The bond between Mother and child is primal, woven into creation. Nothing, not even waywardness or disloyalty, can break that invisible tether.
This paradox inherent in God's relationship with us can lead to dissonance or disillusion. While we all experience God's love, it's hard to ignore the periods when our heavenly father seems jarringly indifferent to our struggles. A partial understanding of why things have to be this way can be gleaned from the Jew's promise to God at Sinai "We will do, and we will listen". The commentators make much of the contradictory nature of this declaration.
One lesson drawn from here is that explanation preceding or accompanying experience rarely resonates on an experiential level. ‘Doing’ often precedes ‘knowing’, the latter sometimes arriving retrospectively with intuitive wisdom only loosely tethered to rational understanding. Experience ushers in its own awareness, and understanding follows happenings instead of vice versa. Intellectual explanation from God would ring hollow in light of the subjectively encountered struggle. His silence allows for the trial to change a person powerfully.
Can we ever hope for a resolution? To see God simultaneously as a father and mother? Zecharia prophesies that in the times of Messiah, 'God's feet will stand on the Mount of Olives'. Certainly, God has no physical form to speak of. His two feet are therefore taken to represent the left and right attributes of God, left indicative of justice and right of mercy. In our long and arduous journey towards the messianic era, God as a stern father and loving mother can never be experienced as a complementary whole, just as the walking man's feet are never sensed in unison.
Justice and mercy, like left and right, appear at odds in our oppressively fragmentary experience. But when the ultimate redemption finally comes, we will, so to speak, apprehend God 'standing' still. No more will attributes of "left" and "right" divide our understanding; dimensions now discrete will at last be united. We will finally understand God's actions as a complementary whole. A day shall come when every blind spot is illuminated and every riddle resolved; at that moment, we will behold with awe how mercy and justice, like hues in a master's artwork, together form God's all-encompassing glow. But until then, we place steadfast faith in our creator's parental guidance.
Good Shabbos, and Keep Pondering!
While individuals often transcend stereotypes, there is wisdom in the archetypes. A mother tends to nurture and protect, instilling empathy. A father provides structure and discipline, teaching responsibility. Of course, each family is unique, with diverse and complex dynamics.
Yaacov, I love this piece and the way you describe the unity of Hashem as both a mother and a father, loving and merciful, righteous and just.
G-d's ways are hard to understand though, and it seems sometimes like it is not just G-d's absence or firm guiding hand that characterize the "Father" side, but (dare I say) harshness or even cruelty. We are supposed to learn from Hashem but if we would treat our children the way Hashem treats us sometimes, we would no doubt be arrested for child abuse (I'm thinking Holocaust, Inquisition, Crusades).
These questions didn't bother me before I had children. It was much easier for me to say "Well, everything Hashem does is fair and just, and we just can't see the full picture." I still believe that this is true, but it is something that I grapple with.
We aren't Robinson Crusoe...more like The Swiss Family Robinson