A great book stands alone. A great reading experience, however, comes when a great book meets a reader in need. The words not only penetrate by their own merit, but by the fact that the reader drinks them in full thirst.
Such a serendipitous literary shidduch (match) happened to me recently when I stumbled upon Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s 1965 classic “The Lonely Man of Faith.”
As my family and I packed up our lives this spring and prepared to move for the third year in a row, I set “The Lonely Man of Faith” aside for my summer reading list with the thought that no title could have described my life better.
Soloveitchik’s work begins with the following admission: “The nature of the dilemma can be stated in a three-word sentence. I am lonely.” From the chief rabbi of Boston, the rosh (head of) yeshiva of Yeshiva University, and one of the most popular and revered Jewish thinkers of his era, this statement leaps from the page with disarming candor.
“Let me emphasize, however, that by stating ‘I am lonely’ I do not intend to convey to you the impression that I am alone,” he continues. “I, thank God, do enjoy the love and friendship of many. I meet people, talk, preach, argue, reason; I am surrounded by comrades and acquaintances.
“And yet, companionship and friendship do not alleviate the passional experience of loneliness which trails me constantly” (p. 3).
So many of us, I believe, experience an equally palpable sense of loneliness, even as we surround ourselves with family, friends, coworkers, and neighbors. Most of us fight back, countering loneliness with cell phones, computers, frenetic schedules, even therapy and medication.
Soloveitchik, however, takes a very different approach. Instead of running from loneliness, he explores it, exposing the divine roots of this ubiquitous unrest.
Every human being, Soloveitchik argues, is actually a divided self, containing two separate and contradictory personalities. The Torah serves as a blueprint for this dichotomy, presenting two different versions of the creation of Adam, each version producing a very different type of human being with a very different type of mission.
In Genesis chapter one, Adam is told to fill the earth and subdue it. This “Adam the first,” as he is referred to by Soloveitchik, is “aggressive, bold, and victory minded” (p. 17). He intends to conquer his surroundings in order to achieve a “glorious, majestic, powerful existence” (p. 15).
Adam the first connects with others in order to achieve his pragmatic goals; he surrounds himself with other people to accomplish together what he cannot accomplish alone.
“Adam the second,” in Genesis chapter two, is not instructed by God to conquer the earth, but to cultivate and keep it. His goal is not power, but appreciation.
Soloveitchik writes, “[Adam the second] encounters the universe in all its colorfulness, splendor, and grandeur, and studies it with the naïveté, awe and admiration of the child who seeks the unusual and wonderful in every ordinary thing and event” (pp. 21-22).
For Adam the second, the world is a source of reverence and an opportunity to grow closer to God through God’s creations. Adam the second seeks other people with whom to pray and share his reverence for God.
Soloveitchik continues, “God created two Adams and sanctioned both. Rejection of either aspect of humanity would be tantamount to an act of disapproval of the divine scheme of creation which was approved by God as being very good” (pp. 80-81).
Adam the first and Adam the second are both Adam, and a person of faith must attend to both personalities with equal fidelity.
Loneliness is born, however, in the divided self. For while Adam the second attempts to solidify deep and emotionally satisfying connections with others and with God, Adam the first is attempting to solidify power and majesty, building superficial relationships to achieve pragmatic goals.
“Because of this onward movement from center to center, man does not feel at home in any community,” Soloveitchik concludes.
“He is commanded to move on before he manages to strike roots in either of these communities and so the ontological loneliness of man of faith persists” (pp. 82-83).
Loneliness is an undeniable aspect of being human, Soloveitchik argues, yet we who live in the contemporary era must contend with a unique and malignant form of this loneliness. Within the psyche of modern man, Adam the first has grown megalomaniacal, leaving no room for Adam the second to survive.
“[Contemporary Adam the first’s] pride is almost boundless, his imagination arrogant, and he aspires to complete and absolute control of everything,” Soloveitchik writes.
As for Contemporary Adam the second, he “finds himself lonely, forsaken, misunderstood, at times even ridiculed by Adam the first, by himself” (p. 100).
Modern secular culture, with its insistence on the marginalization of faith and the worship of power, has exacerbated our loneliness to dangerous proportions.
Clearly, “The Lonely Man of Faith” is no feel-good, self-help book. While reading it, though, I felt a sense of relief that was similar to the comfort I find in studying Torah and reading of our ancestors’ troubled, uneasy lives. Their stories, and Soloveitchik’s modern analysis, remind me that while I may feel lonely, I am not alone.
I am united with every human being, past, present, and future, through our shared longing and unrest. We human beings stand together in our loneliness. And if we are wise, we will create holy times in our holy spaces to acknowledge this unity together.
Milwaukee native Rabbi Ben Shalva received his ordination from the Jewish Theological Seminary in May. He officially begins his rabbinical career today as the assistant rabbi at Congregation Olam Tikvah in Fairfax, Va.
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