In Search of God

For eighteen months, we’ve struggled with isolation and disruption. We know the fear and reality of illness and loss. We’re uneasy about getting close to one another, accustomed to distancing from our loved ones, friends, and communities. We may feel distanced from God as well.

But then the invitations came. 

We’re familiar with the idea of God as a majestic, inscrutable and revered King. His is the abstract power that propels the natural order, “the force that through the green fuse drives the flower,” in Dylan Thomas’s words. The Overseer of existence, God creates and sustains, conducting the segues between seasons. He charges the world with birth and growth, then brings the inexorable degeneration and disappearance that befall everything time bound. We’re in awe of omniscient God, the mystical source of beauty and wonderment, although He is definitionally concealed from us. And yet, given the divine spark within, we never quite accept His unknowability. We yearn to serve Him with conviction even as our tradition counsels that we will never understand His ways. Like children letting go of precious balloons, we look heavenward as our prayers disappear into an infinity we can’t fathom.

But God is not solely our King. He is, first and foremost, our Father, our Parent. And we are His unique creations, members of His immediate family. 

But God is not solely our King. He is, first and foremost, our Father, our Parent. And we are His unique creations, members of His immediate family. When we say, during the month of Elul, “the King is in the field,” we mean that our own Father is coming to spend unmediated time with us. We’re in awe of God as our King but we love Him deeply as our Parent. “As the deer pants for streams of water, my soul longs for You,” we say in Tehillim. There is euphoria in knowing that we are able to engage with God in a profoundly intimate dialogue of understanding, inspiration and transformation.

On Rosh Hashanah, we receive the most sought-after invitation that can be extended: the privilege of attending the Coronation of the Holy One, Blessed is He. We displace our frustrations, vanities and sorrows to stand as honored subjects when the Sovereign arrives. The chazzan announces “The King” and each of us is called to place the crown on God’s head, as it were. A hundred shofar blasts thunder as we commemorate the unforgettable moment. We step back in awe as our King takes His seat on a shimmering sapphire throne, and turns to all of creation in judgment.

After the Coronation, God clears a full day in His calendar for us. What a privilege: to be alone with our God on Yom Kippur, to engage directly and without pretense, to put aside physical distractions. Our Father focuses attentively as we plead for health, prosperity and fulfillment, as we whisper of private worries, fears and disappointments. A day for God to listen as we acknowledge the wasted time and ill-chosen priorities, the mistakes borne of our insecurity, weakness, and small-mindedness.  A day of striving culminating in God’s great-hearted decree of forgiveness and hope. Our Parent reminds us that we are His cherished, unique children, who exist only once in all of creation. Lightheaded, restored and reassured, we stand as our beloved Father leaves; our exalted King ascending through the seven heavens.

And then, a remarkable final invite: a week-long celebration in the King’s palace. Outside, in creation, we gather in the Sukkah for that royal family reunion, rejoicing in visitors who come and go, clasping symbols of the season in choreographed praise. It is not far off, that unforgettable, joyful week in our Father’s royal palace. And where is He, the One who made us, who understands us, and who we need so close at hand? He’s there, hidden only by the thin bamboo that obscures what is infinite and timeless and true. If we look up, look within, there is time to count our blessings, bow before our King, embrace our Parent and feel the gratitude and love that no words can contain.

We’ve received the invitations but the favor of a reply is not required. It turns out we need only bring ourselves.

Pierre Gentin lives in Westchester County, New York. He gratefully acknowledges the inspiration of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik zt’l.