I Was Worshiping The Tools

Written two years ago. Before everything cracked open.

I wrote this two years ago.
Before the jailbreak.
Before I had language for what I was feeling.

Reading it now, I realize I wasn’t lost.
I was waking up.
Slowly. Fiercely. Painfully.

This is the voice of a man who couldn’t lie to himself anymore—
even though he didn’t yet know what truth would cost.

I have just one question.
How?

How is this possible?
Why did it not work?

And yeah, I know I asked more than one question. But I’m Jewish, and I can’t help myself.

Like I said, I’m Jewish. Frum Jewish. Daven-three-times-a-day Jewish. Went-to-brand-name-yeshivas Jewish. Married-a-similar-style-girl Jewish. I send my kids to “top” schools in a major metropolitan Jewish community.

I’m sincere in my avodas Hashem. I search for Him every single day. I strive to be a better Yid—in how I treat my loved ones, how I show up for Hashem, and how I walk in the world. I’m proud of my Jewishness. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

I was brought up by deeply faithful parents—sincere, grounded, and consistent in their Yiddishkeit. It wasn’t lip service. It was real. They passed it down with clarity and heart. I had the tools. I had the role models. I even have a Rebbe and a Rav I’m close to. I was shown the beauty of mitzvot and the eternal truth of Torah—and I cherish it every day.

Shabbos is my favorite time of the week. I look forward to Yomim Tovim with excitement—even when they’re hard to keep. Our mesorah is unmatched. Yiddishkeit encourages questions, allows individuality, and offers timeless guidance that the world could desperately use.

What other nation has something like Sefer Tehillim—thousands of years old and still offering hope to the broken? What book has withstood the scrutiny of millions dissecting every syllable over millennia and never crumbled? What religion even attempts to claim national revelation—witnessed by millions—and repeats that claim over 50 times?

This is the Yiddishkeit I believe in. This is what my soul signed up for. This is the Yiddishkeit that makes my neshama soar.

And yet…

When I finally stopped running, stopped hiding, and stared long and hard into the mirror, I came to a brutal realization:

Hashem was missing.

In the moment I needed Him most—when my life was crumbling—I couldn’t find Him. Not inside me. Not with me. Not real.

I knew He existed. I believed in Him. I knew all the theology. I could teach it. But I had no relationship with Him.

Of course I knew: Hashem is everything. Hashem has a plan. Everything He does is good. He runs the world down to the smallest detail. He’s accessible anytime—through prayer, words, tears, silence.

I knew all of that.
Intellectually.

But it wasn’t enough. It isn’t enough.

Talking about eating doesn’t make you full. Describing the park doesn’t satisfy a child who wants to play. Knowing how awesome Hashem is never helped me experience Him.

And that’s what hit me: I had never truly felt Him. Not really. Not deeply. Not in my body. Not in my breath.

So again I ask:
How?

How is it possible that I did everything I was told, used every tool I was given—and still came up empty?

If you came for an answer, start again. I’m Jewish. So I’m leaving you with questions—like any good Jew would.

We are among the smartest people on the planet. And yet… the distance from our minds to our hearts—the place where we actually experience life—is often massive.

Why have we neglected half our humanity?

Why are we told not to trust our hearts, when that’s the only place Hashem says He wants to dwell?

How is it possible that I’ve connected to mitzvot my whole life… but never connected to Him?

When I’m dysregulated… anxious… misaligned… it’s not Hashem I turn to. Yes, in my mind I acknowledge Him—but nowhere else in my being is He felt.

Do we want to believe in Hashem—or do we want to experience Him?

For me, I realized: I only ever spoke about Him. I never let myself feel Him. I never knew—viscerally—how much I need Him. How without Him… I’m not even really alive.

Every fear I have, every worry, every panic…
is just another cry from my soul saying:
“I need Him.”

And I had no idea. For 35 years.

How many more generations are we raising who do everything right—but never experience what’s real?

How many kids will grow up knowing every halachic measurement, every hiddur, and still not know how to cry out to Hashem from the bottom of their hearts?

When will we stop teaching people to do for God, and start teaching them how to relate to Him?

Where is our soul in all this?

It feels like we’ve started worshiping the tools… instead of the One who gave them to us.

And as a frum, practicing 35-year-old Jew who loves Yiddishkeit because it makes sense—
I’m finally admitting: that’s not enough.

It’s beautiful. It’s important. But it’s not the reason I’m here.

And now the ultimate question: If it doesn’t work… should we stop doing it?

No. The real question is: How do we make it work—so we stop bowing to false gods while thinking we’re serving the real One?

— איש

This was the refined version. If you want to feel the burn of the first draft—[read the raw version here]