"You can't have everything. Where would you put it?"
- Western sage Steven Wright

Anyone involved in new age spiritual Judaic practice has probably heard of Jay Michaelson; his influence extends to books, articles, publications, spiritual retreats, speaking tours and the like. He was even recently named as one of the Forward 50, an annual list of important and influential Jewish figures in America. In Everything is God, his magnum opus on the nondualistic Judaism Michaelson promotes, he attempts to bring "Jewish Enlightenment" to more traditional consumers. I assume.

His sources are not strictly Jewish; by "mapping" Hindu, Buddhist, Islamic, Christian, and other religious traditions onto traditional Judaism, Michaelson and his ilk are syncretizing a new Judaism, one more compatible with mystical Eastern traditions. I'm many years out of yeshivah, but I recognize avodah zarah when I see it.

Traditional Judaism posits a anthropomorphic god, with human characteristics, who intervenes in the universe and gave positive commandments. Nondualism on the other hand sacralizes, well, everything, insisting that the whole universe is in the process of "godding." That is to say, that all existence is God's existence, that there is nothing that isn't god--and therefore God encompasses all existence--good and bad, pleasure and suffering--but does not necessarily have discrete characteristics or a personality (except when it does). God isn't just in everyone and everything, it is everyone and everything. The Kabbalistic name for this phenomenon, Michaelson tells us, is "Ein Sof," meaning "without end."

In Michaelson's universe, nondualism is a pervasive and obvious truth, but don't look to the book to make too much sense out of it. The true nature of God is constantly being described as both knowable and unknowable; ineffable but universally understandable. Nondualism, the focus of this book, is the idea that God is the universe. "Nothing is excluded," Michaelson writes early in the book. (It turns that out this is false, but not in the way you're probably thinking). Nondualism stands slightly apart from monism (everything is one) and dualism (there is a difference between the mental and the physical) by being unable to commit to either view to the exclusion of anything else: separateness (for example, the mind/body split) is an illusion, a series of masks God wears because he loves to play tricks on us, or something like that. Nondualism, the author tells us, is not exactly pantheism (all gods are the same god, who is within all of us) or panentheism (pantheism plus a bonus extra god outside of all of us), but encompasses both in a characteristically equivocal fashion.

Atheists call this kind of argument "conversion by bear hug" -- you don't have to believe in god, god is already inside you, therefore you can't realy disbelieve in god, QED. "Neither oneness or twoness, neither yesh nor ayin, but both, and thus neither. It's not quite paradox--it's enlightenment," explains Michaelson. "The Kabbalistic math of this reality is that 2 = 1 = 0. Fortunately, I don't have to be good at math anymore."

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Although I am not a believer in gods myself, I do have many religious friends from many different faiths. We who live in Western countries have the luxury of choosing our own level of observance. For the most part, we decide individually how strictly we want to adhere to any religious tradition--we can choose from any of them or make up our own, and in my case, we can even abjure these things completely. This isn't a liberty to take lightly. In many other parts of the world (and throughout human history) this kind of freedom seems absurd and wrong. In fact, I think there are many parts of this country where people think there is too much religious freedom in America (you'll have to check the comments section). Being able to freely choose a religion doesn't mean that all religions are choices, however, or that everyone is being entirely honest about why they chose one.

To put it bluntly, are some people pretending to be more religious than they are to get laid? Or in larger, sociological terms, how many people are just going through the motions in order to belong to a group? (All of them, says the cynic). It's what I think about if I'm ever at a religious ritual or ceremony. I know what the Hebrew prayers mean because I happen to have gone to a yeshivah when I was young, but I think most people who sing along at services don't know what they're actually saying, but they do have it memorized.

When I was an activist helping organize anti-government protests with thousands of people in attendance, I definitely met guys who showed up at the rallies to meet girls, and vice versa. When I was a student I met people who got involved with extracurricular activities for the same reasons. I know people who have moved, taken jobs, changed careers, renounced their families, and so forth to in order to belong somewhere, to meet the kind of people they always wanted to meet and join the circles they've always wanted to be part of. Many of us still recall the great wave of women who came to Manhattan in the last decade intending to re-enact Sex and the City or the crowds of hippies from across the country who flocked to Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco. The urge to join and be part of something greater than yourself is natural. So how much of it plays into the reality of religious practice? Does it matter if your religious journey ends up at a popular resort, or does everyone have to hike through the woods?

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Given the crisis capitalism is enduring in these times, it should come as no surprise that religious figures of all stripes are advocating a return to the principles of their respective traditions as a solution. Whenever a whole people experiences adversity, many of us can't help but think back to the Bible, which is full of these instances--Israel turns its back on God and is punished until righteousness returns to the hearts of the populace. God doesn't visit misfortune upon us except to test us, thus sayeth our holy men.

All religions with a Holy Book struggle to stay relevant from the moment the book gets written. Scriptures preserve the mores of the day in a sort of amber made of parchment. As time moves on, clerics have to keep extruding relevant advice from ancient texts, stretching and distending the meaning of these old-fashioned hidebound proscriptions and prescriptions like so much saltwater taffy. And the more established (read: older) a religious tradition, the less it has to say about the reality of modern life.

Naturally, you shouldn't be surprised when your religious figureheads try to salvage some kind of meaning from the old books (what else are we paying them to do?) and so there must have been an avalanche of sermons in houses of worship across the board over the past year trying to glean something about the current economy from long-outdated sources. Since the Five Books of Moses alone provide three different (and somewhat contradictory) prohibitions against lending money at interest, it seems natural to try to link these passages to today's credit crisis. Now that there's a problem, we are obliged to pretend we knew all along that the economy collapsed because we had sinned against the precepts of the Bible.

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