The Tantalizing Torment of Choosing Life
by Raphael Morris
In Greek mythology, Tantalus is imprisoned in the Underworld for crimes against the gods of Olympus. He stands in fresh water, reaching up to his waist. Beautiful trees, their branches heavy with sweet, luscious fruit hang above his head. But Tantalus is parched and famished. He cannot drink — every time he bends down, the water recedes. He cannot eat — every time he reaches for the fruit, the wind blows the branches just out of reach. Tantalus’ torment is that everything he craves is so close at hand — but when he actually reaches for it, he cannot acquire it.
This story — the origin of the English word ‘tantalize’ — is so poignant because almost having something is so much worse than having no chance of it at all. Knowing that something is, in principle, well within your capacities, but still finding yourself utterly unable to make it happen, is a literal classic of torture.
It is also, unfortunately, an all-too-common part of many disabilities. And as I deal with a particularly difficult period of executive dysfunction, it’s difficult not to relate to Tantalus. By all rights I should be able to just get out of bed, have a shower, have something to eat. It’s well within my reach. Why does my brain keep blowing the branches away every time I turn my will to the task?
In light of this experience, I’ve begun to view the idea that the Torah is “not in the heavens” as somewhat less empowering than I once did. The phrase, taken out of context and made famous in the Talmudic story of the Oven of Akhnai (Bava Metzia 59a-b), first appears in this passage from Parashat Nitzavim (Deuteronomy 30:11-14):
“For this commandment that I command you today is not too obscure for you, nor is it far away. It is not in the heavens, that you should say “Who will go up to the heavens and get it for us, and proclaim it to us, that we may do it?” Nor is it across the sea, that you should say “Who will cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us, and proclaim it to us, that we may do it?” Rather, this thing is very close, in your mouth and in your heart, that you may do it.”
I could talk at length about the Oven of Akhnai narrative (and recently read Dr. Rebecca J. Epstein-Levi’s fascinating take on it in her brilliant, Crip Theory-informed book When We Collide). But today I want to focus on its original Biblical context in the above passage.
In the past, I have loved this passage. As a self-described rationalist, the idea that our responsibilities are fundamentally achievable and that the things we need to know are fundamentally within the ken of human reason is dear to me. Many times, I have drawn on this passage to argue against claims that Judaism requires faith, wielding it as an assertion that Judaism requires only action and knowledge of the world in which we live and our responsibilities within it. Even philosophically, I take this idea as an almost pre-theoretical commitment. I believe that the answers to the big questions — Truth, Meaning, Morality — are discoverable. I believe that they require no mystical spiritual insight or divine revelation, that we need not languish in skepticism or ignorance for eternity.
And yet, like Tantalus, I find that just because what I need to do is very close, in my mouth and in my heart, just because I can do it in principle, does not actually mean I can do it in practice.
When in the grip of executive dysfunction, or PDA (‘Pathological Demand Avoidance’ or ‘Persistent Demand for Autonomy’, depending on whom you ask), this passage from Nitzavim feels almost mocking: “You don’t need to learn to fly, or to cross the ocean, or have superpowers. You just need to get out of bed. You can do that. You’re not physically disabled. Why aren’t you doing that?”
But I can’t do it. Because ability and capacity are more complicated than that.
My logic professor, Lloyd Humberstone, once explained that we frequently conflate multiple senses of possibility when talking about the possibility of action. Consider the sentence “If I throw this dart, it’s possible for me to hit the bullseye.” That might mean “If I intend to hit the bullseye, I can guarantee that outcome.” But it also might mean “It’s not impossible for me to hit the bullseye; even if I’m bad at darts, I might get lucky and hit the bullseye.”
In the second sense, the realm of possibility is relatively stable. If we think about the possibilities I can achieve as the things I can do if I have all the luck I need, then it’s possible for me to do all sorts of things: win the lottery, hit a bullseye, take care of myself and my responsibilities. It’s possible for me to do all the mitzvot, to understand the Torah, because none of it is in the heavens, or across the sea. None of it is, in principle, impossible.
But in the first sense — which I will call ‘capacity’ — the realm of possibility is wildly unstable. Especially as a disabled person, my capacity is constantly fluctuating. I can spend a whole weekend stuck in bed, barely able to will myself to eat or take a shower, then on Monday go out, run errands, clean my entire apartment and get lots of things done (to take an example from last weekend). At my best, I can be extremely productive, generative and strong-willed. At my worst, I’m practically paralyzed.
And I find it dreadfully difficult to be kind to myself about this.
Like many of my generation — and many ‘twice exceptional’ kids who grew up both gifted and disabled — I was urged from a young age to live up to my ‘potential’. This was designed to be encouraging, rather than demanding. Sometimes the emphasis was on the great things I had the capacity to someday achieve, and I was told that I was being held to a higher standard because I had the potential to meet a higher standard. Other times, it was meant to be reassuring. It was okay if I didn’t excel at something, as long as I was doing the best I could.
In the latter sense, I am reminded of the old Chasidic story about Rabbi Zusya of Hanipol. When his students found Rabbi Zusya on his deathbed, he was crying, wracked with uncontrollable fear. His students asked why he was so sad, so afraid. Rabbi Zusya responded: “When I get to heaven, they will not ask “Why were you not Moses?” They will ask “Why were you not Zusya?””
It is not the fear of failing to be Moses that leaves me wracked with guilt and spiraling into panic on my worst days. It is the fear of failing to be myself, to live up to my own potential. I know that it’s possible for me to be brilliant, creative, productive, and devoted to the care of my community. The commandment is so close to me. Why can’t I do it?
But there are many days when it is outside by capacity. And it is so painful to admit how volatile my own capacities are. So tempting to just hold my peak capacity fixed, and view any shortfall as a personal failing.
But peak capacity is never sustainable. The peak power output, in purely physical terms, of a ‘healthy’ human is more than ten times the output that is actually sustainable (1.2 horsepower compared to about 0.1 horsepower). In electrical engineering, capacitors (as opposed to batteries), release their energy over a very short timespan — they may have greater peak power output, but they store less energy overall.
Unlike ambush predators like snakes or lions, human evolution is not based on prodigious peak activity. Humans are persistence hunters, able to catch faster prey by following it until it tires. To evaluate ourselves and our potential by what we can achieve on our best days, at our peak, is to misunderstand how we as organisms evolved to exist.
But judging ourselves by what we can achieve on our worst days is no better. When I’m lying there in bed, unable to shower or eat or get dressed, or when I’m curled up and nonverbal and having a panic attack, I feel broken and worthless. But that’s not me, not completely. That’s just who I am on my worst days.
As my favorite strip of the webcomic The Order of the Stick puts it (spoiler alert, and modified for dialect):
“You are who you are on the worst day of your life. And that’s true. That’s 100% true. But you know what else you are?
“You are who you are on the next day.
“That day, you wake up, and decide: are you going to make this the new worst day of your life, or not? And you are who you are the day after that, which can also be your new worst… or not.
“You are who you are on all of your days. All of them. Including the worst and the best. Every single one counts. All the way to the end.
“And when you have a new worst day, you can get stuck there, looking back on it, and worrying. And that’s normal. But sooner or later, you gotta take all the pain and do something with it. Try to make something better out of it.”
And curiously, that’s exactly where Parashat Nitzvaim ends up (Deuteronomy 30:19):
“I call the heavens and the earth to witness against you this day: I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life, that you and your children may live.”
In the face of our volatile capacities, our good days and our bad, this is what we are commanded: choose life!
Not “choose blessing” — we are not just who we are on our best days, when our goals are within reach and we can grasp them and do everything we want to do. We do not have to hold ourselves to that standard all the time.
Not “choose curse” — we are not just who we are on our worst days, when even the things that feel so simple, so achievable, are beyond our capacities. We are not defined by our failures and our limitations.
Not “choose death” — our existence, as precarious and volatile and at times torturous as it is, is still worthwhile. For all the pain, all the hardship of a disabled life, it is still, in general, preferable to non-existence.
But “choose life” — choose all our days, good and bad, with all our joys and sorrows, our torments and our jubilations. Because together, we and our descendants can make something better of it.
There’s an old parable that occurs in many religions, though one Jewish version comes from Rabbi Chaim of Romishok. Rabbi Chaim, so the tale goes, was allowed to visit Gehenna (hell) and Gan Eden (heaven) while still alive.
First, he visited Gehenna, where saw a scene that brings to mind the punishment of Tantalus. There was a table piled high with sumptuous, delicious food. But the people around the table were emaciated and starving, because their arms were splinted with wood so they could not bend their elbows, and they could not bring the food to their mouths.
Then he visited Gan Eden, where he saw a table piled high with sumptuous, delicious food. And just like in Gehenna, the people around it had their arms splinted, and could not bend their elbows to bring the food to their mouths.
But in Gan Eden, the people were feeding each other.
There are days when individual needs exceed individual capacities. But by being in communities of mutual care, we will bring food and Torah to each other’s mouths and hearts. May we choose life.
Raphael Morris (he/they) is an AuDHD rabbinical student at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College. He feels privileged to be part of an intellectual tradition where his preferred modes of cognition, learning, and communication are not just tolerated but actively valued. In his spare time, he enjoys wiki walking, Talmud, long rambling conversations and anything else tangential.
