The Case for Enchantment
Between Torah and Mezuzah
Quick announcement: I’m leading a salon on “Heidegger and the Meaning of Life” on August 3rd at 9pm EST. You can sign up here. Do spread the word! And while I have you here, if you enjoy these daily missives, please help spread the word of this newsletter with friends and on social media by inviting people to subscribe.
There is a tradeoff between comprehension and enchantment. That which we know is demystified; that which is mysterious challenges us. Awe creates distance. Familiarity makes things proximate.
Descartes thought philosophers should pursue ideas that are “clear and distinct,” yet it’s possible that the ideas most worth considering are fundamentally opaque.
Hölderlin deconstructs the dichotomy between near and far when he writes, “Near, and difficult to grasp is God.” Heidegger notes the strange locution—we would have assumed that God’s nearness makes God graspable. Yet in the case of the divine, mystery is not cancelled by nearness. Rather, nearness itself intensifies mystery.
But the realization that mystery requires non-understanding poses a problem—how do we know when something is profound or “pseudo-profound”? Is it just subjective? How can we distinguish the sage from the charlatan, the guru from the bullshitter? As I understand it, this question was one posed by and embodied by Osho, who deliberately obscured our ability to delineate fraudulent spirituality from genuine insight. To know enough to say that something is profound is to know that it’s allure is warranted, that the enchantment is more than superficial. But if we possessed a criterion on the basis of which we could judge, we would no longer be mystified.
Enchantment is an aesthetic trauma. That’s why great art often immediately meets strong hatred. The existing critical framework is not equipped with the language to describe the new art.
Jewish tradition presents us with two different kinds of holy texts—texts which we read, study, and recite, and texts which we wear on our bodies and hang on our doorposts. The former require interpretation, debate, application. The latter simply exist as material things—to be wrapped or placed, touched or kissed.
It’s telling that the Torah can only be read while open. Tefillin and mezuzah—which contain the Shema—are only adequate to their task insofar as they are closed. Torah needs to be read. But Tefillin and mezuzah need not to be read. The former is an invitation to understanding, translation, meaning, and universality. The latter are weird, particular, sensory. They exist to enchant.
Each mode alone brings hazard. Meaning without embodiment creates dissociation. Sensory encounter with comprehension intoxicates, but fails to justify itself to public reason. The one leads to abstraction, the other to parochialism.
The Enlightenment began as a backlash against the authority and aura of the spectacular, cutting it down to size. Yet only a post-enlightenment consciousness can retrieve the Dionysian pull of the inaccessible, the black box of the particular. Sociality requires us to open the text of the self. Individuality demands that we see ourselves and others—like mezuzot—as texts whose holiness does not require us to be opened.
What is Called Thinking? is a practice of asking a daily question on the belief that self-reflection brings awe, joy, and enrichment to one’s life. Consider becoming a paying subscriber to support this project and access subscriber-only content.
You can read my weekly Torah commentary here.
