07/25/2025
“How Jewish are you?” is a question I often hear from my EMS partners when they see the kippah I proudly wear. It’s usually followed by a string of questions:
“Do you and your wife really sleep in separate rooms?”
“So… are you, like, Amish?”
“Does your kippah come off? Do you shower in it?”
“Do you make your kids wear one?”
“How can you talk to me if I’m a woman?”
“How can a phone be kosher?”
“What happens if I touch your food?”
“What’s it like to be forced to marry someone you don’t know?”
Some of these questions are awkward, while others are amusing. But over time, I’ve realized they stem from a mix of curiosity, assumptions, and misinformation about Jewish life.
Take Shabbat, for example. I’ve been asked, “Will something bad happen if you flip a light switch?” or “You can’t carry in public, but if you hang a string, suddenly it’s fine?” and “How can anyone go 25 hours without driving, cooking, or using technology?” To someone well-versed in Jewish law, these questions might seem silly—but for those whose only exposure to observant Judaism comes from Instagram reels, TV dramas, or TikTok influencers, they’re entirely valid.
The truth is, you can’t fully understand Jewish observance without experiencing it—without connecting to its deeper meaning and internalizing its value. From the outside, it may all seem irrational or extreme.
Orthodox Shabbat observance is often presumed to be a strange list of rules created by religious authorities to control people’s lives. Others, who know a bit more, believe Shabbat was designed simply to give us a break, to rest and recharge. But in the age of modern convenience, what use is a day of rest? Why avoid activities that are neither strenuous nor stressful? Why shouldn’t I pick flowers for the table or toss laundry in the machine? What if I enjoy baking? Isn’t Shabbat supposed to be pleasurable?
These are all valid questions—but they’re based on a fundamental misunderstanding of what Shabbat is.
Shabbat isn’t a day to rest from difficult tasks. It’s a day to rest from distractions—activities that pull us into the physical world and away from spiritual growth. Some might be burdensome; others might even be enjoyable. But if an activity gives us a false sense of completeness in the physical realm, allowing us to ignore deeper introspection, that’s the kind of action Shabbat is designed to set aside.
On Shabbat, we emulate G-d. Just as G-d “rested” on the seventh day of creation, so too are we commanded to rest. But G-d, of course, doesn’t get tired. His “rest” was simply a cessation of creation. That’s the model we follow—not stopping because we’re exhausted, but refraining from creative, physical acts to make space for the soul to expand.
Misunderstandings like these don’t end with Shabbat—they extend to the very foundations of Jewish belief.
One of the most common and deeply felt questions I get is: “If G-d is good and wants us to be happy, why is there so much suffering in the world?” Even more troubling, there are situations where Torah laws themselves seem to prolong someone’s suffering, like a mamzer who, due to his parents’ sin, is restricted by the Torah from marrying freely. How can a kind and loving G-d allow this?
We must start by addressing the misconception here. While G-d is good and desires good for us, nowhere in the Torah does it say that goodness equals ease, fairness, or comfort in this world. Judaism teaches the opposite.
As the Ramchal explains in his classic work Mesilas Yesharim, the physical world we know is not the final destination—it’s a corridor, an antechamber before the eternal spiritual reality. Suffering and challenges are built into the design of this world, not to punish us, but to refine us. Our response to struggle reveals and shapes our character. Growth only happens when we are stretched beyond what is comfortable.
Our understanding of good is limited by perspective. Just as a parent who denies their child candy before dinner acts out of love, not cruelty, so too, G-d’s goodness doesn’t always align with our immediate desires. A child might feel hurt, but the parent sees the full picture. The challenge is learning to accept that our viewpoint doesn’t reflect the complete reality. We may not understand G-d’s actions—or even agree with them—but we must remain humble enough to admit that we don’t have all the answers. Good and evil aren’t defined solely by how something feels in the moment; they are shaped by a larger, deeper truth—one we often cannot fully grasp.
Faith in G-d isn’t blind belief that life will go our way. It’s trusting that the Creator of the universe sees a picture bigger than we do, and it’s choosing to live by that trust, even when it’s hard.
