To grow, humans need warmth, receptivity to nutrients, connection to the source. Cynicism sucks away all those vital elements

What is it that makes us Jews cynical? Where did we acquire our national skill for deflating and deriding, minimizing and mistrusting?

Maybe it’s our nature, a dark feature wired into our genetic makeup. Or maybe it’s our nurture — the naturally bitter byproduct of too many betrayals during our long exile. And sometimes, it comes from pain — when a teacher sends home your precious child with bruised feelings, or when the establishment you trust as an exemplar of your values turns out to be vulnerable to decidedly less exalted things, like money and status.

It’s no secret that cynicism comes with a high price. It’s like liquid nitrogen sprayed onto a skin tag or wart — the extreme cold freezes the unwanted skin and severs its connection to life. To grow, humans need warmth, receptivity to nutrients, connection to the source. Cynicism sucks away all those vital elements.

Still, as destructive as you know cynicism to be, it also brings a definite rush. When you manage to pinpoint — ideally in a witty, pithy turn of phrase — how a source of inspiration is just some shallow fluff, or a supposed role model really isn’t all that pure, or a person entrusted with authority doesn’t really have the answers, not only do you feel smart, you feel triumphant. It feels right: Jews aren’t meant to be naïve. We’re a smart, discerning people. The type of people who see holes and flaws.

But not all Jews are cynical. And you don’t even have to look too hard to find the ones still in growth mode.

In any community of Jews, there are people who maintain a certain raw innocence in their relationship with Hashem and His creations. Often these are the “amcha” Jews — those who don’t have the benefit of advanced yeshivah learning and whose knowledge of halachah is a bit amorphous. But it’s illuminating to find the same dynamic among intellectually sophisticated people too.

If you interact with “big people” — people of real spiritual greatness — you’ll probably notice that they are positive thinkers whose enthusiasm and admiration for Hashem and His people has never been chilled by cynicism. Talk to them about a troubling issue and you’ll discover that they already know the sad or ugly details (often more thoroughly than you do). When it comes to Klal Yisrael’s problems, they feel real pain. But they also radiate a certain confidence in our community, its products, its ability to address and mend its problems.

You might also notice — something I’ve seen over many years of hosting bochurim and seminary students — that children of parents who convey genuine reverence for gedolim and rabbanim are more likely to seek opportunities and relationships that jumpstart their own growth.

We all want that. So why can’t we shake our cynical instincts?

Back when I was in high school, master mechaneches (and currently school principal) Mrs. Zlata Press gave a talk before parshas Zachor. We usually think of Amalek as an external foe, she said, but its legacy of leitzanus — the raised eyebrow or sardonic comment or clever put-down — is often present within us, too. She then identified three types of leitzanus commonly found among high school girls. I’m long out of high school, but I keep encountering those three archetypes — and not just among girls, or teens, or students. They’re there in all of us.

As I remember (it’s been decades since that talk; I sincerely hope I’m not mangling her list), the first type of high school leitz is the girl who’s simply immature. When this girl hears an inspiring class or meets a model of self-refinement who could potentially inspire her own development, she laughs it off. She’d rather doodle or whisper through class than buckle down to any serious effort. Hopefully, with some time and patience, this girl will outgrow her immaturity — life has a way of making us grow up — and recognize that there are treasures to be gathered during her high school years (and long after).

The second type of high school leitz is the girl who begins to sense that she’s been exposed to a vision that is worthy and enduring — one she’ll need to invest a lot of hard work and grit to actualize. It’s daunting and discomfiting to consider how small she is in the shadow of that mountain. And so, in the silence of that “wow” following a teacher’s lesson, she unleashes a mocking whistle — and punctures the fragile orb of inspiration. Or she’ll volley a “soooo touching” into the hush after a classmate shares her account of a spiritual struggle. Or she’ll just raise a very eloquent eyebrow when a group of friends earnestly discuss which kabbalah to take on after experiencing a spiritual wakeup call. It’s more comfortable to cut the figurative mountain down to size than concede to her smallness.

The third type of high school leitz is the hardened cynic. Her crusty, blackened edges are dead to inspiration because she was burnt — by corruption, by hypocrisy, by adults in positions of authority who take advantage of their power to abuse and betray. The barrier that seals out any inspiration or encouragement is emblazoned with her accusation: If our Torah is so important and holy, and you are meant to be a mentor and a paradigm, how is it that your personal life is so far from the standards you preach?

That third type of leitzanus is the most painful one. Because there’s no easy answer, no great likelihood that it can be outgrown with time.

AS human beings living with human leaders in systems and communities built by fellow humans, we’re inevitably going to meet up with some version of that last, most poisonous, cause of leitzanus.

If you’re a thinking person, a discerning person, you will see flaws. You will see inconsistencies. If you don’t have a perfect pedigree, perfect children, and a perfect bank account, chances are good you will experience the results of wrongheaded or shortsighted policies: protektziya that favors the well-connected yet less-deserving, trusted figures who betray their familiar or communal loyalties, and some truly low people who hide beneath a cloak of piety to prey on the innocent.

There are no easy answers for that kind of pain and betrayal. It’s hard to bring warmth and growth back to a scorched sapling. But I wonder if too often, our generation’s brand of cynicism is closer to the second type — and if we’re sabotaging our own growth by mocking the goal.

Maybe it’s time we leave behind the girl who’d rather suck all the grandeur out of her teacher’s example than make the draining climb to the peak of her own potential. Maybe we can move past the bochur who’d rather knock the rebbi off his pedestal than acknowledge how low is his own current station. Or, closer to home, we can say goodbye to the adult who rolls his or her eyes at another “call for teshuvah” and instead sit quietly with a pen, paper, and conscience, and evaluate: Where am I? Where do I want to be? And what would it take for me to get there?

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1052)