A tree isn’t trying to achieve; it simply wants to grow. That should be the focus of a Jew’s life

Prepared for print by Rabbi Eran Feintuch

Years ago, when I accompanied a friend to the British Museum, I never dreamed that visit would teach me a powerful insight about the Jewish character. The famed museum housed an impressive exhibit on ancient civilizations that brought to life the grandeur of the Greeks, the Persians, and the Egyptians of yore. But what I learned about Am Yisrael came not from the artifacts displayed in the museum, but from their conspicuous absence.

How could it be, I wondered, that the vast collection of artifacts didn’t include even one from the Jewish People’s rich history? Was this glaring omission the product of anti-Semitism? After some reflection, I realized that the answer was simple yet profound. The museum didn’t feature any artifacts from our past, because there were none available to display. There are, of course, archaeological finds. But our people has never produced the commemorative items other cultures deliberately crafted for posterity.

This contrast highlights a fundamental difference between our people and the nations of the world. The nations share a common ambition: to be remembered for posterity. Painfully aware of their mortality, they strive to eternalize their greatness, lest their memory be forgotten. All ancient cultures constructed monuments, murals, and literature — enduring testaments to their victories and achievements.

Our people, on the other hand, never made monuments to memorialize our triumphs or heroes. Our ancestors made no murals of the Maccabees’ military victory, no epic poems about Dovid Hamelech. The reason is that our life focus isn’t achieving greatness, rather, it is cultivating constant personal growth. We have no interest in preserving the present, no matter how glorious. Because the moment you put an achievement behind glass, you cease developing. Even ostensibly historical accounts in Tanach are intended to guide us in our ongoing spiritual struggles, not merely to commemorate the past. Klal Yisrael’s focus is on growing, not achieving perfection.

In light of this insight, we can better understand why the Torah likens us to trees. Trees are the planet’s champion growers. Unlike any other living thing, they never cease to grow throughout their lifespans. A tree isn’t trying to achieve; it simply wants to grow. That should be the focus of a Jew’s life.

It’s not just that we don’t rest on our laurels. Our drive isn’t to achieve, but to grow, so there can be no final destination. There is no achievement worthy of framing for eternity. No matter what we accomplish or what spiritual heights we reach, we keep developing. A Jew is always a work in progress.

ITseems that to a large extent we’ve forgotten this. Contemporary society’s obsession with achievement has corrupted our Jewish character. Without realizing it, we, too, want to put ourselves behind glass. We aim to reach some lofty goal and remain there, a living monument in the Jewish museum of perfection. A massive talmid chacham with Shas at his fingertips. An eminent professional who’s also a pillar of the community. A model mom who’s always smiling and in control, whose children’s impeccable behavior is the talk of the town.

Besides the dangerous pressure these she’ifos produce, their whole approach is misinformed. We shouldn’t be focused on reaching a particular level, rather on constantly developing. A tree doesn’t have any particular destination in mind; it simply wants to grow. Carefully set goals can be helpful in helping us realize our abilities, but they’re not an end in themselves.

Even the gedolim should not be put behind glass. They aren’t just shining paragons of Jewish virtue to put on display; they, too, are constantly growing. Here as well, the non-Jewish concept of hero has influenced us.

When I was young, I heard Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky talk about his relationship with a certain gadol from the previous generation. His firsthand accounts of that gadol’s younger days painted a somewhat different portrait than the one the gadol’s recent talmidim were familiar with. I was fascinated, but to my surprise the talmidim were not. Their disappointment was visible: these were not the stories they had come to hear. They didn’t want to hear about the gadol who never stopped developing; they wanted the gadol they could put behind glass, a static hero who could be framed for eternal admiration.

Once we understand that growing, not achieving, is our life mission, our approach to growing becomes more genuine. We tend to look for growth in the heavens — in the lofty she’ifos we aspire to reach. But if we simply focus on growing, we’ll realize that we grow not from gazing at stars, but from ordinary, mundane life. A tree doesn’t get its nourishment to grow from the crisp alpine air, but from the low-altitude dirt around its roots. That’s why its roots are in the earth, not reaching toward the heavens. Our path to growth isn’t based on she’ifos, but on utilizing the countless opportunities we have to grow in our everyday lives.

IT doesn’t take too much effort to see how we can grow from simple activities and decisions. Just now, for example, I felt I needed a break after preparing shiurim for several hours. I went to make myself a cup of tea. No, not the American method of rapidly dunking the teabag in the water two or three times. I slowly made myself a proper cup of tea for a proper, refreshing break.

Afterward, I found myself walking to the bookshelf to take out a sefer I love but rarely make time to learn. Then I realized that the last few times I did that, my 15-minute break turned into an hour-long evasion of my responsibilities. I stopped myself, sat down to enjoy my tea, and went back to preparing my shiurim. That minor, seemingly inconsequential decision was a major opportunity for growth! Every day, every hour is full of such opportunities. But our preoccupation with achievement often blinds us from seeing them.

The “dirt” of our own lives gives us all the nourishment we need to grow. In everything we do, we can nurture character strengths and overcome negative tendencies. We can deepen our yiras Shamayim, or bolster our devotion to our family, friends or community. We can develop latent kochos and bring them to fruition. We sometimes feel that we need more ideal life circumstances in order to grow, but in truth our lives provide us with all the opportunities we need.

My son is a highly talented learner who left a prestigious kollel to become a third-grade rebbi. Everyone was shocked; that position, though important, was far beneath his abilities. But to me, his decision made perfect sense. He had a passion for teaching Torah and helping others grow. His dream “shteller” didn’t present itself, but why should that stop him from following his passion? In his present circumstances, others saw only dirt, but he saw plentiful nutrients to further his personal development.

We need to stop trying to make ourselves into museum exhibits. Let’s cease our pressurized obsession with achievement, and try to grow organically, from within the “dirt” of our own lives. Whether or not the results are worthy of public display, they’ll certainly be genuine and fulfilling. Life outside the glass may not feel so picture-perfect, but it’s far more rewarding.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1043)