August 3, 2026|כ' אב ה' אלפים תשפ"ו The Journey to Devekut
Print ArticleA few weeks ago, Yael and I traveled to Iceland. One of the highlights of our trip was a hike in a place called Fimmvörðuháls.
Before I tell you about that hike, I want to begin with a question that many of us struggle with in our relationship with Hashem:
How do we create a real connection with God?
We all want to feel close to Hashem.
We want our tefillah to be meaningful.
We want our Torah learning to inspire us.
We want to experience the sweetness of avodat Hashem.
But sometimes there is a gap between what we believe and what we feel.
We believe in God.
We believe in Torah.
We believe that mitzvot matter.
But the feeling of closeness does not always come easily.
So perhaps the question is not only:
How do we find that feeling?
Perhaps the deeper question is:
What creates a relationship with God in the first place?
I began thinking about this question after an experience Yael and I had in Iceland.
The hike was called Fimmvörðuháls, and the plan sounded almost impossible — at least for us. We are not serious hikers. Usually, our hikes are only a few hours.
Last year, we completed the Iceberg Lake hike in Glacier National Park, which was about 10 miles with 1,300 feet of elevation gain, and that was unusual for us.
But this hike was on a completely different level:
Fourteen miles.
Four thousand feet of elevation gain.
Eight to twelve hours on the trail.
But Yael and I are still young enough — at least in our own minds — to think we can handle these adventures, so we decided to take on the challenge.
We started near Skógafoss, one of Iceland’s most famous waterfalls, and began climbing through one of the most beautiful landscapes imaginable.
The trail followed the Skógá River, passing waterfall after waterfall. There were green mountains, wildflowers, rushing streams, and breathtaking views in every direction.
Every few minutes, we stopped to take another picture because the scenery kept changing and somehow becoming even more beautiful.
At that point, we thought we understood what made this hike special.
The beauty.
The scenery.
The views.
But as we climbed higher, everything began to change.
The wind grew stronger.
Light rain began to fall.
Patches of snow appeared even though it was summer.
Soon we were walking between two enormous glaciers, surrounded by snow, ice, and mountains with no signs of civilization.
This was no longer simply a beautiful hike.
It was a journey through a powerful and untamed landscape.
About four hours into the hike, we reached a small hut at the top of the mountain pass.
We sat down.
Had lunch.
Relaxed.
At the hut, we met an elderly woman who served as the caretaker. The hut is used as a hostel for hikers who spend the night — although I still have no idea how the elderly lady managed to get herself all the way up there!
She was boiling water for hikers, probably by melting snow, because there was no running water.
I needed water to wash my hands before eating my sandwich, and she insisted on pouring the water for me herself.
She took a ladle filled with warm water and carefully washed my hands.
The ladle probably held a revi’it, so it was actually a perfectly acceptable kli for netilat yadayim.
But I can say that it was the first time in my life that I washed my hands with a ladle.
We spent about 45 minutes at the hut — relaxing, eating lunch, and feeling that the hardest part of the hike was behind us.
We were wrong.
The people who had told us about the hike had experienced good weather throughout.
We had beautiful weather for most of the first half.
But the second half was completely different.
The descent changed everything.
Rain.
Cold.
Fog.
The trail became steep and difficult.
We crossed snowfields and walked through areas surrounded by glaciers.
Every step required concentration.
The landscape was still breathtaking, but our focus was no longer on stopping to take pictures.
Our focus was simply:
Put one foot in front of the other.
Keep moving.
Do not lose your footing.
Keep going.
Although I should admit that one member of our two-person group did lose her footing at one point.
I’m not going to say who it was.
But it was a steep slope, and it certainly got our attention!
Thankfully, we were okay — a little traumatized, but okay — and we kept moving.
Eventually, with a few hours still left, the weather improved.
The clouds lifted.
The rain stopped.
The trail became easier.
Once again, we could appreciate the beauty around us.
But when we finally reached the bottom, I realized something.
I was no longer simply impressed by Iceland.
I felt connected to Iceland.
And that connection did not come only from the beautiful moments.
The beauty drew me in.
But the difficult miles created the relationship.
The struggle changed the way I experienced the journey.
And perhaps this is exactly what Moshe Rabbeinu teaches us in Parshat Eikev.
The Torah asks one of the most famous questions in Judaism:
Ve'atah Yisrael, mah Hashem Elokecha sho'el me'imach.
“What does God ask of you?”
Most people know the beginning of the answer:
Ki im leyir'ah et Hashem Elokecha, lalechet bechol derachav, u'le'ahavah oto, vela'avod et Hashem Elokecha bechol levavcha u'vechol nafshecha.
Fear God.
Walk in His ways.
Love Him.
Serve Him.
But a few pesukim later, Moshe describes this idea in another way:
Et Hashem Elokecha tira.
Oto ta'avod.
U'vo tidbak.
U'vishmo tishave'a.
Fear God.
Serve Him.
Cling to Him.
Swear in His Name.
Why does Moshe offer two different descriptions?
Because he is teaching two different ideas.
The first formulation teaches us how a person begins living a life of Torah.
Moshe tells us that the first step is yirah.
Recognize that God is real.
Recognize that our choices matter.
Once a person develops that awareness, mitzvot are no longer random obligations. They become the response of someone who understands that God’s will carries ultimate significance.
And then, through a life of mitzvot, something deeper develops.
A person begins to love Hashem.
The mitzvot are no longer merely acts of obedience. They become expressions of a growing relationship.
And eventually, that love leads a person to serve Hashem with all of his or her heart and soul.
But in the second formulation, Moshe is teaching something different.
He is describing not how a person begins observing Torah, but how observance becomes a relationship.
This is a roadmap for devekut.
Devekut is more than a feeling of love or a moment of inspiration.
It is a life in which a person’s consciousness remains attached to God — where one’s thoughts, actions, and entire existence are connected to Him.
The journey begins with:
Et Hashem Elokecha tira.
The Gemara teaches:
Hakol bidei Shamayim chutz miyirat Shamayim.
“Everything is in Heaven’s hands except the fear of Heaven.”
Why?
Because yirah begins with a choice.
I do not have to wait until I feel inspired.
I do not have to wait until I feel connected.
I choose to recognize that my actions matter before God — that my choices have consequences and that my life stands before Him.
This is within everyone’s reach.
It begins with recognizing that we stand before God.
Then comes:
Oto ta'avod.
Serve Him.
Pray.
Learn Torah.
Keep Shabbat.
Give tzedakah.
Perform mitzvot.
Even when the emotion is not there.
Because relationships are not built only through extraordinary moments.
They are built through commitment.
Through showing up.
And then Moshe says:
U'vo tidbak.
Cling to Him.
Notice the order.
Moshe does not say:
Feel close to God, and then serve Him.
He says:
Serve Him, and then you will become close.
The avodah creates the devekut.
The mitzvot do not merely express our relationship with God.
They create that relationship.
That was Iceland.
The beauty attracted us.
The challenge connected us.
The effort created the bond.
The Meshech Chochmah explains that devekut is not reserved for spiritual giants:
Vehi mitzvah kolelet b'vechinot shonot lechol anshei ha'umah.
It is a mitzvah that applies to the entire nation, although each person experiences it according to his or her level.
The Ramban explains that devekut means that a person’s consciousness remains attached to God:
Yishtokeku lishmo bechol pe'uloteyhem u'machshevoteyhem.
One’s thoughts and actions are constantly directed toward Him.
Devekut is not escaping the world.
It is walking through the world with God.
Recently, I heard about a community searching for a rabbi.
They described themselves as:
“Not so halakhic, but very spiritual.”
What they meant was that they wanted a rabbi who could inspire them, sing with them, and help them feel connected.
And there is something beautiful about wanting spirituality.
But Judaism teaches us something deeper.
Spirituality is not created by feelings alone.
A beautiful song can inspire us.
A powerful moment can inspire us.
But inspiration alone does not create a relationship.
The Torah’s model is different.
It is not inspiration first and commitment second.
It is:
Yirah.
Then avodah.
Then devekut.
And finally:
U'vishmo tishave'a.
Rashi quotes Chazal:
Ve'achar sheyihyu vecha kol hamidot ha'eleh, az bishmo tishave'a.
“Only after you have acquired all of these qualities may you swear in God’s Name.”
Rashi teaches us that invoking God’s Name is not something a person does casually. A person must first become worthy of attaching his words to the Name of God.
Only after developing yirah, avodah, and devekut can a person properly stand before God and invoke His Name.
Rav Hirsch deepens this idea.
He explains that U'vishmo tishave'a is not merely about taking an oath.
It describes the person whose entire life testifies that God’s Name is the highest and ultimate value:
Kol chayecha ya'idu sheShem Hashem hu be'einecha ha'erech ha'elyon hamuchlat.
“Your entire life will testify that the Name of God is, in your eyes, the absolute highest value.”
A person does not merely speak God’s Name.
He carries God’s Name.
His words reflect Him.
His choices reflect Him.
His life becomes a Kiddush Hashem.
Perhaps this is also why Moshe describes God’s qualities before commanding us to cling to Him:
Oseh mishpat yatom ve'almanah, ve'ohev ger.
God cares for the vulnerable.
God loves the stranger.
And immediately afterward:
Ve'ahavtem et hager.
You shall love the stranger.
Why?
Because devekut means becoming like God.
We do not cling to God by escaping humanity.
We cling to God by bringing His qualities into the world.
Maybe that is the lesson of our hike.
At the beginning, we admired Iceland.
At the end, we felt connected to Iceland.
The climb changed us.
The rain changed us.
The difficult descent changed us.
And the same is true in avodat Hashem.
Everyone wants devekut.
Everyone wants inspiration.
Everyone wants to feel close to God.
But Moshe teaches us there is a path.
Begin with yirah.
Recognize God’s presence.
Continue with avodah.
Show up every day.
Even on the difficult days.
Even when the journey feels cold and uncertain.
Even when every step requires effort.
And slowly, almost without noticing, the avodah becomes devekut.
One day you realize you are no longer simply performing mitzvot.
You are living with God.
And perhaps the greatest compliment someone could ever give you is not:
“That person knows a lot.”
Or:
“That person does many mitzvot.”
But:
“When I am around that person, I feel closer to God.”
That is the ultimate fulfillment of:
U'vishmo tishave'a.
Not merely speaking God’s Name.
Not merely believing in God.
But living in such a way that your life itself becomes a testimony to God’s presence.
That when people encounter you, they encounter something of Him.
Your words reflect Him.
Your actions reflect Him.
Your very presence reflects Him.
You become a Kiddush Hashem.