In 1974, a new apparition began to make its appearance in the streets of Manhattan. Even in that hubbub of crowd and clamor, this strange vehicle attracted attention. It was a standard van of the “U-Haul” or “Ryder” variety. It’s back door was rolled up, showing a cargo of one large wooden table, two wooden benches, and a dozen young men with beards and black hats. From a loudspeaker taped to its roof issued forth a medley of Chassidic songs played on high volume—that is, high enough to make itself heard above the din of a Manhattan street corner. Large posters taped to the sides of the moving van proclaimed: “MITZVAH TANK”, “Teffilin on board” and “Mitzvot On The Spot For People On The Go.”
To whom does a Jew pray?
Can He be described? Does He have a name?
No, there is no description with which to imagine Him, no name with which to grasp Him.
Even the pronoun “Him” implies too much to be true—as though He could be a third party, absent or present. Even the title “Infinite Light” misses the mark, as though He were only light.
But He is not light. He is the source of light. At the source of all light, there is no absence or presence, no being or not being.
There is only “You.” Here, now, known to all beings. And yet beyond the grasp of any...
