Searching for Spirituality: Eastern Paths or Jewish Roots?
Many Jews travel to India in search of spirituality. But is sitting in an ashram truly the pinnacle of spirituality? What is the essential difference between the spiritual practices of Eastern religions and those of Judaism?
The Allure of the East
Western-minded individuals often imagine the Far East as a haven of simplicity, serenity, and spiritual depth. Many Jews are drawn to this lifestyle, hoping that by practicing Buddhism and transcendental meditation they’ll find the happiness they crave and freedom from the relentless race for money and achievement.
Yearning for these Eastern spiritual practices often stems from a lack of familiarity with the depth and richness of Jewish spirituality. While Eastern teachings may seem beautiful and appealing, they do not engage the unique spiritual potential of a Jewish soul.
Spiritual Hardware Matters
According to Jewish tradition, every human being has a spiritual spark. But the Jewish people are gifted with something distinct: a soul (neshamah), described in the book of Iyov as a “portion of God from above.” This soul is capable of immense spiritual energy—but it requires specific tools and pathways to unlock its full potential.
That’s why Jewish sages taught: “Wisdom among the nations, believe it. Torah among the nations, do not believe it” (Eichah Rabbah 2:13). In other words, secular knowledge from other cultures can be valuable. But when it comes to spiritual worldviews—truths about the soul, creation, and the meaning of life—Judaism cautions that these frameworks do not align with the spiritual blueprint of the Jewish soul.
Hinduism: Idolatry Cloaked in Monotheism
Hinduism, the third largest religion in the world, is rooted in idol worship: offerings of food and drink are brought to statues; deities are hugged, praised, and believed to wield divine powers. Hindus often explain that these idols merely represent different aspects of one infinite Creator, called Brahman. However, in Judaism, such representations are strictly forbidden. The danger is that the physical form becomes confused with the Divine itself, which Judaism refers to as idolatry.
Buddhism: A World Without a Creator
Buddhism, often seen as the more spiritual of Eastern religions, was founded by Siddhartha Gautama—the Buddha. Buddhism teaches that life is inherently filled with suffering. Desires and attachments lead to pain, and thus the goal is to detach, abandon cravings, and reach nirvana—a state of mental release and emptiness.
While many see beauty in this quest for inner peace, Buddhism offers no Creator, no soul, and no ultimate purpose for the universe. Its teachings are not based on Divine revelation, but on human insight into suffering and the escape from it.
So What Does Judaism Say?
Judaism answers with confidence: we were given a direct revelation at Mount Sinai—a Divine message explaining exactly why we were created and what we are meant to do. The Torah, together with the Oral Tradition passed from Moshe through the generations, is not a philosophy. It is Divine instruction, custom-designed for the Jewish soul.
And unlike Buddhism, Judaism does not view the world as something to flee from. To the contrary, Judaism teaches that we should engage with the world, uplift it, and endow it with sanctity.
Escape vs. Elevation
The Jewish path is not to retreat into stillness and seclusion, but to bring light into the darkest places. The truest spiritual work is not escape—it’s transformation.
The goal is not to deny the physical, but to elevate it. A Jewish spiritual life doesn’t require vows of poverty or celibacy. Instead, it teaches how to eat with mindfulness, how to celebrate love and intimacy within sacred bounds, how to turn money into generosity, and how to transform the everyday into the holy.
The Jewish Seeker
So many Jews flock to India looking for meaning. In The Jew in the Lotus, Rodger Kamenetz notes that roughly one-third of Western Buddhist leaders are of Jewish descent, and up to 75% of Western visitors to the Dalai Lama’s spiritual center are Jews. The hunger is real. But perhaps they’re searching in the wrong place.
There’s a well-known tale of a man named Isaac from Krakow, who dreams night after night that there’s a treasure buried beneath a bridge in Prague. He makes the long journey, only to be mocked by a guard who says, “Funny—I’ve been dreaming about a Jew named Isaac from Krakow who has a treasure buried under his stove!” Isaac rushes home, digs beneath the stove, and finds the treasure. It was with him all along.
Jews don’t need to escape to find meaning. Our spiritual path is right beneath our feet. It is embedded within our heritage and encoded within our souls.
Meditation is a practice of focused contemplation designed to shift a person’s state of consciousness. While meditation is widely associated with Eastern religions—where it is often tied to rituals that border on idol worship—the practice has deep roots in Judaism as well.
The Mishnah, for example, describes the “chassidim harishonim” (early pious ones) who would sit quietly for an hour before prayer and an hour afterward, centering their thoughts and preparing their minds. Throughout Jewish history, great rabbis engaged in various meditative practices, many of which were compiled by Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in his book Jewish Meditation: A Practical Guide.
At the same time, Judaism views meditation not as an end in itself but as a tool. Its purpose is not self-fulfillment or detachment, but rather to help a person serve the Creator with greater awareness and clarity.
The late Rabbi Yehuda Leon Ashkenazi, also known as Manitou, once shared a fascinating exchange he had with the Dalai Lama on the subject of idolatry.
“At an event we both attended,” Manitou recalled, “I listened to a lecture the Dalai Lama gave. It sounded almost like a beautiful sermon you might hear in a synagogue—part hasidism, part moral teaching. It wasn’t exactly religion, but rather a kind of wisdom, accompanied by ceremonies that were unmistakably idolatrous, with a monistic flavor.
Afterward, I said to him: ‘What you said speaks to me. I can understand the moral teachings in what you shared. But why do you need the idolatry?’
He replied: ‘I don’t need it. But my people do.'”
From where did the spiritual gurus of the East first derive their wisdom and approach to spirituality? Curiously, the Torah addresses this issue.
We are told that Avraham had additional sons through a woman named Keturah, described as his concubine. After giving them gifts, Avraham sent these sons away to the East: “Avraham gave all that he had to Yitzchak. But to the sons of the concubines that Avraham had, Avraham gave gifts, and he sent them away from Yitzchak his son, while he yet lived, eastward, to the land of the East” (Bereishit 25:5–6).
According to the Torah, Avraham entrusted Yitzchak with both his material wealth and his spiritual inheritance—the full transmission of holiness and Divine wisdom. To the sons of Keturah, however, he gave a different legacy: a deep knowledge of the spiritual and energetic forces woven into nature and the human being.
One fascinating detail: the priests of India are called Brahmins—a name that bears a striking resemblance to Avraham, the patriarch who, according to Jewish tradition, was the source of their wisdom.
The Shinto religion, widely practiced in Japan, is not truly an ancient, structured faith. Rather, it grew out of a loose collection of customs and folk beliefs that were common in early Japan. It was only in the 19th century that Shinto was shaped into an official religion, as Japan’s leaders sought to create a “state religion” modeled after Western nations, in light of the country’s growing ties with the West.
Thinkers working with the government developed a formal system of rituals, beliefs, and prayers. These emphasized the divine nature of the emperor and his legendary ancestor, the sun goddess, while also creating a hierarchical network of shrines across the country. In other words, Shintoism is not really an organic, historically rooted religion as much as an artificial construct crafted by state authorities to serve political and national purposes.
In the Torah, the term “nazir” refers to a “nazirite,” and this institution is starkly different from a non-Jewish “monk.” A Jewish Nazir was not required to live in complete isolation. He was only forbidden from three things: consuming wine or any grape products, cutting his hair, and coming into contact with the dead. That was the entire commitment.
Even so, our Sages debated whether this practice should be viewed positively or negatively. At the end of the nazirite period, the nazir was required to bring a sin-offering. One opinion explains that this sacrifice was necessary because, having reached a heightened spiritual level during his abstinence, the nazir was now descending from that lofty state. The more widely accepted view, however, sees it differently: the sin-offering was required because the nazir had deprived himself of the beauty and goodness of the world that the Creator gave us to enjoy.
Meditation is a practice of focused contemplation designed to shift a person’s state of consciousness. While meditation is widely associated with Eastern religions—where it is often tied to rituals that border on idol worship—the practice has deep roots in Judaism as well.
The Mishnah, for example, describes the “chassidim harishonim” (early pious ones) who would sit quietly for an hour before prayer and an hour afterward, centering their thoughts and preparing their minds. Throughout Jewish history, great rabbis engaged in various meditative practices, many of which were compiled by Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in his book Jewish Meditation: A Practical Guide.
At the same time, Judaism views meditation not as an end in itself but as a tool. Its purpose is not self-fulfillment or detachment, but rather to help a person serve the Creator with greater awareness and clarity.
From where did the spiritual gurus of the East first derive their wisdom and approach to spirituality? Curiously, the Torah addresses this issue.
We are told that Avraham had additional sons through a woman named Keturah, described as his concubine. After giving them gifts, Avraham sent these sons away to the East: “Avraham gave all that he had to Yitzchak. But to the sons of the concubines that Avraham had, Avraham gave gifts, and he sent them away from Yitzchak his son, while he yet lived, eastward, to the land of the East” (Bereishit 25:5–6).
According to the Torah, Avraham entrusted Yitzchak with both his material wealth and his spiritual inheritance—the full transmission of holiness and Divine wisdom. To the sons of Keturah, however, he gave a different legacy: a deep knowledge of the spiritual and energetic forces woven into nature and the human being.
One fascinating detail: the priests of India are called Brahmins—a name that bears a striking resemblance to Avraham, the patriarch who, according to Jewish tradition, was the source of their wisdom.
In the Torah, the term “nazir” refers to a “nazirite,” and this institution is starkly different from a non-Jewish “monk.” A Jewish Nazir was not required to live in complete isolation. He was only forbidden from three things: consuming wine or any grape products, cutting his hair, and coming into contact with the dead. That was the entire commitment.
Even so, our Sages debated whether this practice should be viewed positively or negatively. At the end of the nazirite period, the nazir was required to bring a sin-offering. One opinion explains that this sacrifice was necessary because, having reached a heightened spiritual level during his abstinence, the nazir was now descending from that lofty state. The more widely accepted view, however, sees it differently: the sin-offering was required because the nazir had deprived himself of the beauty and goodness of the world that the Creator gave us to enjoy.
The late Rabbi Yehuda Leon Ashkenazi, also known as Manitou, once shared a fascinating exchange he had with the Dalai Lama on the subject of idolatry.
“At an event we both attended,” Manitou recalled, “I listened to a lecture the Dalai Lama gave. It sounded almost like a beautiful sermon you might hear in a synagogue—part hasidism, part moral teaching. It wasn’t exactly religion, but rather a kind of wisdom, accompanied by ceremonies that were unmistakably idolatrous, with a monistic flavor.
Afterward, I said to him: ‘What you said speaks to me. I can understand the moral teachings in what you shared. But why do you need the idolatry?’
He replied: ‘I don’t need it. But my people do.'”
The Shinto religion, widely practiced in Japan, is not truly an ancient, structured faith. Rather, it grew out of a loose collection of customs and folk beliefs that were common in early Japan. It was only in the 19th century that Shinto was shaped into an official religion, as Japan’s leaders sought to create a “state religion” modeled after Western nations, in light of the country’s growing ties with the West.
Thinkers working with the government developed a formal system of rituals, beliefs, and prayers. These emphasized the divine nature of the emperor and his legendary ancestor, the sun goddess, while also creating a hierarchical network of shrines across the country. In other words, Shintoism is not really an organic, historically rooted religion as much as an artificial construct crafted by state authorities to serve political and national purposes.
The Dalai Lama is a Tibetan spiritual leader in exile. Millions revere him, yet there is one people he refuses to accept into his fold—the Jewish people. This is the story of a young secular Jew who wandered through Eastern spirituality, only to encounter the Dalai Lama himself—and hear where true wisdom really lies.
A Restless Search
I was born into a thoroughly atheist home. We didn’t believe in anything; we didn’t even commemorate Yom Kippur. I didn’t have a bar mitzvah. By the time I was fifteen or sixteen, I began to drift. Eventually, I decided to travel—to India—in search of meaning.
There, I encountered every kind of sect imaginable. India was enchanting. Nobody was in a hurry, nobody seemed to worry, and everyone seemed to have an answer for everything. I met monks who displayed incredible self-discipline—some could go without food or movement for years, others mastered their breath as though they were snakes.
My journey eventually brought me to the Dalai Lama. He was unlike any leader I had ever encountered—gentle, wise, uncompromisingly committed to peace. I was captivated by him.
The Turning Point
One night, one of the Dalai Lama’s aides promised to arrange a meeting. After his lecture, I was ushered in. He greeted me warmly, bowed, and invited me to sit. Nervously, I blurted out: “Last night I decided that I want to join your religion, if you’ll accept me.”
“Where are you from?” he asked in English.
“Israel,” I replied.
“Are you Jewish?”
“Yes.”
At that, his face changed. The warmth gave way to puzzlement, even anger. “I don’t understand you,” he said firmly. “And I won’t let you do this. Every religion tries to imitate Judaism. I’m sure you walked through Israel with your eyes shut. Go back. Open them there. No one prefers a copy over the original.”
With a wave of his hand, he dismissed me.
That day, I could think of nothing else. I, a Jew from Israel who knows nothing of my own faith, had to travel to the edge of the world to hear from a Tibetan leader that I was blind, and that what I was seeking had been with me all along?
I flew back to Israel and entered a yeshiva. The Dalai Lama had been right. Judaism carried an intensity through every stage of life, with meaning, boundaries, and endless reasons to live—at least 613 of them.
A Match Made in India
Two years later, I was introduced to a woman my age. She, too, had wandered through India before finding her way back to Judaism. We shared the same doubts, the same despair, the same longings, and the same return to our roots.
Later, when I pressed my fiancée, she told me the truth: “At the end of my search, I also reached the Dalai Lama. I wanted to join him. But he told me, ‘If you are Jewish, don’t exchange gold for silver. Go back to your roots.’ Then he whispered to an aide, who returned with a slip of paper. On it was your name. He said, ‘This is your soulmate.'”
We later heard of others whom he sent back to their Jewish faith. He is truly a remarkable man.
Years ago, when he visited Israel, we thought of meeting him to thank him. But my wife said, “I don’t think he would want us to.” She was right.
