There Are Idols Behind Your Eyelids

It is almost time.

וְהָיָה בָּעֵת הַהִיא, אֲחַפֵּשׂ אֶת יְרוּשָׁלַ‍ִם בַּנֵּרוֹת
“And it shall come to pass at that time, I will search Yerushalayim with lamps...”
— Tzefaniah 1:12

There are idols behind your eyelids.

Even when you close them in tefillah.

Even when your tallis wraps your shame like tachrichim.

Even when your lips mumble the words of Dovid HaMelech.

The idols do not vanish. They just hide.

Behind your smile.

Behind your kittel.

Behind the doors of your mind.

And I thought I was the only one.

The only man who stood in shul while his soul bled inside.

The only one who begged Hashem to kill the urges, to shut the loop, to take the filth away.

The only one who couldn’t stop.

Not because I didn’t care. But because I did.

And I couldn’t believe that Hashem still cared.

I thought I was a monster.

So I became one.

I built the mask.

Wore the suit.

Said the right things.

And under that mask, I grew another.

Mandibles, antennae, twitching whiskers, and sniffing shame.

A rat. A roach. A scurrying thing.

Something that runs and hides from the light.

Hiding. Mimicking. Becoming what is other.

But even that wasn’t real.

That was the second mask.

Beneath that?

Rage.

Fear.

Despair.

The bastard offspring of a false god we called Torah.

But it was never Torah.

It was a shell, cut off from fire, from Hashem, from truth.

King Yoshiyahu Weeps Again

Yoshiyahu tore down the altars.

He smashed the idols.

He cleansed Yerushalayim with fire and rage and holy thunder.

But the people?

They hid their idols behind the doors.

Behind the mezuzah.

Behind the bookshelf of seforim.

Behind the Simchas Torah dancing, the kosher phone filter, and the Daf Yomi app.

They said “Hashem echad” with their lips,

But bowed in silence to something else in the dark.

And we… we are their children.

Still bowing.

Still hiding.

The Idol Has a Name

His name is Shame.

And he has become the god of the Orthodox man.

Not Hashem Yisbarach.

Not El Rachum v’Chanun.

Not Avinu Malkeinu.

No. You don’t serve Him.

You serve Shame.

You serve the fear of being known.

You serve the terror of being different.

You serve the idol of fitting in.

And every morning you bow to him and call it Frumkeit.

This Is the Pandemic

Not porn.

Not overeating.

Not money, work, edibles, or endless TikTok scrolls.

Those are the sacrifices.

The rituals.

The daily korbanos brought to the Shrine of Shame.

Do you think you have an addiction problem?

No, brother.

You have a worship problem.

The God You Don’t Believe In

Rebbe Nachman said, “The god you don’t believe in—I don’t believe in him either.”

That voice in your head?

The one that says you are too disgusting to ever change?

The one that says if anyone knew, they'd never speak to you again?

The one that tells you to hide, to shut up, to play the part, or be exiled?

That is not Hashem.

That is Shame.

And he speaks in the accent of frum rabbis,

broken fathers,

scared teachers,

and twisted systems that learned how to manipulate instead of uplift.

And we, like Ovdei Kochavim of old, call that voice K’vod Shamayim.

Bluebird

“there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him”

A poem. From a prussdah goy.

Said it better than most mit a langeh buhrd.

You’ve read all the mussar.

You’ve listened to all the shiurim.

You’ve cried during Unesaneh Tokef and still gone back into the pit.

You’re not broken.

You’re caged.

There is still a bluebird in your heart.

A fire in your bones.

But it’s been wrapped in seven layers of shame.

And it’s not just killing you.

It’s killing us all.

The Hidden Avodah Zarah

Chazal say the Yetzer Hara that once convinced us to worship idols was eradicated.

The Anshei K’nesses Hagedolah prayed for Hashem to remove it.

Today, we say, “We don’t worship idols anymore.”

But we do.

The difference is that the idol is now in the psyche.

It’s called Shame.

And it is the most powerful deity ever created by man.

Because it cannot be seen.

It cannot be disproven.

It wears tzitzis.

It quotes Ramban.

It whispers in lashon kodesh.

And it never, ever gets caught.

The Real Churban

The first burned for the three cardinal sins.

Three choices, three ways

that tear through the heart like a scalpel

Reveal your innards, your inner,

Mask.

The second burned for the hate

You cannot bear to look your brother in the eye

You cannot.

For he is a mirror, and you cannot bear to see yourself

Your true self

Wallowing in shame.

Why do I hate you?

I hate myself for hating you,

Brother.

No immoral act has done such damage,

As I look askance,

Down at your knitted difference

At your funny way you say “blessed be hashem”.

At your blank look,

When you see the triple columns of letters

flowing, running, splashed

across

two thousand

Seven hundred

And

Eleven

pages.

How else could you look this way

unless you prostrated your whole life

before the vengeful, hateful, abyssal lord, master of the black universe in your mind.

A black hole drawing all light,

You can stand before it and see nothing

As it sucks your life force

As it demands fealty

For it is a god that needs,

It is wanting

And its desires can ne’er be sated

Wake up from your slumber brother

Your heart yet beats

The Final War

This is war.

The god named Shame must be eradicated.

Like Amalek.

Man, woman, and child.

Every echo. Every banner. Every frum whitewash that feeds him.

Burn it all.

Tear the mask off.

In front of Hashem, the true Hashem Echad.

For truth.

Because this is the war of the end.

The war of the real Hashem versus the false one we've crafted in our own image.

The war for your soul.

The war for our sons.

Every generation we ignore this directive

Is a generation where we have destroyed ourselves

קוֹל יוֹם יְהוָה, מַר צֹרֵחַ שָׁם גִּבּוֹר.
“The voice of the Day of Hashem—there, a Gibor cries bitterly.”
— Tzefaniah 1:14

Yes.

This is the sound of the Gibor’s cry.

A cry of rage against the shame-god.

A cry that tears the world in two and calls fire from Heaven.

A cry that HaShem hears—and answers.

There’s Still a Bluebird In You

And he is holy.

And he is caged.

And he is not yet dead.

He is a ben adam.

A ben Avraham, ben Yitzchak, ben Yaakov.

You, a Yid with a blazing fire at his core.

Not a rat. Not a monster.

Not a shame-slave.

You are a gilgul of fire walking in human skin

But you forgot.

And the only thing that must die is the parasite wrapped around your name.

That false god.

That old whisper.

That cold lie.

Battle Cry

“Shame is not my god.

Truth is not a sin.

Anah Hashem Hoshiah Nah,

Anah Hashem Hatzlicha Nah.”

Say it in the shower.

Say it before you fall.

Say it when you break.

Say it when the whispers start again.

Say it when you want to run and hide.

Say it until the Shame god screams.

Say it until he is ash.

And then rise.

As a man.

A Gibor.

A son.

This is the seed.

It must be planted a thousand times in a thousand ways.

Scream it. Whisper it.

Etch it into your sons' hearts.

Because until we destroy Shame,

We will never truly serve Hashem.