On Tzimtzum

The book Life of Pi, written in 2001 by Canadian author Yann Martel, tells the story of a young Indian boy fascinated by philosophy, spirituality, and religious syncretism from an early age. After a devastating shipwreck on his way to the Promised Land (Canada), he survives 227 days ($22/7 \approx 3.14 \approx \pi$) on a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

To make things spicier, he has to share this narrow floating space with another passenger: a Bengal tiger. Spoiler alert: the two mammals eventually form a symbiotic relationship in their quest for survival, sharing some truly memorable moments.

Overall, the novel is enjoyable for children and adults alike. On a superficial level, it is a simple story about a young man and his temporary bond with a wild and hazardous animal. On a deeper level, the book’s symbols are diverse and meaningful. It is not exactly a philosophical work of art like The Name of the Rose, but it is certainly not just the story of a Mowgli at sea. Contemplative adults can speculate on the symbols and allegories presented in the book, as there is generous room for interpretation:

• A spiritual man is trapped in a sea of uncertainty alongside his beastly nature;
• There is a quest to find a higher meaning;
• Hope is a common catalyst for man and beast alike;
• Elevation and inner peace come through a cathartic experience.

In any case, what caught my attention was the name of the ship that wrecks: Tsimtsum. It sounds like an invented, silly interjection, but it is actually a Hebrew word (צמצום) meaning contraction or condensation. At the core of Jewish mysticism lies the idea that God had to contract Himself to allow humans to exercise free will. In this regard, He left room for a bit of uncertainty and chaos to manifest so that the children of Adam and Eve could play their part in the space-time continuum. This contraction does not equate to disappearance or effacement; it is more of a recalibration to an “inferior” type of existence, with the ultimate purpose of elevating the low through the efforts of the low.

In 2016, professor Mordechai Rotenberg published The Psychology of Tzimtzum: Self, Other, and God. This book, like others by the same author, attempts to blend concepts of psychology, Judaism, and Hasidic thought to bring to life a new form of psychology in opposition to Western schools of thought.

Although the author follows a scientific approach in structuring the book, he cannot totally detach himself from a particular type of nostalgic mysticism that is both seductive and highly speculative. On one hand, this is understandable given Rotenberg’s Orthodox background; he is a patrilineal descendant of the first Rebbe of Gur. On the other hand, I am always a little cautious when religion is mixed with science, especially when “God” appears in a book’s title. Nevertheless, I found it an enjoyable read, mainly because it dives into territory that was unknown to me.

Mordechai Rotenberg defines Tzimtzum as a unidirectional, selfless, conscious act between two parties. One party contracts itself to let the other grow in a way that was previously impossible. Through this act, a later bidirectional relationship forms, one more enduring than a relationship based on pure dominance.

The best way to understand Tzimtzum is to consider the relationship between a good teacher and a curious student. If a teacher wants to explain a highly abstract topic, they must first clothe it in simple terms, using incomplete or even inaccurate definitions. For example, in secondary school, we are taught that Newton’s Laws are universally true, only to later discover that the Second Law is a specific case of Special Relativity that holds true only at speeds much lower than the speed of light. Once the student builds a foundation of these “half-truths,” they can gradually continue the learning process. Half-truths, even if sometimes dangerous, are part of the journey.

Now, consider the teacher. In terms of knowledge, they remain unchanged; simplifying the topic does not mean they no longer possess the whole picture. Through an act of “contraction,” the teacher decides to filter out problematic details to help the student catch a glimpse of the coming complexity.

Initially, there is a rift between the student and the teacher, like the difference between 0 (knowing nothing) and 1 (knowing everything). The “1” decides to bring the “0” closer by reducing itself so that a bridge can be established. They don’t simply meet in the middle; the “1” descends much closer to “0” so that the student perceives the lesser “1” as part of their own domain. Closer forms resonate better on common ground (language), whereas distant forms find communication difficult or impossible. By the end of the process, once the relationship is established, we potentially have two “1"s, or at least a form much closer to 1 than 0.

The act of Tzimtzum is archetypal and deeply embedded in our cultures and societies. Village elders, talented teachers, and good parents do it by default simply because it is normal and feels right. There is no doubt about that, even if a certain reflex of dominance sometimes stains the selfless act, especially in modern, competitive societies. If you don’t eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding!.

What Rotenberg proposes is to internalize this process of Tzimtzum, make it conscious, and use it as a way of interacting with others. The religious concept can, of course, be set aside. What is even more interesting is that Rotenberg’s Tzimtzum is not only applicable at an interpersonal level, between spouses or between parents and children, but also applies to intrapersonal interactions: competing inclinations, or the relationship between the present self and the past self.