The Greatest Pleasure You're Not Pursuing

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The internet, magazines and podcasts are filled with advice about happiness. There are top-ten lists, life hacks, experiences to pursue, and things to acquire. Most revolve around getting something we want or experiencing something we enjoy. But there is another kind of pleasure, one that can be far greater: making someone we love and admire proud.

I recently met with a prominent religious mentor in one of the largest yeshivos in Israel. In one of his lectures, the disciples rotate giving chabura. After each one, he offers feedback and then asks, "Who would you like me to call to give nachas [a deep, glowing sense of pride, joy, and emotional satisfaction] , your mother or your father?"

Recently, a young man gave an exceptional chabura. When the master teacher asked whom he should call, the young man thought for a moment, lit up and said, "Please call my older brother." The rebbe was struck by the answer. What kind of relationship must that young man have with his older brother, how much must he admire him and value his opinion, that after accomplishing something significant, he was the person he most wanted to make proud?

For each of us, that person might be different: a parent, grandparent, sibling, rebbe, teacher or mentor. But whoever it is, few feelings compare to hearing someone whose opinion matters deeply to us say, "I am proud of you. You give me nachas."

The Ramchal (d. 1748) explains in Derech Hashem that the Divine created us with the capacity to experience pleasure from knowing we have done something good, and that pleasure increases according to the importance of the one who recognizes it. The more someone's opinion matters to me, the more meaningful it is to hear that person say, "You did well." If so, there can be no greater pleasure than knowing that G od Himself approves of what we have done, that we have given Him nachas.

The Lord didn't create a world, place us in it, and give us mitzvos (religious duties)_ simply to deprive us of pleasure. He gave us access to a higher pleasure: knowing we have fulfilled His will and made our Father proud.

Behavioral economist Dan Ariely describes an experiment at an Intel factory in Israel that illustrates the power of recognition.

Workers received different incentives for meeting production goals: money, pizza, or simply a personal message from the boss saying, "Well done." All these gifts initially increased productivity, but the simple recognition message proved remarkably powerful, while the cash incentive eventually performed worse than the control group. We imagine that people are motivated primarily by what they receive, but often what we crave even more is to be seen and valued by someone whose opinion matters.

That insight can become a powerful weapon against the yetzer hara (the evil inclination). Temptation whispers, "This will feel good. Say it. Eat it. Look at it. Buy it. Skip it. Lose your temper. Nobody will know. Nobody cares." Usually, in those moments, we focus on what we are giving up. But what if we changed the calculation? What if, in that small space between temptation and action, instead of thinking only about the pleasure we are surrendering, we thought about the greater pleasure available to us? "I have an opportunity right now to giveG od nachas." When you are about to gossip, when you are tempted to look at something you shouldn't, when you want to lose your temper, when getting out of bed for daily prayers feels impossible, when you could be dishonest and nobody would ever know, pause. Instead of thinking only, "I can't; it's forbidden," think, "Nobody else may ever know about this decision, but He will. I can make my Father proud."

I know an adult who recently received a letter from a parent telling him how proud the parent was of the person he had become, the choices he had made and the life he was living. He told me the letter meant more to him than almost any gift he could have received. Imagine receiving such a letter from your father: "I see the choices you are making. I see the battles nobody else sees. I see the person you are becoming. I am so proud of you. You give me enormous nachas." What gift could compete with that?

Giving Him nachas isn't a psychological trick or a new-age reinterpretation of Judaism. It is where the Ramchal ends Mesillas Yesharim (originally published in 1738 ) . After climbing the entire ladder of serving the Divine, he concludes with a prayer: "V'nizkeh laseis kavod lishmo, v'la'asos nachas ruach lefanav" — may we merit to give honor to His Name and to bring nachas ruach before Him.

If giving the Divine nachas can transform the way we perform our duties and resist temptation, Rebbe Nachman (d. 1810) teaches that it can also transform the way we pray. We tend to approach prayer by figuring out what we are going to get from it. Did I feel inspired? Did I connect? Will He answer my prayers? We come with needs, worries, requests and hopes. Hashem is the Giver and we are the receivers.

In Likutei Moharan 73:2, Rebbe Nachman describes something astonishing. When He receives pleasure from the prayers of the Jewish people, the relationship is, so to speak, reversed. Usually we receive from G od. But when we pray, He allows Himself, as it were, to receive something from us. What are we giving Him? Nachas.

Rebbe Nachman connects this to the Torah's description of the sacrifices: "Isheh rei'ach nicho'ach laHashem," an offering that produces a pleasing fragrance for the Lord. Just as a sacrifice brings a rei'ach nicho'ach, our prayers bring pleasure and satisfaction Above. Rashi, the foremost commentator (d. 1105) famously explains — "It is a source of satisfaction before Me, that I spoke and My will was fulfilled."

This gives us an entirely different way to enter the weeks preceding the High Holidays season. We usually think of Elul as the season when we need things from G od. A new year is approaching. We need health, livelihood, nachas, children, success, and protection. We need forgiveness. We need to be written into the Book of Life. But perhaps Elul challenges us to ask another question: What can I give G od?

That changes Selichos, the pre-dawn seasonal prayers. We aren't dragging ourselves out of bed to persuade a reluctant G od to forgive us. We are children coming home to a Father who wants to hear our voice. Even after we have disappointed Him, even after we have fallen short, there is nachas in the return itself.

It changes Rosh Hashanah. We spend long hours in shul and instinctively evaluate the experience by what we got out of it. Was the prayers inspiring? Did the cantor move me? Did I concentrate? Did I feel something during the stirring Unesaneh Tokef? But maybe those are the wrong questions.

Maybe you weren't especially inspired. Maybe your mind wandered. Maybe the words didn't move you the way you hoped they would. But you came. You stood before th Divine. You crowned Him King. When your mind wandered, you brought it back. When you became tired, you kept going. You may not have gotten everything you wanted out of the prayers, but perhaps He did. You gave Him nachas.

And that may be an especially powerful way to approach Yom Kippur. We often enter Yom Kippur carrying guilt: Look what I did. Look where I failed. Look how far I am from the person I should be. Imagine, instead, arriving at Neilah with one overwhelming thought: Master of the Universe, I want to give You nachas. Let my confession give You nachas because Your child is finally being honest. Let my regret give You nachas because Your child still cares. Let my commitment to change give You nachas because I haven't given up on our relationship. Let my standing here, hungry and exhausted as the sun begins to set, say: Lord, being close to You matters to me.

A young child naturally asks his parents, "What are you going to give me?" As the child matures, if the relationship is healthy and loving, a new question begins to emerge: "What can I give you? What can I do to make you proud?" Perhaps that is part of what High Holy Days ask of us: to mature in our relationship with G od. Of course we ask Him to give to us. We desperately need what only He can give. But astonishingly, the Divine has created a relationship in which we can give something to Him as well.

And there is one more responsibility that comes with this idea. If we know how powerful it is to feel that we have given someone nachas, then we have to become better at giving that feeling to others. Too often we feel proud of our children, our spouse, our students, our friends or the people who work with us, but we leave the feeling unspoken. We assume they know. They often don't. If a few words from a spiritual mentor, a parent, a boss or a mentor can mean more than a gift, we shouldn't be stingy with those words.

A friend once told me that he was at a lifecycle event and happened to meet the father of a therapist he had been working with. Almost in passing he told the father, "Your son has helped me so much." That was it. A month later, the therapist told him that those few words had done more for his relationship with his father than years of other attempts at reconciliation and healing. His father had heard that his son was doing something meaningful, that he was making a difference, and he was proud of him. Sometimes people are waiting years to hear that they give us nachas.

Now is the time to become more sensitive to relationships, not only vertically with G od, but horizontally with one another. As we long to know that He sees our effort, notices our struggles and takes pride in our growth, we should ask ourselves who in our lives needs to hear the same from us. Who needs to hear, "I see how hard you are trying"? Who needs to hear, "I notice what you do"? Who needs to hear, "I'm proud of you"? Who needs to hear, "You give me nachas"?

Perhaps giving that feeling to someone else is itself one of the greatest ways of giving nachas to Him.

So perhaps one thought can accompany us: I am not only here to ask what the Divine can give me. I am here to ask what I can give Him.

Rabbi Efrem Goldberg is the spiritual leader of the Boca Raton Synagogue.