What is God?

There is no single Jewish answer. Classical Reconstructionism sometimes responds that this is the wrong question, and that we should ask instead: How does God function? How does the idea—or reality—of God operate in human lives?

That remains an important question. But Spiritual Humanistic Judaism does not need to reject the question of what God is. Jews have always understood God in different ways. Some speak of God as a personal presence; some, following Maimonides, emphasise that God is ultimately beyond human description; some, following Spinoza, identify God with Nature and the totality of reality; some, following Kaplan, understand God as the power that makes for human fulfilment and moral growth. Others speak instead of holiness, godliness, conscience, the yetzer hatov, or the light within and between us.

God is therefore optional in Spiritual Humanistic Judaism—not because Spiritual Humanistic Judaism is defined by non-theism, but because no single metaphysical belief is required in order to participate fully in Jewish spiritual life. The practices, ethics, rituals, stories and communal commitments of Judaism do not depend upon everyone holding the same picture of God.

Jewish tradition has long resisted the idea that God can be represented straightforwardly in human terms. The prohibition against making a graven image warns us against confusing any finite image with the infinite. Biblical language speaks of God through metaphor: light, rock, refuge, breath, wisdom, justice, presence and love. Moses Maimonides later developed a theology of negative description, insisting that God cannot be adequately contained by human concepts. In the seventeenth century, Baruch Spinoza rejected the idea of a supernatural ruler who intervenes in the world and identified God with Nature itself. In the modern period, many Jews have found traditional images of a supernatural person increasingly difficult to affirm, particularly in the light of suffering, injustice and catastrophe.

These developments do not necessarily represent a departure from Judaism. They can also be understood as part of Judaism’s continuing attempt to speak truthfully about ultimate reality.

Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan offered one of the most influential modern approaches. For Kaplan, the important question was not primarily the substance of which God is made, but what the concept of God does in human life. Does it help us become more honest, compassionate, courageous and just? Does it draw us beyond selfishness? Does it inspire us to build a society in which human beings can flourish?

Whatever awakens us to justice, wisdom, generosity, responsibility and the repair of the world may be understood as divine. Some people will call that God. Others may call it godliness, the sacred, the moral impulse, the human capacity for growth, or the power of life working through us. The language may differ, but the spiritual direction can be shared.

This is not a reduction of Judaism to ethics alone. Jewish practice gives ethical commitments a spiritual form. Shabbat, festivals, blessings, study, prayer, confession, song, mourning and celebration shape the way we encounter time, nature, community, memory and responsibility. They train our attention. They interrupt habit. They help us become capable of gratitude, restraint, courage and care.

For some of us, God is present in these practices as a reality deeper than the individual self. For others, God-language names the holiness that emerges through human relationships, the natural world and the struggle for justice. For still others, the word God may not be necessary. Spiritual Humanistic Judaism can make room for all these approaches without making any one of them a condition of belonging.

This raises the question of prayer

If prayer is not necessarily a request directed towards a supernatural being, why pray?

The Hebrew word lehitpalel, traditionally used for prayer, is a reflexive form. It suggests turning something towards oneself: examining oneself, presenting oneself honestly, or allowing oneself to be changed. Prayer is therefore not only a conversation with God. It is also a practice through which we become more attentive to our lives, our relationships and our responsibilities.

Jewish prayer can be petition, but it can also be gratitude, meditation, confession, praise, lament, memory, moral imagination and renewed intention. A blessing does not merely ask for something to happen. It names what is precious. It teaches us to recognise the sources of life, beauty, nourishment, courage and connection that are already present.

When we pray, we do not necessarily try to persuade the universe to obey us. We place ourselves within a larger pattern of meaning. We remember who we want to become. We acknowledge the ways in which we have failed. We gather our scattered attention. We allow inherited words, melodies and gestures to lead us back towards honesty, compassion and responsibility.

Prayer can bring us into relationship with God, with the sacredness of life, with the people around us, with the generations who came before us, or with the better possibilities within ourselves. These need not be mutually exclusive.

We are independent, but we are also interdependent. Jewish prayer gives form to that truth. It reminds us that our lives are not isolated projects. We are shaped by other people, by the natural world, by history and by the communities to which we belong. Prayer can therefore become a practice of moral and spiritual reorientation.

Can Jewish prayer continue the chain of our ancestral heritage?

Traditional Jewish prayer presents a genuine challenge. Much of the siddur uses images of God as king, father, ruler, judge and supernatural interventionist. If we are praying consciously rather than merely repeating words, we may need to ask what those images mean to us now.

But the choice is not simply between reciting inherited language uncritically and abandoning the tradition altogether. Jewish prayer has always used metaphor, interpretation and layered meaning. We can carry the words forward while allowing them to speak differently.

A king may become an image of ultimate responsibility rather than domination. A judge may evoke moral accountability and the consequences of our actions. A redeemer may represent liberation from oppression. A source of blessing may name the conditions that sustain life. The language of divine presence may draw our attention to nature, human compassion, communal solidarity and the possibilities of repair.

The traditional names of God can also be approached through translation and interpretation. Instead of translating the Tetragrammaton or Adonai only as “Lord,” we might encounter names such as “The Eternal,” “The Source of Life,” “The Abundant One,” “The Faithful Presence,” “The Beloved,” or “The Light that makes for life.”

Such language does not establish one compulsory theology. It opens the prayer to reflection. It allows us to remain connected to the devotion of our ancestors while speaking honestly from our own spiritual understanding.

Spiritual Humanistic Judaism therefore does not ask every Jew to agree about what God is. It asks what our practices make possible. Do they deepen our capacity for awe? Do they help us practise gratitude and generosity? Do they strengthen our courage? Do they lead us towards justice, compassion and responsibility? Do they help us build a kehillah in which people can live with greater dignity and freedom?

Some of us will call the force that draws us towards these things God. Some will call it holiness, godliness, the yetzer hatov, conscience, Nature, love or the light within humanity. Some will use several of these languages, depending on the moment.

The words may differ. The spiritual work remains recognisably Jewish: to sanctify time, to cultivate the self, to repair relationships, to resist injustice, to celebrate life, and to help bring into the world more wisdom, compassion and peace.