Again with Orthodoxy and Feminism

My favorite room on campus and where I spend many hours a week, is also the one that I sometimes feel that I least belong in. I walk into what sometimes feels like a sea of knee-length skirts and high necklines in my jeans; and I study academic books that engage in the textual criticism of the text while the women around me glean wisdom through the traditional study of it. Yet, a women’s beit midrash is something we did not have on campus even a few years ago, and a number of years before that we did not have them at all. And so as an act of solidarity with the Feminist spirit that established this space, I prefer it to the Judaics library that my fellow students favor. (Although, if truth be told, people like me who have attention deficits often cannot stand the sterile silence of a library, and besides, the beit midrash is always warmer.) And all this was my way of introducing why I often eavesdrop on conversations that are neither meant to include me nor apply to my life and the way I choose to live it.

One day I was sitting in the beit midrash within earshot of a frum young woman with a diamond displayed prominently on the ever so promising finger of matrimony was animatedly talking to a Rabbi. She said that as happy as she was to be getting married, she simply could not get past the phrasing of the Mishna that describes the beautiful ceremony she was about to experience, “The woman is acquired…” After reading both books that dealt with the law and the philosophy of marriage she was turning to her Rabbi in the hopes that he would make her feel less like chattel.

I knew what I would tell her.

First, I would say, you should read Judith Romney Wegner’s “Chattelor Person?” in which she claims that the Mishna displays some tension in its treatment of women – at times they are seen as objects and at others they are seen as people. When it comes to marriage, the woman – specifically her sexuality and reproductive capabilities – are seen as a commodity that is sold to her husband. Only once a woman is married does she acquire legal obligations and rights; but the unwed virgin has no personhood in the eyes of the Mishna. Then I would tell her that if she reads Simone De Beauvoir’s critique of marriage in “Second Sex” in which she suggests that the institution of marriage is linked to the desire of man to achieve immortality through his children, and that the only way to insure that his offspring remain his and that they are in fact biologically linked to him was to possess the bearer of said children. And to round it out, I would suggest that she watch Merav Michaeli’s persuasive TED speech in which she calls for the cancellation of marriage because it only further enables the patriarchal subjugation and domination of women.

All in all, I would tell her that many people find tremendous love and companionship and meaning through their marriages. And I would tell her that marriage does not have to be an oppressive institution, it can be egalitarian and enabling.  But, on the other hand, it is important to be aware that those who phrased the Mishna as they did, “The woman is acquired,” were describing a different kind of marriage altogether. They were codifying the law in an androcentric world and they were quite simply wrong.

In case you were wondering, that is not how the Rabbi responded.

We are all familiar with the Apologists and Revisionists in the world of Orthodox Feminism who attempt to explain away the differences between men and women in the eyes of halakha. But, sitting there in that Bet Midrash listening to this Rabbi twist the text to suit his student’s modern sensibilities, I wondered if perhaps it was not time to be honest about how we got here

.

On the heels of this incident a friend of mine sent me a video that was published on the Forward website about the JOFA conference. I have a lot to say about JOFA, but there were a number of things that I had never really thought about that struck me as I was watching this video. First it was that women were for the most part dressed in accordance with the laws of tzniut, something which I view as sexist by design and incredibly problematic as a product of patriarchal and androcentric legislation of women's bodies. Then, Dassi Fruchter (a second year Maharat student who has featured on this blog before) began talking about “feminine energy” and “masculine energy” which really reflects a fairly outdated form of Difference Feminsim which has all but made way for third wave Feminists who tend to view gender as a social construct. And, of course, the clear lack of Queer presence at the conference (exactly TWO sessions dealt with LGBTQ issues) which is pretty unexpected in a conference devoted to Gender. All in all I was left with a feeling that I was watching a stale relic of Feminism as opposed to something that reflects me and my secular Feminism. For the sake of clarity I will reiterate that I am a huge fan of JOFA and the amazing work that they do, and that if it were not for women like Blu Greenberg and Tamar Ross I probably would not have survived High School and definitely would not have survived seminary. It’s just that, from what I can see, the Orthodox Feminist rhetoric really does not seem to have developed much over the years.

But more to the point at hand, there were two people who were featured on the video who really spoke to what has been bothering me. The first was Ari Hart from HIR who said, “My understanding of Orthodoxy is that it is not egalitarian, but there are tremendous roles that women can and should be playing in the community…” The second was a blogger named Talia Weisberg who said, “We can’t fit halakha into Feminism, we have to fit Feminism into halakha.” To me that was validation that there is a clash between two values here with Feminism on the one hand and halakha on the other. Or, as Rachel Adler put it in a life changing article that I constantly quote, "All of this can be quickly rectified if one steps outside of Jewish tradition and halakha." By definition, the codification of law by men in an androcentric and patriarchal society does not readily invite the liberal and egalitarian values of Feminism, and therefore one must be tweaked in favor of the other. Which is fine. Everyone is free to choose whichever suits them, but I think it is high time that people admit that the clash exists.

What Kind of Year Has it Been?

Most days of the year do not force me to confront the somewhat strange lifestyle that I have chosen. Most days of the year being a Post-Denominational Traditional Secular Humanist Jew (add a few more somewhat meaningless adjectives if you will) means living a fairly normal life and studying and teaching the Talmud. I have even managed to make my peace with Shabbat, it rolls around often enough; so I know my weekend will probably include a mix of Friday night services, drinks with friends, a night at a gay club, a Shabbat meal, or some mix of the above. But there are times that the calendar poses a challenge to me and forces me into some kind of crazy juggling act between my secular values and my Jewish culture. Part of me wants badly to connect to and be inspired by the traditions that I grew up with, while the other wants to rework them in a way that jives with a new set of axioms and ideas.

When Rosh Chodesh Elul rolled around this year my juggling act shifted into a high stakes warp speed carnival act. I believe there is objective value in this season of taking stock and reviewing the year. However most of the traditions surrounding these days focus on a God that I am ambivalent at best about and a set of laws that I have no trouble not following. Despite not having any ideas myself, I stubbornly insisted that there must be a way to experience this season in a way that is both uniquely Jewish and totally secular.

Facebook came to the rescue, or so I thought. I went to a non-traditional Orthodox slichot service in Modi’in, and dragged my sister – ever supportive and ever patient – along with me. While enjoyable and somewhat different than any slichot I had experienced as an Orthodox Jew, the liturgy was the same tired and inaccessible liturgy it had always been. I drove away feeling the same chasm within me.

So tonight I sat in a circle on the beach with a handful of friends and we held an alternative slichot service. Forgoing the recitation of the full slichot service, we decided instead to focus on a few that were especially meaningful to us. Instead of reciting them to ourselves, we discussed them and compared them to other texts, isolated their overarching themes, and applied them to our own lives. Tonight slichot transcended its meditative qualities and viduy became about more than repentance. Tonight we formed a community and engaged in the cathartic act of teshuva in a very personal and meaningful way. We interfaced with the Jewish liturgy in a completely new way, but we did the same to Freud, Levinas, the Babylonian Talmud, and the New Testament; thereby creating – together – something wholly different.

In many ways this was an incredibly symbolic way for me to end the past. This year has been one of the most challenging and edifying years of my life. Jewish thinkers speak of teshuva as being more than just a return to God (whatever that may mean), but also being about a return to one’s truest self and soul. Thanks to unbelievably supportive friends, extremely talented and intelligent fellow students, a warm and inviting community, and the most amazing parents and sister for making this possible. Here’s to many more years of juggling together, challenging each other, and finding new ways within the old traditions to learn and grow.

A Midrashic Look at Red Lipstick

I started writing this post a few weeks ago when this article was published in Lilith. In it Dasi Frucher writes about her daily morning ritual which makes her feel, “all at once powerful, beautiful and uniquely feminine.” With the simple act of smearing red lipstick on her lips she is reminded of her potential and strength and urges herself to be her best. But, if her red lipstick is an acceptable component of her professional life in which she studies non-profit management in NYU, it has become a matter of debate in her religious studies in Yeshivat Maharat. During a lunch break she and a colleague were discussing tzniut:

Considering the controversial space the Yeshiva already occupies in a broader global Orthodox context, we agreed that though our clothing choices should not completely hide our the fact that we are, in fact, sexual beings, that anything too provocative was inappropriate.
I paused for a moment and gestured towards my lips.
“What about my lipstick,?” I asked nervously, almost unwilling to hear her response.
She paused.
“Maybe pick a different color,” she said.

There’s a seemingly innocuous passuk in Parshat Vayakhel which is made pregnant with meaning by the Midrash Tanhuma.

וַיַּעַשׂ אֵת הַכִּיּוֹר נְחֹשֶׁת וְאֵת כַּנּוֹ נְחֹשֶׁת בְּמַרְאֹת הַצֹּבְאֹת אֲשֶׁר צָבְאוּ פֶּתַח אֹהֶל מוֹעֵד:

And he made the sink (of the Tabernacle) out of brass and its base out of brass from the mirrors of the legions who served at the entrance to the tent of meeting.

Although the verse lends itself easily to a simple interpretation, the Midrash Tanhuma saw fit to expand upon the word “legions.” If elsewhere in the Biblical narrative of the departure from Egypt the word “legions” is seen as an indication of the large mass of people who left Egypt (as opposed to the small family which arrived there), then here too it could have a similar meaning. Therefore, the passuk is reinterpreted to mean not “the mirrors of the legion,” but, “the mirrors which caused the legions.” While obviously this reading is not the original intent, it allows for an intriguing narrative that “fills in the blanks” to give us more information on the connection between mirrors and population change.

אתה מוצא בשעה שהיו ישראל בעבודת פרך במצרים גזר עליהם פרעה שלא יהיו ישנים בבתיהן שלא יהיו משמשין מטותיהן, אמר רבי שמעון בר חלפתא מהו היו בנות ישראל עושות יורדות לשאוב מים מן היאור והקב"ה היה מזמין להם דגים קטנים בתוך כדיהן והן מוכרות ומבשלות מהן ולוקחות מהן יין והולכות לשדה ומאכילות את בעליהן שם שנא' (שמות א) בכל עבודה בשדה, משהיו אוכלין ושותין נוטלות המראות ומביטות בהן עם בעליהן זאת אומרת אני נאה ממך וזה אומר אני נאה ממך ומתוך כך היו מרגילין עצמן לידי תאוה ופרין ורבין... בזכות אותן המראות שהיו מראות לבעליהן ומרגילות אותן לידי תאוה מתוך הפרך העמידו כל הצבאות שנאמר (שם /שמות/ יב) יצאו כל צבאות ה' מארץ מצרים ואומר הוציא ה' את בני ישראל מארץ מצרים על צבאותם (שם /שמות י"ב/), כיון שאמר לו הקדוש ברוך הוא למשה לעשות את המשכן עמדו כל ישראל ונתנדבו... הביאו בזריזות הכל, אמרו הנשים מה יש לנו ליתן בנדבת המשכן, עמדו והביאו את המראות והלכו להן אצל משה, כשראה משה אותן המראות זעף בהן, אמר להם לישראל טולו מקלות ושברו שוקיהן של אלו, המראות למה הן צריכין, א"ל הקב"ה למשה משה על אלו אתה מבזה, המראות האלו הן העמידו כל הצבאות הללו במצרים טול מהן ועשה מהן כיור נחשת וכנו לכהנים שממנו יהיו מתקדשין הכהנים...

When Yisrael were performing labor in Egypt, Pharoh decreed that they (i.e. the men) should not sleep at home so that they should not sleep with their wives. Rabbi Shimon b. Halafta said, What did the Bnot Yisrael do? They would go down to the Nile and draw water and God would cause little fish to go into their pails and they would sell and cook them and buy with the money earned from them wine. And they would go out to the fields and feed their husbands there, as it says, “in all the work of the fields.” And when they were eating and drinking they would take out their mirrors and look at them with their husbands and she would say, “I’m prettier than you” and he would say, “I’m prettier than you.” And thus they would awaken their desire and multiply... In the merit of those mirrors that they would show their husbands and awaken their desire despite the labor they created all the legions, as it says, “all the legions of God went out from Egypt” and it says, “God took Bnei Yisrael from the land of Egypt as legions.” When God told Moshe to make the Tabernacle all of Yisrael came and donated... they brought everything hastily, and the women said, “What do we have to give for a donation to the Tabernacle?” They got up and they brought their mirrors and took them to Moshe, and when Moshe saw their mirrors he was angry with them and he told Yisrael, “Get rods and break the legs of these [women], for why do they need mirrors?” God said to Moshe, “These you are disgracing?! These mirrors created all these legions in Egypt. Take them and make with them a sink and its base for the Priests and from it the Priests will make themselves holy.

Although this story has become a popular one, largely due to its inclusion in the commentary of Rashi, I think it is often only given a cursory perusal without any real concern for its meaning.

One important note is the primary role of the woman as an accomplice to Yisrael. In other words, the male population is considered the “real” nation - they are the laborers, the ones who cannot sleep in their homes, and they are the ones who left en masse from Egypt - and “Bnot Yisrael” play a supporting rule - enticing and birthing them. This becomes very obvious as we approach the main elements of the plot, the women wonder to themselves what they have to donate, supporting characters don’t have any physical belongings. Finally, in the first organized Religious Feminist campaign they band together and donate their relatively valueless brass (compared to the gold, silver, and gems being donated by their men) mirrors.

Not unlike Religious Feminists today, however, these women are forced to prove the worth of their actions to a suspicious leadership. Moshe tells the men to beat their wives, after all there is no place for vanity and self-beautification in the holy camps of Israel. However, God himself intervenes and explains the significance of these mirrors. The evil inclination was not the driving force in these women’s grooming, they were using them to entice their husbands. In other words, even within this independent attempt to be included in the building of the Tabernacle, the women are once again relegated to their role as supporting characters. This story makes it crystal clear: The Women of Israel cannot be sexual beings unless it’s what the Men of Israel need.

A topic I’ve thought a lot about over the years is the relationship between sexuality and gender identity in the context of Judaism. When I was in seminary (and really even already in high school) the desire to be a Torah scholar translated into a weird attempt to “masculanize” myself. My primary models of great scholars were men and therefore emulation became, unwittingly, a submission of my female-ness to the cause. I called it being “tzanua,” but it was really more a point of view which assumed that my sexuality was inherently problematic (not unlike the voice of Moshe in the Tanhuma) and which extended far beyond what modesty required of me. When I stopped being religious I discovered lipstick, fashion, and an array of other things which I had previously belittled as feminine trifles. This may have been my own unique experience, but when I look back at the people with whom I was surrounded I think it was something that was shared by many of us, if not our teachers as well.

As a secular Feminist too, the relationship to sexuality is complex. Is there such a thing as sexuality outside the context of The Other? Can my desire to groom myself, to dress a certain way, etc. be divorced from the reality of the admiration I might glean from the opposite gender? The balance is difficult to strike and seems to be a lifelong battle between embracing one’s femininity without inviting or engaging objectification. As per usual, I don’t have answers, only an avalanche of questions that assault me every time I look in the mirror. 

A Different Voice

My favorite thing about this blog has absolutely nothing to do with my own writing, and everything to do with the dozens of messages and comments I’ve gotten from others. I have gotten letters of support, people who need or want a sounding board for their own experiences, and general responses to the topics I’ve brought up. What always surprises me is when people note the tone of my writing, although I guess it shouldn’t. When I first began discussing my blog and book idea I think people thought I wanted to join the ranks of Deborah Feldman, Noah Feldman and many others and air out my grievances and anger against my frum upbringing. But my initial inspiration actually came from Alain De Botton and his ideas about religious secularism and the hopes that writing would help me strike a personal balance between my secular and Jewish values. I do think I try to reflect my appreciation and respect for the religious experience, while maintaining the awareness that I will continue to lead a secular life. And, honestly, at the end of the day I have very little anger to air out.

Most of you have seen “The Rabbi’s Daughter” by now. It’s a 33 minute film by Racheli Wasserman who chronicles the lives of three women, Rabbi’s daughters, discussing their struggle with their relationship with God juxtaposed with their relationships with their fathers. I think there is a lot to be said on the topic. The filmmaker, herself a Rabbi’s daughter, has clearly inserted so much of her own experience into the work. All in all I think that the viewer gets a very intimate sense of the pain that these women experience, and the harm that their upbringing has done. Obviously this film spoke to me. I found myself nodding in agreement as Tamar Tzohar explained how her family avoided asking religious-themed questions, and when Ruth Katz described her family’s confusion about her religious views.But the heartrending overtones were not something I could personally relate to. To be clear, leaving Orthodoxy was the most painful experience of my life, but my time within Orthodoxy carried little of the burden that these women described.

Sometimes I get the sense that people in the frum community believe that anyone who has “gone off the derech” has experienced trauma. In fact, every time I broach the subject with my mother I find myself reassuring her that no one hurt me. In fact, I’d venture to say that quite the opposite is true. Yes, I was frustrated. A lot. And in retrospect, there are many things about my upbringing I take issue with. But nothing in my religious experience evokes the kind of bitterness or pain I’ve heard others express. I was lucky enough to study at institutions where I found support and even love from Rebbeim and where my creativity and critical thinking were never stifled. The values I got in highschool and (especially in) seminary, in many ways continue to guide me.

So there you have it. No anger. No bitterness. Choosing an alternative isn’t always a rejection of everything that came before.

Happy Mediums and Nostalgia

Almost every Shabbat afternoon on my way home from the gym I walk past the Belz shul on Ahad Haam street. The scene I find there could not be more perfect if it were staged. Two or three Hassidic women in their late twenties or early thirties - always wearing suits of navy, grey, or black and hats perched atop fairly plain wigs - sit and chat on a bench. In stark contrast, there is an unbounded energy present on the playground and basketball court nearby. Young girls, dressed just as modestly but in more liberal styles than their mothers chase each other, jump rope, holler and shriek. Some of the older girls stand in a circle and chatter, many clutching little books of Tehillim. No matter how many times I witness this scene I am struck with an inexplicable mixture of joy and nostalgia. Their world barely resembles the world I grew up with, but the same themes are present. And  I always find myself reaching for my phone to snap a few pictures, but the desire not to trespass or intrude always wins.

In many ways this scene is a symbol of everything leaving observance has caused me to lose. There is something almost pristine about this lifestyle. Carlos Fraenkel put it best (fyi - this article is a must-read):

“When Isaac asks me how I became interested in their world, I tell them that while I am not attracted to its content, I am intrigued by its form—a world that revolves around wisdom and God, rather than wealth, sex, power, and entertainment. They are surprised when I say that from Plato to Spinoza most philosophers endorsed this ranking, if not the same accounts of wisdom and God. And they are stunned to learn that I would be very disappointed if my 2-year-old daughter grew up to value lipstick, handbags, and boys in sports cars more than education and ethics.”

I think my background causes me to be underwhelmed and bored of secular culture. And when I think about any future children I may or may not have, I am a little sad that they will be missing out on the richness of a world that is so thoroughly preoccupied with the internal elements of man instead of the external trappings. So it’s easy to lose sight of the other side of the coin.

In the same article Fraenkel talks about those Hassidim who have rejected the doctrines of their community, but for a variety of reasons remain within it. They must continue to applaud their childrens’ religious-centered accomplishments, although they do not believe in the zealotry and extremism that is an inextricable part of it.

"’It can be heartbreaking,’ Isaac says.’So people in our situation often avoid having more children.’ Although the use of contraception is prohibited in their communities, the issue is not publicly raised and childless couples or couples with fewer children are generally presumed to have medical problems. ‘The worst,’ Isaac says, ‘is if the spouse is not on board.’ He tells me about a friend who stopped having sex altogether because his wife did not agree to using contraception. Jacob points out how harsh an indictment of their world this is: ‘In effect I guess we're saying that it is better not to live at all than to live a Hasidic life.’"

When I first began my departure from observance a friend asked me why I could not simply lead a liberal Modern Orthodox life - glean the positive elements of each world and live in some kind of happy medium. The question has been posed to me a hundred times since and my answer has not changed. I cannot accept the immorality I find within Jewish faith. I cannot be part of a community that believes that homosexuality is an abomination, that the women’s role is so debated, and a hundred other positions that are untenable for me. Each world is flawed, but I choose to make my happy medium on the secular side of the border, and hope that I can sufficiently infuse my life with culture, introspection, and meaning.

But in the meantime I’ll keep walking by the Belz shul yard on Shabbat.

Sacred and Profane

It's been a while since I've posted, although you readers know that that is not at all uncommon. I had hoped to start posting on a weekly basis, but my computer is broken, family matters have come up and the book is taking up all my writing energies for now. I have started outlining and constructing and should be posting excerpts when I feel more comfortable with it, which may very well be never.

For the past few week I have been listening to lectures from a course by Christine Hayes (a personal hero of mine) on the Hebrew Bible on Yale Open Courseware. I was listening to her lecture on Leviticus and the rituals of the Tabernacle and found myself considering the concepts of sacred and profane in a modern context.

The idea of holiness or sacredness is originally a purely legal and ritual concept. Something which is holy has been designated for use in the service of God, while something profane is something that does not carry that designation. As Hayes points out, profanity in the Bible carries none of the negative connotations of the word that we are used to, it just means common. In other words, a cow which has been designated for sacrifice is now holy and can only be used in a manner befitting holy things; while the same cow, if not designated, can be milked or slaughtered for meat. This designation can exist within many spheres - time, places, objects or people.

We see the idea of spatial holiness most graphically in the tabernacle itself. The outer area is holy, but can be accessed by anyone who is pure (a different ritual designation that we won’t get into now). The next area is separated by a screen and can only be accessed by priests, those designated for performing the ritual rites, and is called the “Kadosh” or The Holy. Further in is the “Kodesh Kodashim” or The Holy of Holies which is where the very presence of God is said to reside. It can only be accessed by the High Priest and only on the holiest of days, Yom Kippur, after a number of purification rituals have been performed. The layout of the tabernacle thereby serves as a clear illustration of the main principle of holiness - greater proximity to God, the ultimate Holy One, renders something more holy and vice versa.

Holiness has come to take on a philosophical significance perhaps not intended by the original authors, but probably more relevant to the average religious practitioner.It came to be more than a legal category, but rather a description of life choices. Especially after the Enlightenment, as the world of the common became larger and more accessible to the Jew, holiness and its role in one’s life became a hotly debated topic.

It is in this milieu that Rav Kook wrote about the roles of the sacred and profane. Instead of viewing them as distinct categories, he posited that they are actually two interdependent elements of kedusha. Without one the other could not exist. He suggests that the people of his time are in such a confusing state because the proponents of each wish to exert dominance over the other. The secular people who lead a “chol” existence wish to make the world wholly secular, while the religious who lead a “kadosh” life would like to convert everyone to their way of life. Only when both realize that they each have an equally vital role in society can either flourish. (Zionism isn’t really my topic here, but clearly Rav Kook was trying to make a point about how a modern State should function, if only today’s leaders had such a “live and let live” philosophy.)

As someone who leads a completely profane life, I wondered how Kook’s philosophy - clearly meant to be prescriptive on a societal level - could translate into personal practice. Is it possible that the sacred and profane elements of me are warring within me trying to find some kind of synthesis?

I believe that for as long as man has been able to perceive and consider his world he has searched for the special and distinct. After all, Judaism did not invent the sacrificial rites and concepts of holiness that we learn about in Leviticus, they borrowed it from the Canaanites who got it from someone before them. This concept of holiness was an effort to cleave to something greater and more transcendent than one’s self, and to find this Other in special times, objects, and people. Perhaps leading a “profane life” may be sad because it means that all is mundane, but then the flip side is that it enables one to decide what is sacred to him. Sacrilegious as it may be, disavowing God means that there is no Other to cleave to and the responsibility lies squarely with me to find meaning in this world (or not to, for that matter.)

The God of the Intellect

The question of why I have abandoned my faith has been posed to me so many times, that the answer has been chopped down to a few very rehearsed and very vague lines. So today I will attempt to explore the process that began long ago in more detail.

It's not hard to fathom why someone would leave "the fold." Unsightly, not to mention uncomfortable, hemlines and necklines, those pesky dietary laws, and of course sex. So obviously most people assume that comfort and convenience were what I was after, but the truth is that I didn't find Jewish law to be restrictive at all. I thrived in that world. The Aramaic and Hebrew tomes of Halakhic work were my temple, and its practice was my prime mover. In retrospect, I'm not even sure God factored into it at all.

When I was still in the throes of my religious study, I was accused by a friend of mine in a different seminary of not being very "frum." When pressed to actually explain what she was talking about she managed to observe that despite my obvious fidelity to halakha, I was missing the warmth and passion that was associated with real frumkeit. To this day I have no idea what the hell she meant, but she definitely was right on some level. At the time I couldn't admit it. I spent hours frustratedly mulling over and writing about the subject. (It preoccupied me to the point where I literally had nightmares.)

If I remember correctly, I later came to champion this trait of mine. At some point being "not frum" evolved into "not shticky" which was certainly a worthy cause. However, I suppose I can admit that there is something to be said for the person teetering on the fine boundary between homo religiousus and cognitive man.

For those not familiar with Rav Soloveitchik's terminology, I will explain in short. Most of the Rav's philosophy is fixated on a duality that exists within a construct - be it man, community, or a halakha. In "Halakhic Man" he contrasts cognitive man and homo religiousus. Cognitive man is a logical individual who seeks to find order and law in the world around him. He is preoccupied with empirical evidence and solving mysteries. Homo religiousus is wholly preoccupied by mysteries and all that transcends the rigid reason which cognitive man so yearns for. He is not bound by concrete reality and wishes to abandon it for a loftier experience. Soloveitchik explains that the man who deals with halakha (yes, the heroic Halakhic Man for whom the essay is named) is a cognitive man. To him the performance of halakha is secondary to the construction of the theory and system of halakha.

To me, becoming halakhic man was the ideal. I endeavored to study enough of the Talmud that I could truly approach it like a scientist or a mathematician. My friend, however, was taught to relish the experience of religious fervor instead. To be clear, I am not blaming any educational system or institution. If I had been thrown into a school where girls sat in circles on the floor and sang of their God, I would have quickly availed myself of one of the other seminaries available. I only wish to demonstrate how completely unconcerned I was with the feelings one might associate with being religious and how purely intellectual a pursuit it became.

When I reached University and began studying for an academic degree in Talmud, the plethora of questions that had been nagging at me for years were pushed to the forefront of my mind. Suddenly the very seat of my religious devotion - my mind - was turned against halakha. My heart didn't factor into the equation for a moment.

That isn't to say that it wasn't a very emotionally difficult time for me. After all I had been chasing after halakha for as long as I could remember and it was revealing itself to be an illusion. However the moment I decided that empirical reality didn't align with observance, the religious experience became irrelevant. A few short months later I ate on Yom Kippur without so much as a pause or a shudder. Today I am actually shocked at how quickly it all unraveled, but at the time it made perfect sense. I remember discussing it with someone who was going through a similar transformation at the time. Her rebellions against religion came in sudden spurts of energy, one week she found herself wearing pants, the next not waiting between meat and milk and a few weeks later breaking Shabbat. She was deeply bothered by the existence of God and other theological and philosophical questions. I was struck at the novelty of considering God at all for I had been serving on the altar of my intellect the whole time.

Usually I like to tie up my posts with a nice bow at the end. Something learnt or something gained. I don't have any message to take away from this. Perhaps educators who read this will be able to use it to prove that hashkafa and the feelings of observance should play a more prominent role in Jewish education; and I could easily tell them that you could not have made me appreciate the classes with that aim. Others might point out that my story only demonstrates that women shouldn't be given unfettered access to the Talmud; and I simply don't have the energy to respond to such absurdity. In any event, I don't have a take away message, this is simply a descriptive post.

P.S. I keep referring to halakha and Talmud, but that's highly inaccurate. What I really mean is Jewish texts, for Tanach played an equally crucial role in my religion and subsequent denial of it.

P.P.S. If this post seems disjointed and unclear it's because I am writing it at a time of night which can only be described as morning on my iPhone. Sometimes thoughts bubble up until I just have to put them to paper and the hour and medium be damned. So sorry dear readers, you'll have to wait for my book to get a better version of this post.