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.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Monday, October 8, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
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.)
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.)
Saturday, August 25, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
The Romance of the Covenantal Community
When I was at the peak of my Torah study days I particularly loved studying from old books. I would breathe in that familiar aroma of decaying paper fibers and hear the creaking of the binding as I opened it and my thoughts would stray to those who had held the book before me. Finding notes in the margins, even if I didn’t understand them, was the absolute jackpot for me. This preoccupation with relics of the past stemmed from my understanding that those who came before me lent meaning to my scholarship.
The Talmud (Menachot 29b) documents a fantastic story:
אמר רב יהודה אמר רב בשעה שעלה משה למרום מצאו להקב"ה שיושב וקושר כתרים לאותיות אמר לפניו רבש"ע מי מעכב על ידך אמר לו אדם אחד יש שעתיד להיות בסוף כמה דורות ועקיבא בן יוסף שמו שעתיד לדרוש על כל קוץ וקוץ תילין תילין של הלכות אמר לפניו רבש"ע הראהו לי אמר לו חזור לאחורך הלך וישב בסוף שמונה שורות ולא היה יודע מה הן אומרים תשש כחו כיון שהגיע לדבר אחד אמרו לו תלמידיו רבי מנין לך אמר להן הלכה למשה מסיני נתיישבה דעתו
Rab Judah said in the name of Rab, When Moses ascended on high he found the Holy One, blessed be He, engaged in affixing coronets to the letters.Said Moses, ‘Lord of the Universe, Who stays Thy hand?’ He answered, ‘There will arise a man, at the end of many generations, Akiba b. Joseph by name, who will expound upon each tittle heaps and heaps of laws’. ‘Lord of the Universe’, said Moses; ‘permit me to see him’. He replied, ‘Turn thee round’. Moses went and sat down behind eight rows [of Rabbi Akiba’s students and listened to the discourses upon the law]. Not being able to follow their arguments he was ill at ease, but when they came to a certain subject and the disciples said to the master ‘Whence do you know it?’ and the latter replied ‘It is a law given unto Moses at Sinai’ he was comforted.
This short story arises in the context of a Talmudic discussion of the laws of what the letters in a Torah scroll should look like. A more cynical version of myself rejoiced in its absurdity. For starters, an anthropomorphic deity being delayed by the additional little details of calligraphy is beyond amusing. But on a more practical level, this story seemed to prove that even the Sages didn’t believe their recurring assertion that Moses was handed the Torah along with all its laws and customs directly from God.
However, there is a more romantic way to read the story.
Moshe receives the Torah in the most organic and natural way, through prophecy and directly from its Source. However, Rabbi Akiva, the father of the Oral Torah, has a less lucid interaction with the law. He does not converse directly with God, and must instead plumb the seemingly insignificant details of the document to uncover the law. Moshe is engaged in dialogue, while Rabbi Akiva is reading the transcript generations later. Of course Moshe could not understand Rabbi Akiva’s lesson, for he was never forced to rely on the seemingly extraneous details of a document. His only comfort is knowing that even Rabbi Akiva sources himself in Moshe, he is not creating something new, but endeavouring to arrive at the very same Source.
Well, in any event that would be the romantic way to read the story. The Scholars of the Talmud, champions of the Oral Law, envisioning God placing each detail into the text only so that they could uncover the law centuries later. Unfortunately this concept of tradition is no longer one that bears weight with me. In this story alone I might point out that the letters of the Hebrew alphabet underwent a tremendous evolution and that Rabbi Akiva’s letters bore little resemblance to the ones Moshe would have seen God write. I might also point out that Rabbi Akiva’s successors are the ones telling this legend, and as such they might have a vested interest in proclaiming that the methods of their teacher (and subsequently their own methods) were Divinely validated from the get go.
As an Orthodox woman and later on as I attempted to study the Talmud academically, (read: non-traditionally) Tradition was an enemy with a face. He chased, haunted, and berated me. People who would use Talmudic stories such as this one to prove that the Oral Law with all its trappings is an authentic reading of Torah would infuriate me. However, now that Tradition and I have not had much to do with each other for a few years, I can understand why there is so much comfort to be found in his arms and I might once again appreciate some romantic notions about him.
For an Orthodox Jew, the sources he studies are the same ones beheld by Rav Chaim Brisker, The Baal Shem Tov, Rav Yosef Cairo, Hillel and Shammai, Ravina and Rav Ashi and countless others. We all studied the same texts and all hoped that they would transport us back to the original meaning as understood by Moshe as he stood face to face with the Divine. The sources bind us not only with our Creator, but also with each other in an awesome community. I am humbled by my own infinitesimal existence as I consider myself against the backdrop of scholars who preceded me, but I am also aware that this past has allowed me to transcend myself and propels me into a deeper understanding of Torah than I would have been able to accomplish myself. There is solace there when faced with the crisis that is existence.
As a secular woman, there is something empowering about being an individual. Going at the world alone, deciding for yourself what is good and what is evil. No one and nothing binds me and holds me back. But I would be lying if I said that I did not miss my little community of Tradition.
The Talmud (Menachot 29b) documents a fantastic story:
אמר רב יהודה אמר רב בשעה שעלה משה למרום מצאו להקב"ה שיושב וקושר כתרים לאותיות אמר לפניו רבש"ע מי מעכב על ידך אמר לו אדם אחד יש שעתיד להיות בסוף כמה דורות ועקיבא בן יוסף שמו שעתיד לדרוש על כל קוץ וקוץ תילין תילין של הלכות אמר לפניו רבש"ע הראהו לי אמר לו חזור לאחורך הלך וישב בסוף שמונה שורות ולא היה יודע מה הן אומרים תשש כחו כיון שהגיע לדבר אחד אמרו לו תלמידיו רבי מנין לך אמר להן הלכה למשה מסיני נתיישבה דעתו
Rab Judah said in the name of Rab, When Moses ascended on high he found the Holy One, blessed be He, engaged in affixing coronets to the letters.Said Moses, ‘Lord of the Universe, Who stays Thy hand?’ He answered, ‘There will arise a man, at the end of many generations, Akiba b. Joseph by name, who will expound upon each tittle heaps and heaps of laws’. ‘Lord of the Universe’, said Moses; ‘permit me to see him’. He replied, ‘Turn thee round’. Moses went and sat down behind eight rows [of Rabbi Akiba’s students and listened to the discourses upon the law]. Not being able to follow their arguments he was ill at ease, but when they came to a certain subject and the disciples said to the master ‘Whence do you know it?’ and the latter replied ‘It is a law given unto Moses at Sinai’ he was comforted.
This short story arises in the context of a Talmudic discussion of the laws of what the letters in a Torah scroll should look like. A more cynical version of myself rejoiced in its absurdity. For starters, an anthropomorphic deity being delayed by the additional little details of calligraphy is beyond amusing. But on a more practical level, this story seemed to prove that even the Sages didn’t believe their recurring assertion that Moses was handed the Torah along with all its laws and customs directly from God.
However, there is a more romantic way to read the story.
Moshe receives the Torah in the most organic and natural way, through prophecy and directly from its Source. However, Rabbi Akiva, the father of the Oral Torah, has a less lucid interaction with the law. He does not converse directly with God, and must instead plumb the seemingly insignificant details of the document to uncover the law. Moshe is engaged in dialogue, while Rabbi Akiva is reading the transcript generations later. Of course Moshe could not understand Rabbi Akiva’s lesson, for he was never forced to rely on the seemingly extraneous details of a document. His only comfort is knowing that even Rabbi Akiva sources himself in Moshe, he is not creating something new, but endeavouring to arrive at the very same Source.
Well, in any event that would be the romantic way to read the story. The Scholars of the Talmud, champions of the Oral Law, envisioning God placing each detail into the text only so that they could uncover the law centuries later. Unfortunately this concept of tradition is no longer one that bears weight with me. In this story alone I might point out that the letters of the Hebrew alphabet underwent a tremendous evolution and that Rabbi Akiva’s letters bore little resemblance to the ones Moshe would have seen God write. I might also point out that Rabbi Akiva’s successors are the ones telling this legend, and as such they might have a vested interest in proclaiming that the methods of their teacher (and subsequently their own methods) were Divinely validated from the get go.
As an Orthodox woman and later on as I attempted to study the Talmud academically, (read: non-traditionally) Tradition was an enemy with a face. He chased, haunted, and berated me. People who would use Talmudic stories such as this one to prove that the Oral Law with all its trappings is an authentic reading of Torah would infuriate me. However, now that Tradition and I have not had much to do with each other for a few years, I can understand why there is so much comfort to be found in his arms and I might once again appreciate some romantic notions about him.
For an Orthodox Jew, the sources he studies are the same ones beheld by Rav Chaim Brisker, The Baal Shem Tov, Rav Yosef Cairo, Hillel and Shammai, Ravina and Rav Ashi and countless others. We all studied the same texts and all hoped that they would transport us back to the original meaning as understood by Moshe as he stood face to face with the Divine. The sources bind us not only with our Creator, but also with each other in an awesome community. I am humbled by my own infinitesimal existence as I consider myself against the backdrop of scholars who preceded me, but I am also aware that this past has allowed me to transcend myself and propels me into a deeper understanding of Torah than I would have been able to accomplish myself. There is solace there when faced with the crisis that is existence.
As a secular woman, there is something empowering about being an individual. Going at the world alone, deciding for yourself what is good and what is evil. No one and nothing binds me and holds me back. But I would be lying if I said that I did not miss my little community of Tradition.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
On the Plight of the Orthodox Feminist
Every week a group of us in Tel Aviv get together to study Jewish History via texts written by different influential figures. Last week I facilitated the group and we covered Rachel Adler’s “The Jew Who Wasn’t There,” an article written by a then Orthodox woman presenting the problems of the conflict between Feminism and Traditional Jewish texts. In the article she details the ways in which the diminished status of women in the eyes of Halakha puts them in a difficult predicament of finding their place in Judaism. She bemoans the fact that traditionally women’s only role was vis a vis their family, husbands, home and community with no option for creating a personal relationship with their God. The models of virtuous women that have arisen through the ages are also found to be limiting for they are usually deemed “Tzaddikot” for their denial of their body, as opposed to the men who are viewed as scholarly and pious and each in their own way. Luckily, she proposes a solution which will save women from their tenuous position - re-reading texts with an empathetic ear to the plight of the woman and creating new precedent which will expand their position in the community.
One line in the article has clawed into my mind and has yet to be shaken free, “All of this can be quickly rectified if one steps outside of Jewish tradition and Halakha.” Since she is writing as a woman who is devoted to the text and to Halakha that is seen as an untenable solution, but she cannot help but note that her frustration and tension only exist if she maintains fidelity to traditional observance. (It is perhaps noteworthy that she eventually finds her spiritual home in the Reform community.) As the group analyzed her writings, my roommate commented that she thought that this position must be impossibly difficult, to reject the conclusion of the Rabbis and yet to remain bound to their word. How would that work? And why would you want it to?
Before I left Jewish observance this was an issue which haunted me. The tomes of Hebrew and Aramaic texts which comprise the Halakha were my primary mover and spiritual home. My goal was to be a Talmudic scholar. And yet, with every turn I found more doors closed to me than open. The troubling thing for me was not just the rampant chauvinism in the community, but rather that this view seemed to have more basis in tradition and Halakha than mine did. Or, to quote a letter I wrote at the peak of my struggles, “What if God really is a sexist?” I understood Adler’s solution of re-reading and re-interpreting texts to allow women to have a more prominent role in Torah and the community, but I was disturbed that special dispensations needed to be made at all. And no amount of apologetics could assuage the pain, for they lacked the history that those who sought to marginalize me had.
When I started on my path towards non-observance, I was spurred by questions that had arisen through my study of the texts and history. However, when I finally decided that my doubts were inextinguishable, I stayed away (and continue to stay away) mainly because of this issue. Why struggle to come to terms with a religion that denies me a place when I can live in a time in which my value is taken for granted?
One line in the article has clawed into my mind and has yet to be shaken free, “All of this can be quickly rectified if one steps outside of Jewish tradition and Halakha.” Since she is writing as a woman who is devoted to the text and to Halakha that is seen as an untenable solution, but she cannot help but note that her frustration and tension only exist if she maintains fidelity to traditional observance. (It is perhaps noteworthy that she eventually finds her spiritual home in the Reform community.) As the group analyzed her writings, my roommate commented that she thought that this position must be impossibly difficult, to reject the conclusion of the Rabbis and yet to remain bound to their word. How would that work? And why would you want it to?
Before I left Jewish observance this was an issue which haunted me. The tomes of Hebrew and Aramaic texts which comprise the Halakha were my primary mover and spiritual home. My goal was to be a Talmudic scholar. And yet, with every turn I found more doors closed to me than open. The troubling thing for me was not just the rampant chauvinism in the community, but rather that this view seemed to have more basis in tradition and Halakha than mine did. Or, to quote a letter I wrote at the peak of my struggles, “What if God really is a sexist?” I understood Adler’s solution of re-reading and re-interpreting texts to allow women to have a more prominent role in Torah and the community, but I was disturbed that special dispensations needed to be made at all. And no amount of apologetics could assuage the pain, for they lacked the history that those who sought to marginalize me had.
When I started on my path towards non-observance, I was spurred by questions that had arisen through my study of the texts and history. However, when I finally decided that my doubts were inextinguishable, I stayed away (and continue to stay away) mainly because of this issue. Why struggle to come to terms with a religion that denies me a place when I can live in a time in which my value is taken for granted?
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
National Loss and Personal Loss
It starts with a fast on the 17th of Tammuz and extends to the climax of Jewish sorrow, the 9th of Av. According to Jewish tradition the 17th of Tammuz is the date that the walls of Jerusalem were breached immediately prior to the destruction of the Second Temple and the 9th of Av is the day that both Temples were destroyed. A number of additional tragedies are also attributed to this period including seemingly unrelated events such as the breaking of the tablets of the Ten Commandments by Moses and the declaration of the First Crusade. In order to signify their mourning, the community engages in a number of practices for the Three Weeks between the two fasts. For the nine days from the beginning of the month of Av (which the Talmud tells us is a time to minimize joy) these practices become more stringent; people abstain from eating meat, wearing new clothing, shaving their beards, etc. All this culminates on the 9th of Av, the saddest day of the year, on which observant Jews fast, sit on the floor, don’t bathe, don’t wear leather shoes, and don’t even greet people they know.
For the uninitiated, these seem like drastic measures. Why would these events that occurred centuries ago carry such weight? But to the Orthodox Jew the passing of time is meant to be irrelevant, anything that happened in Jewish history should be experienced on a personal level. A Jew feels that God has liberated him personally from Egypt and has revealed the Torah to him personally at Sinai. Accordingly, the passing of time loses all relevance when observing national tragedies as well.
Surely to anyone who has never observed these customs this concept of a collective memory and emotion is as absurd as it is romantic. However, to those of us who have wept as Eicha (the book of the Bible which chronicles the events of the destruction of the First Temple) has been read can attest, it is also overwhelmingly powerful. And those of us who have been responsible for programming to teach children to experience these days know of its potency. Which, I suppose is why I commemorate this time period as the anniversary of my discovery that some part of connection to it all had been severed.
It was the summer after I was a counselor in a Modern Orthodox Women’s Yeshiva in Jerusalem. The year had been an especially challenging one for me. It was my second year studying Talmud and Philosophy at Bar Ilan and I was plagued by skepticism, doubts and frustrations. And to make matters worse I was responsible for the spiritual, emotional, and physical well-being of approximately 100 girls who were spending the year in Israel to absorb Jewish learning and socialization. That summer I struggled to decide which path to take - should I continue leading the life of the invested religious educator or should I abandon it for the secular life? Somehow the two converged into a messy lifestyle of flirtations, alcohol and sleeping until noon, while continuing halakhic practice and Talmud study.
The conflict finally came to a head as the 9th of Av approached. In the past I had allowed myself to become immersed in the mourning, but that year I had let it all but slip by unnoticed. The day before I pondered whether it still had any meaning to me at all. How did I feel about the Temple? Did I really believe that God could be served through ritual sacrifice? And if not, then what did I think about the numerous texts that suggested that He could? Were they a vestige of a different time that were meant to evolve and expand with time, or were they antiquated documents meant to be abandoned in light of modern reason? I finally decided that I would observe the day by abstaining from what was forbidden, but not actively partaking in the meaningful practices of the day.
The sun set and instead of going to synagouge to hear the recitation of Eicha as I had always done in the past, I stayed home alone. I opened a recording of the reading I found online and sat on the floor to listen to it. Closing my eyes, I let the meaning of the verses wash over me. The normally very poignant words bored me instead of touching me. And I felt nothing, only the widening of the massive rift between me and my God and me and my people. I got up, swept the dust of my clothes, and found another way to pass the time, realizing that that evening was the beginning of the end, my mind was no longer in tune with the national psyche.
This year, as I attempt to slowly inculcate my Judaism back into my life, I find myself considering whether there is value to a national memory/experience independent of observance. Should I fast on the 9th of Av to signify its cultural significance instead of its religious significance? Perhaps I can signify the days import without practicing the ritual, and instead opt to observe it through study. Maybe awakening an emotional reaction to the human suffering that occurred is a better option?
For the uninitiated, these seem like drastic measures. Why would these events that occurred centuries ago carry such weight? But to the Orthodox Jew the passing of time is meant to be irrelevant, anything that happened in Jewish history should be experienced on a personal level. A Jew feels that God has liberated him personally from Egypt and has revealed the Torah to him personally at Sinai. Accordingly, the passing of time loses all relevance when observing national tragedies as well.
Surely to anyone who has never observed these customs this concept of a collective memory and emotion is as absurd as it is romantic. However, to those of us who have wept as Eicha (the book of the Bible which chronicles the events of the destruction of the First Temple) has been read can attest, it is also overwhelmingly powerful. And those of us who have been responsible for programming to teach children to experience these days know of its potency. Which, I suppose is why I commemorate this time period as the anniversary of my discovery that some part of connection to it all had been severed.
It was the summer after I was a counselor in a Modern Orthodox Women’s Yeshiva in Jerusalem. The year had been an especially challenging one for me. It was my second year studying Talmud and Philosophy at Bar Ilan and I was plagued by skepticism, doubts and frustrations. And to make matters worse I was responsible for the spiritual, emotional, and physical well-being of approximately 100 girls who were spending the year in Israel to absorb Jewish learning and socialization. That summer I struggled to decide which path to take - should I continue leading the life of the invested religious educator or should I abandon it for the secular life? Somehow the two converged into a messy lifestyle of flirtations, alcohol and sleeping until noon, while continuing halakhic practice and Talmud study.
The conflict finally came to a head as the 9th of Av approached. In the past I had allowed myself to become immersed in the mourning, but that year I had let it all but slip by unnoticed. The day before I pondered whether it still had any meaning to me at all. How did I feel about the Temple? Did I really believe that God could be served through ritual sacrifice? And if not, then what did I think about the numerous texts that suggested that He could? Were they a vestige of a different time that were meant to evolve and expand with time, or were they antiquated documents meant to be abandoned in light of modern reason? I finally decided that I would observe the day by abstaining from what was forbidden, but not actively partaking in the meaningful practices of the day.
The sun set and instead of going to synagouge to hear the recitation of Eicha as I had always done in the past, I stayed home alone. I opened a recording of the reading I found online and sat on the floor to listen to it. Closing my eyes, I let the meaning of the verses wash over me. The normally very poignant words bored me instead of touching me. And I felt nothing, only the widening of the massive rift between me and my God and me and my people. I got up, swept the dust of my clothes, and found another way to pass the time, realizing that that evening was the beginning of the end, my mind was no longer in tune with the national psyche.
This year, as I attempt to slowly inculcate my Judaism back into my life, I find myself considering whether there is value to a national memory/experience independent of observance. Should I fast on the 9th of Av to signify its cultural significance instead of its religious significance? Perhaps I can signify the days import without practicing the ritual, and instead opt to observe it through study. Maybe awakening an emotional reaction to the human suffering that occurred is a better option?
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Introduction
Once upon a time a book was being written, but no words materialized in the word processor. Only the blinking of a cursor indicated its existence. Apparently that’s what happens when someone has only a confused jumble of thoughts, questions, history, and baggage; they stay locked inside, shaking the bars and begging to be freed. And that, in short, is why I have created this blog. My hope is that informal posts of questionable length and substance will somehow be the springboard for something more like the ideal volume that resides in my mind.
This will be a blog about Judaism. Or rather, my Judaism. We will explore the tales of a Lubavitch kid turned into a neo-Chareidi semi-Bais Yaakov girl turned into a Gemara-toting Minyan-going MMY girl turned into an aspiring Talmud scholar turned into an agnostic Tel Aviv-ite.
As if it were not enough of a challenge to get to know each of these disparate selves, I would also like to deal with some of the religious concerns that are facing my current self. For a while now, my primary occupation has been to create as much space between me and my old life as possible and attempt to plug the holes that it ripped in my being. Now that enough time has passed, I have begun to wonder what role Judaism might play in a secular world. The answer might very well be none at all, but I cannot help but consider: Can Jewish texts be meaningful without God? Is there something to maintaining a Jewish identity without halakhic practice?
In my experience thought fragments only become organized into real ideas when they are set into words - whether through writing or discussion. My hope is that this blog will become the best of both worlds. I will plow the rocky terrain of my mind in order to develop ideas worth sharing so that readers can critique, examine, and add. Maybe something will come of this experiment. Maybe I’ll learn something new, if only how to talk about everything that has happened.
This will be a blog about Judaism. Or rather, my Judaism. We will explore the tales of a Lubavitch kid turned into a neo-Chareidi semi-Bais Yaakov girl turned into a Gemara-toting Minyan-going MMY girl turned into an aspiring Talmud scholar turned into an agnostic Tel Aviv-ite.
As if it were not enough of a challenge to get to know each of these disparate selves, I would also like to deal with some of the religious concerns that are facing my current self. For a while now, my primary occupation has been to create as much space between me and my old life as possible and attempt to plug the holes that it ripped in my being. Now that enough time has passed, I have begun to wonder what role Judaism might play in a secular world. The answer might very well be none at all, but I cannot help but consider: Can Jewish texts be meaningful without God? Is there something to maintaining a Jewish identity without halakhic practice?
In my experience thought fragments only become organized into real ideas when they are set into words - whether through writing or discussion. My hope is that this blog will become the best of both worlds. I will plow the rocky terrain of my mind in order to develop ideas worth sharing so that readers can critique, examine, and add. Maybe something will come of this experiment. Maybe I’ll learn something new, if only how to talk about everything that has happened.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)