Saturday, February 06, 2016

Simchat Bat -- Shalvi Aderet

INK:

I came home from the hospital last Thursday afternoon, the week of parshat Yitro, and on Friday night we sat down to eat Shabbat dinner as a family of six, for the first time. As we do every week, Daniel and I began teaching the parsha to the kids. Matan excitedly announced that it was his parsha, since it features the story of Matan Torah -- and the girls wanted to know more about the thunder and lightning and the fiery mountain, which were all the more intriguing after a particularly stormy week. But the verse that most spoke to me had nothing to do with מעמד הר סיני but appears in the opening lines of the parsha, in which Yitro receives word of the dramatic story of God’s deliverance of Bnei Yisrael from Egyptian bondage. Moshe recounts to his father-in-law all the hardships that had befallen Israel, and how God had delivered them. The Torah then relates that upon hearing this news, ויחד יתרו – Yitro rejoiced, though Rashi reads it as a play on the word חד, sharp, and comments נעשה בשרו חדודין חדודין – his flesh became pins and needles. Yitro was so moved by the story of the exodus that the hairs on his skin stood on end; he got goosebumps-- which was much like how I felt when I thought about the miraculous delivery of our beautiful baby girl earlier that week. In the midrashic imagination, the exodus is often analogized to a birth, with Mitzrayim as the narrow birth canal from which the nation of Israel is born. I, too, had felt the pangs of redemption, and in what seemed to be a miracle – this baby, like the Israelite babies in Egypt, came out so quickly that the midwife had to catch her with her bare hands – I felt like I, too, had been delivered from the hardship of labor on eagle’s wings.
          But the high lasted only so long as the night wore on. Our kids grew tired and needed to be put to bed, and soon the baby would need to be fed, and dinner needed to be cleaned up. We felt so grateful that Savta Alisa was with us, as she’s been with us for three weeks now – cooking all our meals, taking the older kids to and from Gan, holding and changing the baby, and doing pretty much everything that needs to get done in our home. “How are we going to manage when Savta goes home?” Daniel asked me. “And what happens when I go back to work? You’re going to lose your mind.” I thought of Yitro’s conversation with Moshe, in which Yitro insists that Moshe cannot do it all on his own: נבל תבול Yitro tells Moshe, you are going to wear yourself out! And I began to worry that Daniel was right, and that I would indeed lose my mind – maybe not all the time, but certainly any time more than three kids were crying at once. Granted, we are blessed by frequent family visits, particularly by Baba Rella, who comes to Israel more often than we go to Tel Aviv. But how would we get the kids out of the house in the morning on days when it was just us? I wondered if I ought to be more fearful for my sanity, and if I, like Moshe, needed more help. But just then I looked over at our beautiful baby daughter, wrapped like a mummy in layers of blankets and perched calmly in a car seat on our windowsill, breathing deeply, the picture of perfect equanimity. She had barely cried since she was born – whenever she’d wake up, she’d merely open her eyes and look around wide-eyed until someone noticed her; when she was hungry, she’d suck on her fingers noisily until I had time to feed her, and I’d think:
 אנכי יהוה אלהיך המעלך מארץ מצרים הרחב פיך ואמלאהו  (Tehillim 81:11)
Each time I picked her up to feed her, I felt as if she were in touch with a deep inner source of tranquility that prevented her from ever getting ruffled or unsettled. I already have much to learn from her, I thought. And just then, I knew what we would name her.
          I cannot pretend that I know what sort of character our daughter will ultimately have. But in naming her ShalVA Aderet, I hope that she will always be robed in the tranquility that has typified her during these early newborn weeks. May Shalvi know, even in life’s most tumultuous moments, how to draw upon a deep inner reservoir of calmness and serenity. And may her tranquility radiate out to all of us. I know it will not be easy with four kids under the age of five, and I don’t expect a quiet household – at least not for the next decade. But I hope that no matter how hectic life seems, we will always speak to one another calmly and treat one another respectfully, and that our family will continue to be graced by ShalVA.
יְהִי-שָׁלוֹם בְּחֵילֵךְ;    שַׁלְוָה, בְּאַרְמְנוֹתָיִךְ
This verse captures my fervent wish for shalom bayit—for peace within our walls, and tranquility in our citadels. In the context of the chapter of Tehillim in which it appears, this pasuk speaks, too, to one of my most fervent prayers throughout the nine months of my pregnancy – that peace should come to Yerushalayim –
שַׁאֲלוּ, שְׁלוֹם יְרוּשָׁלִָם;    יִשְׁלָיוּ, אֹהֲבָיִךְ.
  יְהִי-שָׁלוֹם בְּחֵילֵךְ;    שַׁלְוָה, בְּאַרְמְנוֹתָיִךְ.
 לְמַעַן, אַחַי וְרֵעָי--    אֲדַבְּרָה-נָּא שָׁלוֹם בָּך
  לְמַעַן, בֵּית-יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵינוּ--    אֲבַקְשָׁה טוֹב לָךְ.
(תהילים קכ"ב)
I thank God for miraculously delivering our daughter to us, and I pray that we will all be blessed with Shalom and Shalva – in our city and in our citadels, in our homes and in our hearts.




DBF Simchat Bat Shalva Aderet Feldman:

Our hearts overflow with gratitude today. When Ilana and I met a few short years ago, we never could have imagined being so blessed in so brief a period. As we welcome into our family a fourth child, our precious little Shalvi, we praise Hashem for showing us extraordinary Chessed and pray for wisdom in raising our children.

It may have already occurred to you that there is some irony in naming our own daughter for tranquility. As Shalvi joins a family in which the “big” siblings are only three and four, her name represents more an aspiration for our future than an accurate description of our current state of domestic affairs. Still, Shalvi’s name also recalls the earliest foundations of our life as a couple and family.

The word Shalva appears in one of our favorite Midrashim, cited by Rashi at the beginning of Parshat Vayeshev and speaking to our identity as students of Torah:
וַיֵּ֣שֶׁב יַֽעֲקֹ֔ב בְּאֶ֖רֶץ מְגוּרֵ֣י אָבִ֑יו
Says Rashi:
ביקש יעקב לישב בשלוה, קפץ עליו רוגזו של יוסף.
After all his travails, Yaakov at last sought to settle in tranquillity when suddenly, there leapt upon him the agitation of Yosef.

Our teacher Avivah Zornberg eloquently expands upon this Rashi, for it vividly illustrates a turning point in Yaakov Avinu’s struggle for stability and his quest for wholeness in the Land. It was at a turning point in our lives when, during one of Avivah’s shiurim in the years when Ilana and I were first settling in Israel, questing for our own wholeness, Avivah sought to illustrate this Midrash about Shalva interrupted by way of Blake’s famous poem “The Tyger.” Avivah asked one lovely student, a woman burning bright in the back rows of the class, to recite the poem, which of course she did flawlessly, twisting the sinews of my heart— ואידך פירושה הוא the rest is commentary. Ilana, of course, has made sure that each of our kids learns the poem by heart. Shalvi can start studying soon…

Ilana, as we all know, is sui generis, one-of-a-kind. In our home, she is the master teacher of Torah, the inveterate lover of literature, the effervescent mother radiating life. INKy, it is a privilege, a delight, and an adventure to spend my life with you. Your vitality burns most bright during pregnancy and childbirth, and I could not be more proud to be your partner in raising our four beautiful children.

I also want to recognize our parents, both those who are with us in person and those who are with us in spirit. Ilana already mentioned our parents’ generosity in providing for our every need during Shalvi’s first days. But Ilana did not mention that in her mother’s case, this entailed retiring from an executive position in the world of Jewish federation in order to find the time. Two days after her retirement from senior management at UJA, Savta Alisa took over management in our home. I don’t think there’s any debate about what’s the harder job. Alisa and Saba Neil, we are so grateful to you both. May Shalvi learn from your selfless commitment to family and community. We are also very fortunate to have my mother Rella Feldman with us. Baba, you have not missed the birth celebration of a single one of your 16 grandchildren, k’nine o hara, including six born in Israel. What an incredible legacy for the only child of Holocaust survivors. Thank you for being here and for all you do on our behalf. Your generosity and warmth, enhanced these past years by Curtiss, whose own family is with us here, have no bounds, and we could not imagine a more beloved and loving, elegant and energetic matriarch to our family. Smiling down at us from Shamayim today is my father, Dr. Charles Feldman, Saba alav hashalom, who always encouraged his children to find more room at the family table. As time passes, I feel the loss of my father’s presence all the more acutely even as I sense his example as a father and leader ever more clearly. With each new milestone and simcha, we miss Dad still more fiercely, but in recollecting his legacy in the company of Shalva, I appreciate anew how fortunate I am to have had him as my father.
Ilana and I also recall the memories of our grandparents, Betty and Joseph Feldman, Sally and Isak Levenstein, Gila and Mordecai Rubin, and, most recently departed, Phyllis and Jerry Kurshan, Ilana’s dignified and adored paternal grandparents, who played a major role in her life until their passing two summers ago.
להבדיל בין חיים לחיים. We are thrilled to celebrate here with three of our sisters. Naamit and Ariella, accomplished professionals, exceptional mothers, and devoted sisters, we could not be more honored that you made a special trip to meet your new niece. Estie, you traveled not quite as far, but our proximity to you has fostered a special relationship that we and our kids share with you and yours. You are more than a sister.
Together with Elizur you are a role model of how to combine the life of a loving family with chessed, communal commitment, and infinite generosity. We are forever indebted to you for all the kindness you show us and our kids. We hope that our siblings with us here, along with our many siblings back in the States, serve as examples to our children, Matan, Liav, Tagel, and Shalvi, of how to create life-long bonds of friendship and love. Our bracha today is that our children come to know the gift of Achva by always striving to dwell together in harmony, leyshev B’shavla, no matter the circumstance. May our family merit the supreme tranquility brought by Shevet Achim Gam Yachad. And may Shalva Aderet always adorn our home with peace. Thank you for joining us. Enjoy the seudat hodaya, and mazel tov.

Friday, December 04, 2015

My Machine Gun Menorah -- by Avraham Burg

(my translation from Avraham Burg's memoir, IN DAYS TO COME, p. 19-23)

On Wednesday it was all over. After much shelling and bombing, endless rumors and newsflashes, patriotic music playing on the radio and families huddling together protectively, Father returned home from the “government” and said to Mother, “Get ready, we’re going to the Kotel.” I didn’t know what exactly this Kotel was. My parents had never taught me to yearn for it. We didn’t have a photograph of it on the wall, not even a bronze engraving, as was common in so many homes at that time. The walls of Father’s large library were decorated with iconic photos of mother’s family from the old Jewish community in Hebron that had been destroyed, and next to them was a lithograph of synagogues from around the world that were no more, from the Jewish diaspora that had been wiped out – but there was nothing to commemorate the Temple. I think I’ll remember Mother’s excitement until the day I die. She dressed in her blue pleated skirt. “Does this look all right?” she asked Father, as always. “Very much so, Rivka,” he responded, as usual, and together they went down to the road to board the military transport that had come to pick them up. A dusty, unshaven soldier helped them climb into the command car. “I want to go too,” I wailed at the top of my lungs, with heavy, salty tears I can still taste to this day. It was the first great outburst of my childhood. Cries of longing and sadness, of fear and disappointment, of a parting much greater than myself. Perhaps I was curious to see the fresh battlefield, and perhaps I was just giving voice to all the fears that had built up inside me during those days and that time. The cries of a young boy who was not ready to be left without the security and protection of his parents. But nothing helped – they left without me. After a few hours they returned, and my mother pulled out a small bag from her pocketbook and gave me a few greasy cartridges from an Uzi submachine gun. “I collected them at the Kotel especially for you,” she said. She wanted to compensate me for leaving me behind, but she was also entrusting me with a little treasure.
            In those last innocent days of the State of Israel, we all had to take a home economics class at school. Once a week we left the gray, desolate schoolyard and walked a few blocks to Mr. Tarshish’s workshop. In the faded apron of a craftsman from a bygone era, in a booming voice and with a ruler he rapped against the table any time he grew angry, Mr. Tarshish taught us all the survival skills we’d ever need. How to fix a short circuit with a special iron wire, how to sand down a rough board, how to polish metal, how to change a light bulb. To this day, I don’t particularly like fix-it work, mainly because I’m not that good at it. I am not just left wing politically, I also have two left hands, far more left than my most firmly-held views. I was also never good at conforming to the mold, or copying a template exactly and without variation. Even back then my spirit sought something else, something creative and original. The complete opposite of the strict, precise work ethic of the mythic Mr. Tarshish. A few months after that war we prepared a surprise for our parents in honor of Chanukah: We made metal menorahs, the proud work of our own hands. We toiled for days, cutting the brass, bending and joining, shaping the frame and the branches. The high point for me was attaching the Uzi cartridges that Ma had brought me from the Kotel, which I used as candleholders that remain laden with significance. My souvenir from the remnants of the Temple is inextricably bound up in weaponry, violence  and bloodshed. I was not yet familiar with a Judaism of pacifism, it had not yet exerted its hold on me, and in school we had not yet reached that Biblical verse renouncing all violent associations with the Temple and its altars: “And if you make for Me an altar of stones, do not build it of hewn stones, for by wielding your sword upon them you have profaned them.” And thus the Jewish Kotel and the Israeli Uzi became melded together into something new, inseparable.
            To this day we light this menorah every Chanukah, and I both love it and hate it. Each time my heart is pierced anew – by a longing for the childhood I once had but that is no longer, and by a lament for the tremendous transformation that has come over all of us, a transformation not entirely good. I need that menorah not just as a nostalgic link to those innocent bygone days, but also as a tangible reminder of all those things that I still want, and still need, to change in this world.
            I always loved Chanukah, more than any other holiday. In the beginning, in my youth, it was because of the mystery of the darkness and the small lights that banish it, and because of the modest little gifts we always received from our parents. I loved those magic moments in which Father, Mother, my sisters and I sat on the rug and played with the dreidels, the spinning tops – among the rare instances when Father came down to our childhood heights. Perhaps that’s why dreidels became my favorite collector’s item, with thousands of them now decorating the walls of our home. With time I came to love Chanukah even more, as a unique and special holiday in which Mother had a role as well. Not just as the passive woman who responds Amen to all the blessings, rituals, and customs that Father performed with flair, but also as the one who lit the candles on the nights that Father was not at home. I loved observing her in this role – she inspired me the first time I took on a public position. That was during the Chanukah that I was in first grade, when I was selected to play the part of the shamash, the candle used to light all the others. Mother ironed my white shirt, made me a cardboard crown with a paper candle on top, and rehearsed with me again and again the line I was supposed to recite in a loud voice in the class play. “To be a shamash is to bear a great responsibility,” she said to me, “and my son needs to be the best shamash there is.” So I tried, for her sake. I wanted to be the best shamash there is.
            Since Chanukah is celebrated in the winter, it is the Festival of Lights, like many other festivals of light in other cultures. We Jews, who do not worship nature in and of itself, have added more and more layers of religious meaning, as with many of our other holidays. The miracle of the jar of oil, the redemption of the Temple, the victory of the few over the many – the whole deal. Thus we transformed a festival celebrating the shortest days of the year and the approaching lengthening of the hours of daylight into a religious holiday. The sigh of relief of Adam, whose fears were alleviated when the winter nights stopped growing longer, was transformed into a great, spontaneous joy. The joy of the faithful over the redemption of the Temple in Jerusalem after the Greeks had violated it with their pagan rites and their military conquest. Our benevolent God, the master of history, stood by our ancestors in their distress and secured them a “great victory.” As a sign of gratitude, and as a means of commemoration, the ancient Jews established these eight days to give thanks to the God who delivered them and to praise His name. It was never a holiday about wars and warriors – on the contrary. The mighty ones in the Chanukah story are the Greeks, not us – we are the weak ones. But that is something that no one told me before I ascended the tall chair of the shamash on Chanukah during first grade. In my black polyester Shabbat pants, which were secured high above my belly button, I sang my lines as loudly as I could: “In our time as in those days, God’s Maccabee redeems always.” I didn’t know that in my cousin’s Moshe’s secular school down the block, they sang the same song with a slight variation: “In our time as in those days, the Maccabee redeems always.” For us it was still a religious holiday with God at the center; for them the holiday had already been appropriated by the trampling revolution of the Zionist consciousness. God was cast aside, and the Maccabee assumed center stage.
            The Zionist revolution wanted to return us to an active role in political history, and thus it grasped hold of every symbolic straw it could find. It is natural, therefore, that the heroism of the war and the struggle of the Maccabees became the most important port of call in the Zionist movement’s voyage home. The return to the land and to our memories, to language and history, to the places that once were and to the glory of the past. And we, as small children, were each the best shamash there is, the shield-bearers of this fantastic revolution. A decade later, in the army, we were already singing completely different versions of those Chanukah songs. God had disappeared entirely from the holiday, and we marched in unison—left, right, left—accompanied by the hoarse loudspeakers, keeping pace:

We carry lights
Through darkest nights
The paths aglow beneath our feet.
We found no jar of oil
No miracle but our toil
We hewed the stone with all our might--
Let there be light!

With rifles on our shoulders and heavy militaristic steps we trampled on any religious vestige of the holiday. From a Jew in my parents’ home I became a new Israeli Maccabee. We, my Israeli friends and I, don’t rely on miracles. Not like all the weak, meek, lily-livered members of our parents’ generation. We take responsibility into our own hands, we are the masters of our own fates. We are heroes – but we’re not Greek. I was transformed from an anonymous little Jewish boy from Jerusalem into the common Israeli hero, whom none of my parents’ generation or their parents before them ever dreamed of before.
            This popular modern Chanukah song has become associated, in recent years, with the opening ceremonies for Israel’s Independence Day on Mt. Herzl in Jerusalem. The Hasmoneans of yore became retroactive mighty heroes of the past, and the inspiration and the model for the military heroes of the present—for us—who hew the stones. By means of this marching song, which was written about the Zionist Chanukah and is played on Independence Day, the consciousness of Chanukah and Independence Day become inextricably intertwined. From marking the original moment of religious exaltation to, now, a holiday celebrating physical vigor and the victories of our time. The modern holiday of Chanukah became a day of heroism, rather than a day commemorating the rededication of the Temple. With each Uzi cartridge I fastened—any of which may have felled someone near the Kotel in ’67—I unknowingly fastened this new myth to our Israeli narrative.






Saturday, September 19, 2015

Stronghold of the Mothers

For the first time in my life I made it a regular practice to attend Selichot services this year. Selichot are penitentiary prayers traditionally recited between midnight and dawn in the weeks preceding Yom Kippur. As a child I never went to Selichot because either I was too young to be awake at that hour, or else I was old enough to babysit for parents who were willing to pay me so that they could attend. And as an adult, I shied away from Selichot because I had enough trouble maintaining my focus during the long Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services; the last thing I was looking for was more time in shul. But now, with three kids under the age of four, things have shifted, and Selichot have suddenly become the spiritual climax of my high holiday experience.
            To some extent this is simply a matter of timing. In my synagogue Selichot are recited at 10:30pm, once all my kids are blessedly asleep and I’ve had a chance to eat dinner, clean up from the day, and prepare for tomorrow. By 10:30pm I am rarely doing anything productive, and I welcome the twenty-minute walk in the cool evening air. Unlike all the other major services of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, which take place either when my kids are awake or else when I need to be putting them to bed, the timing of Selichot means that I can sit in synagogue by myself, without my toddler twins vying for space on my lap while rummaging through my bag in search of lollipops or begging me to read aloud to them from the books I’ve brought to distract them. Even praying at home has become difficult lately—this year on Rosh Hashanah my husband went to a 5:30am service while I davened Shacharit at home with the kids underfoot, where embarrassingly I found myself in the very same breath affirming God’s sovereignty—HaMelech—and assuring the two-year-old relentlessly tugging at my skirt that yes, Elmo also has a tushie. I can’t do that anymore.
            And so now I do most of my soul-searching during Selichot, where the metaphors that dominate the liturgy seem surprisingly resonant. The focal point of the Selichot service is the repeated recitation of God’s thirteen attributes of mercy; we appeal to God’s compassion in the hope that we, too, will be forgiven. God is slow to anger, gracious, and abundant in kindness –He is our king, but also our father, and I would do well to emulate Him as a parent. Lately in our household, bedtime has been extremely trying, and most nights I end up yelling at my twins when they insist, a half hour after their official bedtime, that they need to come out of their cribs to make one more peepee. “Enough! No more!” I yell in frustration, only later to regret that I am not slower to anger. During the Aneinu prayer, where we appeal to God to answer us, I think about all the times my kids wake up crying in the middle of the night--itself a theme of Selichot, where we are explicitly enjoined to "Arise, cry out in the night" (Lamentations 2:19)--and I am tempted to burrow beneath my pillow and hope they learn to soothe themselves instead of soaking their beds with tears. “Answer us, stronghold of the mothers, answer us,” we plead. I pray that God will be the stronghold of this mother too, and instill in me the strength to rally in the wee hours. “Act for the sake of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; act for the sake of those who still nurse from breasts; act for the sake of those who are weaned of milk; act for the sake of the children of Beit Rabban who have never sinned.” And so we petition God to act on behalf of those who are innocent as children – those who are dependent on their parents for their every need, as I know all too well.
            The shofar sounded on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur—and also during Selichot—is supposed to resemble a cry or a wail. The Talmud (Rosh Hashanah 33b) compares it to the wailing of the mother of Sisera, the Canaanite military general who fought against the Israelites in the book of Judges. The sound of the shofar is the sound of the wailing mother, and it is, too, the wailing sound familiar to all mothers. As I sit in synagogue at midnight trying to focus on the words in the prayer book before me, I am grateful that at least at that moment, the sound of the shofar is the only cry I hear.


Tuesday, July 07, 2015

The Fallen Street Lamp: Mourning the Temple with my Kids

A few weeks ago a street lamp collapsed in the empty Jerusalem parking lot my children and I cross through every morning on our way to their preschool. The giant light pole—at least thirty feet tall—lay strewn across the parking lot, its wooden pole intact but its glass light shattered. I tried to navigate the stroller around the shards and the exposed electrical wires. Although we were not there when the lamp toppled, my kids were very shaken to see how the mighty had fallen, and even now, weeks after the lamp has been dragged away and presumably taken to a landfill somewhere, my toddlers continue to shout, “Lamp fall down! Lamp fall down!” every time we cross the parking lot. They seem traumatized by the event and unable to let go, and now, with Tisha b’Av approaching, I think I understand why.
            Tisha b’Av is a holiday commemorating the destruction of the Temple, first by the Babylonians in 586 BCE and then by the Romans in 70 CE. For Jews living during these eras, the Temple was the focal point of religious worship, which was characterized primarily by sacrifice. All Jews were obligated to make pilgrimages to Jerusalem three times a year, such that it was impossible to pass through the year without a visit to the Temple – and once the Temple was destroyed, that loss became indelibly etched in the Jewish national consciousness.
Like the destroyed Temple, the fallen lamp continues to haunt. No matter what else we are in the middle of talking about, my children can’t seem to pass through the parking lot without interrupting to invoke the lamp and bemoan its absence. “How did it fall? Why did it fall?” my four-year-old son keeps asking me, echoing the repeated “how” of Lamentations, the book of the Bible in which the prophet Jeremiah elegizes the Temple. But we rarely have time to linger, and so instead I hurry him along.
            The opening pages of the Talmud famously tell of a rabbi who enters a Jerusalem ruin to pray and is rebuked by Elijah for spending too much time in the ruin and not praying “along the way.” But the art of losing is hard to master. It’s only the rare Rabbi Akiva who can look out at the foxes scampering in and out of the desolate Temple mount and laugh, confident in a more hopeful future. It’s hard not to get swept up in mourning and lamentation, which is why I suppose the rabbis designated a single day of the year to commemorate so many of the tragedies of Jewish history – they teach that not only were the Temples destroyed on Tisha b’Av, but also on that date the decree was sealed that the generation of the desert would not enter the promised land, and the Bar Kokhba revolt was crushed, and the Roman general Turnus Rufus plowed Jerusalem. Tisha b’Av becomes a catch-all for tragedy and loss, a one-day-fits-all that teaches us how to honor but also contain our grief.
            In the poem “Spring and Fall” by Gerard Manley Hopkins, the poet tells of a girl who weeps at the falling of the leaves in autumn. “Marguerite are you grieving / over Goldengrove unleaving,” the poet asks, unable to understand why such a commonplace and cyclically predictable event could be the occasion for so much grief. Ultimately the poet comes to realize that Marguerite is mourning not just for the foliage, but for all the sadness of humanity, because “sorrow’s springs are all the same,” just as all Jewish historical tragedy is the tragedy of Tisha b’Av. My children, too, are swept up not in the collapse of the lamp specifically, but in the notion of loss more generally – the sobering notion that something that was once a part of their lives could be suddenly no longer there. And so now when we pass through the parking lot and they ask about the lamp, I respond with a blessing I’ve been trying to teach them, part of the daily liturgy: “May You rebuild Jerusalem rapidly in our days as an everlasting structure…. Blessed are You O Lord Our God, who rebuilds Jerusalem.” They don’t know the whole blessing yet, but they always respond Amen.




Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Truly How Majestic: In Memory of Bonna Devora Haberman z"l

When I think of Bonna Devora Haberman z”l, I picture her leaping into the air on Yom Kippur afternoon, her face pale but beaming as she gathers everyone within arm’s reach into a circle for a triumphant chanting of Mareh Kohen, the liturgical poem about "truly how majestic" was the look on the high priest’s face when he successfully exited the Holy of Holies. Bonna was very proud of her Kohanic lineage, and even though she sometimes came late to shul, she never missed Birkat Kohanim – when she and her husband and children would get up to bless the congregation from beneath their tallitot, breathing new harmonies into the ancient biblical text.
            When I wasn’t davening with Bonna – we participated in the same minyanim both at Harvard Hillel and in Jerusalem – I would often see her jogging in the early mornings with her husband Shmuel and their dog Sumsum. Bonna rarely stood still. A self-avowed “textual activist,” she was also always active, always on the go, never content to let anything be. At the funeral her husband Shmuel—always the quiet one in their relationship, Matthew Cuthbert to her Marilla—told the story of how he first met her in college in Ottawa at an Israeli dance class, where Bonna, too, was spinning circles around him. At one point he sat her down and asked her to tell him her dreams. “I dream of a large barn and a community of women, dancing, reading books, busy with organic farming, discussing ideas, and caring for children.” A community of women was not exactly what Shmuel had in mind, but Bonna had given him his opening. “Where will all the children come from?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Well, a few men will be allowed once in a while,” Bonna conceded. Then she asked Shmuel his fantasy, and he said he wanted to retire with her to a desert island. Bonna was quickly dismissive. “We can’t,” she said. “There’s too much in this world that needs fixing.”
            Bonna insisted that Dayenu must end with Tikun Olam, because only when the world was healed would it truly be enough. For her, that was what building the Temple—the actual last line of Dayenu—was about. It was what drove her to help found Women of the Wall, a monthly Rosh Hodesh group where women donned the garments of ritual prayer and read from the Torah at the Kotel. And it was what inspired her brilliant writing about the Beit HaMikdash, including her profoundly bold and radical essay “The Yom Kippur Avodah in the Female Enclosure,” which I reread every year on Yom Kippur and which has inspired so much of my own writing and thinking about eroticism and the Talmudic sages. For a while Bonna became, for me, the embodiment of that essay, as if that one piece comprised the entirety of her identity; each time I’d run into her I’d buttonhole her with further questions and new ideas inspired by her words.
            But Bonna was so much more. When she wasn’t writing she was fighting sex trafficking around the globe, pushing for gender equality at the Kotel and in Jerusalem, informally counselling young women about natural childbirth, caring for Mother Earth, and staging theater performances with Israeli and Palestinian women to solve the conflict in the Middle East. One of her sons said that she understood her name to be Bonna DvarYa – that is, a builder of the words of God. Just as the midrash in Breishit Rabba relates that God used the blueprint of Torah to create the world, Bonna looked to Torah for inspiration to repair the world. Another one of her sons said that Bonna, particularly in her last few months of illness, never wanted to sleep. “I’ll have enough time to sleep in the grave,” she insisted. But her son was not so sure. He assured us at the funeral that he has no doubt his mother has already staged a revolution in heaven.
           And he is probably right. I can just imagine Bonna taking the angels by a storm, gathering them in a circle for a frenzied recitation of Mareh Kohen in which it is the angels who are analogized to the priests rather than vice versa. I will miss her presence in shul, especially during Birkat Kohanim – but regardless of what she is up to in heaven, I have no doubt she will still be shining her blessing upon us. יהי זכרה ברוך

Monday, April 27, 2015

Karet Parties

I have never made a birthday party for any of my three children. Granted, my oldest is turning only four, but even so, we have already attended several parties with clowns, balloons, party favors, and frosted cakes, and I feel a bit awkward that I haven’t returned any of those invitations. But I know my kids, and I know myself – and birthday parties are just not our speed.
            Each time we attend a friend’s party, my kids stay as far away from the action as possible. Generally we spend most of our time huddled up in an older sibling’s empty bedroom, my kids pulling books off the shelf and asking me to read them, or else playing with puzzles and dolls as I try and fail to sneak out and socialize with the other parents so as to seem less rude. When the lights are dimmed and the birthday cake is presented with candles and fanfare, I drag my kids out and they cling to me for dear life, my son hiding between my legs and my toddler twins on each hip, their heads burrowed into my armpits. They don’t like big groups or loud noise, and I can’t blame them, because neither do I.
            As a child I never let my mother make me birthday parties. Always loathe to be the center of attention, I attended friends’ parties reluctantly but never wanted one of my own. “What’s the big deal,” I kept insisting. “So I’m one year older. Why is that a cause for celebration? It’s not like I did anything great.” One year my mother thought she could win me over by making me a surprise party. When I got home from school she told me to take my novel and read in her walk-in closet, and I, happy for any excuse to read uninterrupted, didn’t ask any questions. An hour later, when she tried to drag me out, I implored, “Let me just finish the chapter,” oblivious to the seven friends who were gathered excitedly in the kitchen. It took me a while to come out of the closet, though when I did, I tried to be a good sport.
            Now that I’m the mother, I see things a bit differently. I respect my kids’ aversion to parties, and I confess that I’m somewhat relieved that I won't be dealing with the challenge of entertaining rambunctious, thrill-seeking toddlers and their equally demanding parents. At the same time, I now have an answer to my younger self who thought that birthdays were no big deal. Because if there’s anything I’ve learned from being a parent, it’s that a turning one year older is a big deal indeed.
            I most recently learned this lesson shortly before Passover, when my daughter had a terrible fall and lost two teeth. She was bleeding for several days and had to re-learn first how to drink and then, a full week later, how to start eating again. Her speech is slurred and she can no longer eat apples, but thank God she is otherwise completely fine, if tooth-less. When we sat down to the Seder a few days later, we made the blessing recited on Jewish festivals and on the occasion of major milestones: “Blessed are You O Lord Our God, King of the Universe, who has kept us alive, and sustained us, and enabled us to reach this day.” Those words took on new meaning with my daughter on my lap, happily sucking on her matzah.
My daughter’s injury sensitized me to how lucky we were that things were not worse. Every day there are countless dangers in our path – I worry most about the cars that rush across the highway I cross each morning with three kids precariously perched in a stroller built for two, but there are also germs and sharp objects and daredevil toddler antics in that split second I turn my back. Each night when I tuck my kids in bed, I ought to thank God for keeping them alive and sustaining them and enabling them to complete the day. All the more so when a full year has elapsed with my children growing healthy and strong. The Talmud (Moed Katan 28a) relates that Rav Yosef made himself a sixtieth birthday party to celebrate that death had not cut him off from his people, referring to the biblical punishment of karet, or excision, which the sages believed a person was susceptible to only until this age. Neither I nor my kids are close to that point, but I can identify with his sigh of relief.
            When my son turns four this month, I am not going to throw him a party. But I’m also not going to let the day go by without marking it in a way that is significant for me, for him, and for our family. Because even if we don’t do it with clowns and balloons, there is no doubt we have much to celebrate.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Walking Books

            I am an avid reader, though these days I read fewer novels and far more children’s picture books. I’m not complaining; one of the greatest pleasures of being a parent is reading aloud to my children. And read aloud I do, all the time. Although a staggering proportion of children’s books are bedtime stories—on the final page the character either falls asleep or wishes the reader good night—in our home we read all day long, in every imaginable context. In the middle of our kitchen table sits a shtender, a wooden stand more commonly used to support volumes of Talmud and other heavy religious tomes. Ours contains a line calligraphied from the Mishnah: “Do not say: When I have time, I will study; lest you never have time.” When I bought it ten years ago, I had far more time to study Torah than I do now, but I have rehabilitated it by using it as a stand for the picture books we read at the breakfast table, including several food-related favorites: The Watermelon Seed, Pete’s a Pizza, Spoon.

            While I am pushing the kids in the stroller—we have a 25-minute walk to and from their preschool every day—I recite to them from the books I’ve committed to memory, particularly those that are in verse. When reading rhyming books to my kids, I usually sing them to a melody of my own devising; as a result, I tend to memorize rhyming books pretty quickly, and can belt them out as we wait for the traffic light to change or make our way across the noisy four-lane highway. Dr. Seuss comes in handy in this regard, especially One Fish, Two Fish, which is essentially a delightful collection of nonsense verse: “The moon was out/ we saw some sheep / we saw some sheep/ take a walk in their sleep…” I want my kids to internalize various meters and rhyme schemes in the hope of cultivating their poetic sensibilities.

            And I want them, too, to learn poetry, and towards that end we have managed to find a few children’s books that consist of illustrated poems, like Frost’s “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” (which all my kids can more or less sing by heart) and William Blake’s “Tyger, Tyger” (they deliver a mean first stanza). Well, I didn’t actually find an illustrated children’s version of “Tyger, Tyger” – it is a song of Experience rather than Innocence, and therefore not standard children’s fare – but we owned a book about a tiger in a forest with awful text but dazzling illustrations, so I printed out the poem from my computer and pasted one stanza over the text of each page. I do this sometimes when we have books with terrific illustrations but terrible text; the book becomes a palimpsest, with another layer of text overlaying the original. Our copy of In My Nest, a silly board book with a three-dimensional felt bird that pops out on the last page, is now called “Shiluah HaKen,” and it contains the full text of the biblical verses about the commandment to send away the mother bird from the nest. This, too, my kids can sing.

            When we have time for more complicated narratives—while waiting our turn at the doctor’s office, or sitting before daunting plates of meatballs and spaghetti—I read them longer books that are essentially short stories for children – like Otto the Story of a Mirror, a delightful tale about a mirror working in a hat shop who is bored with his job and runs away to reflect wondrous and magical sights; at the end of the book he arrives at the famous Isle of Koodle, which he had previously only read and dreamt about, where he meets another mirror, Miranda, and they set sail together. Instead of falling asleep at the end of this book, these characters fall in love: “The two mirrors reflected many wondrous things. But sometimes on a moonlit night, Otto and Miranda just like to look at each other, reflecting back and forth, back and forth, on and on and on, forever and ever and ever.”

            And then there are the stories we read before bed, like Before You Were Born and The Baby Goes Beep, two books edited and published by the gifted Deborah Brodie z”l; both are excellent transitions to “Now get in your cribs!” – a request often met with demands for an encore. Though it’s not a bedtime story, I unfailingly give in to any request to read our all-time favorite Wild About Books, about a librarian named Molly McGrew who drives her bookmobile into the zoo and gets all the animals hooked on reading: “Raccoons read alone / and babboons read in bunches. / And llamas read dramas / while eating their llunches.” I like to think that my kids fall asleep dreaming of insects scribbling haiku.

            Most of the books we read are heavy on text; I tend to stay away from books that are illustrations only. I will not, for instance, read Goodnight Gorilla. I understand that the point is for the parent and child to come up with their own words, but I much prefer a fixed text. Nor do I stop to explain things as I read – it is more Mikra than Parshanut. Instead I assume that the kids will understand what they can understand, and internalize the rest nonetheless. Sure, there are dangers of this approach. Recently while reading my daughter an illustrated children’s book version of “Sunrise, Sunset,” we came to the line “Share the sweet wine and break the glass” and she pointed to the eyes of the bespectacled groom in the picture and yelled “break the glasses, break the glasses” before lunging for my pair as well. (I hope she marries a guy who wears contacts.)


            Sometimes I wonder if I focus too much on memorization when reading to my kids. But it has been such an important part of my own learning. When I first started reading Shakespeare in high school, I committed to memory several sonnets and soliloquies, even though I only partially understood them. Over the years, a couplet or stanza would inexplicably pop into my head and I’d find that I suddenly understood what it meant, and how it was relevant. Likewise, much of the Torah I know by heart comes from leyning, practicing again and again to chant the verses aloud in synagogue until I know them nearly by heart. To memorize something is to be able to summon it at any time, and therefore truly to own it. Like those sages in the Talmud who were valued not for what they understood but for what they had memorized, I’d like my children to become “walking books,” able to recite the text of their favorite books to themselves and thus to sit down and “read” to themselves even before they are literate. This hasn’t quite happened yet, but when it does, I’m looking forward to some quiet time to finish my novel.  

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Baby Showers: A Teshuva

A pregnant friend recently asked me whether or not she ought to have a baby shower. “My mother-in-law really wants to make me one. I know that Jews are not supposed to do those kinds of things, but why not? Is it just about superstition?”

            I thought about her question. Is there any other reason? Why do many Jews not have baby showers? Yes, there is the superstitious fear of the evil eye, namely that celebrating the baby before it is born would attract the attention of dark spirits, who would mark the baby for disaster. Jewish superstitions go back very far – in the Talmud, for instance, the sages speak of a very real fear of doing anything in even numbers because pairs were considered demonic; this fear led the rabbis to question how we can possibly drink four cups of wine at the Pesach seder, a practice that no one thinks twice about today. Indeed, many of the superstitions that may have plagued our great grandmothers in the shtetl seem to have fallen away. Why then should we not turn a blind eye to the evil eye and have that baby shower after all?

            When I think back to my own pregnancies, I can say with certainty that a baby shower was the furthest thing from my mind. Pregnancy, more than any other experience, awakened me to a sense of the miraculous. I was overcome by awe at the ability to take part in creation, but along with that awe came tremendous trepidation. Just as the baby inside me was completely dependent on me for all its needs, I felt myself entirely dependent on God. Though the baby was forming just inches below the surface of my skin, I had very little control over whether it would be healthy or strong, curious or loving. This seemed entirely up to God, and all I could do was hope and pray and tremble.

            The Talmud relates that the uncertainty that characterizes pregnancy and childbirth gave rise to a series of astrological superstitions: “One who is born on Sunday will be strong; one who is born on Monday will be quarrelsome; one who is born on Tuesday will be rich and fornicating….” I related to the desperate wish to be able to control the outcome of pregnancy, but I knew it was in vain. The day on which my child was born would make no difference, and I had no control over that day anyway. Elsewhere the Talmud relates that three keys are in the hand of God and are not entrusted to any messenger – the key to rain, the key to the revival of the dead, and the key to childbirth. It is only God who decides how an unborn child will fare.

            And so every day that passed in which my baby seemed to be fine, I regarded as a miracle. Every day I received a positive report from a doctor or ultrasound technician, I found myself chanting psalms of praise as I skipped my way out the office. People often ask me how I felt when I found out I had twins: “Were you panicked? Terrified?” I tell them the truth -- that I broke out in joyous and incredulous laughter at my unbelievable good fortune, and identified more with the matriarch’s Sarah’s response to her own annunciation than with Rebecca’s dismay at her twin pregnancy. It seemed so wildly wonderful and impossible – I had been hoping for a baby to grow inside me, and lo and behold there were two!

            Throughout my pregnancies I was constantly overcome by gratitude. Several of my friends had been through devastating miscarriages and never for a moment did I assume that everything would go smoothly; even the language of “expecting” seemed a bit presumptuous. I was hoping and praying for a healthy child, and if my child were not healthy, I was hoping and praying for the strength to help him or her to thrive nonetheless. I did not find out the sex of my children in advance because I experienced pregnancy as a way of getting in touch with the unknown, the mysterious, the wondrous, and I wanted to retain that sense as much as possible. A baby shower – a party that seemed designed to celebrate a baby who would surely come – felt so antithetical to my sensibility. I did not want to assume or expect anything, but to take each day as a gift. For the time being, this was gift enough, and already I was showered in blessing. 
         

Thursday, March 12, 2015

The Mehitza and the Ramp

As I sat behind the mehitza in synagogue last week peering through its wooden latticework to catch a glimpse of my son playing at my husband’s feet, I couldn’t help but feel that I had crossed a great divide. I have always been a staunch defender of egalitarian Judaism, reluctant to attend any synagogue which assigned distinct gender roles in prayer. In the Conservative synagogue in which I grew up, men and women sat together and participated equally in the service. My father was the rabbi, which meant that my parents could not sit together even in this egalitarian prayer space, an irony my mother often lamented. While he stood on the bima leading the congregation in prayer, she sat beneath her wide-brimmed hat and plied us with bags of cheerios and little boxes of raisins, always keeping one finger in the siddur to mark her place.
            When I left my parents’ home and went to college, I soon became a leader of a small but stalwart egalitarian prayer community which held services not just on Friday nights and Shabbat day, but also a couple of mornings a week. The nights before we met I would call our various constituents individually to find out whom we could count on and whom we could count, since the full prayer service requires a quorum of ten. The Hillel building in which we prayed had transparent glass walls, and I often looked wisfully at the Orthodox minyan, which seemed to organize itself automatically. Our much smaller minyan, in contrast, would not happen unless we made it happen -- unless every single one of us showed up as pledged, helped set up the chairs, and took a part in the service.
            Several of my college friends who had grown up in egalitarian synagogues did not feel it was worth the effort to sustain an egalitarian minyan, and instead elected to daven in the Orthodox community, where their absence would not be as noticeable nor their presence as vital. I tried to respect their decision, but to me it seemed like they were selling out. I believed that prayer should not be about gender, but that all men and women should stand equally before God. Although the sages of the Talmud excluded women from fixed prayer and other time-bound obligations, I did not identify with the Talmudic category of “women.” As an independent woman in charge of her own finances and not beholden to any man, and as a scholar of Torah, I identified far more with the men of the Talmud than with their wives or daughters. The rabbinic category of “women,” I felt, was largely anachronistic. In our modern world where men and women were treated as equal in the courtroom, the voting booth, and the college campus, it seemed only fitting that men and women should also be equal in synagogue. And so I cast my lot with the few other like-minded Jews wherever I found myself—on the college campus, the Upper West Side of New York, and in Jerusalem, where I have since made my home.
            And then I had children, and everything changed. At first it was impossible to pray in synagogue altogether. When my son was four days old and had not yet been initiated into the covenant or received his name, I insisted on carrying him in a sling to synagogue, determined that he should become a "shul baby." I had not counted on how often I would need to leave to nurse him, and always at the most inopportune times – when I wanted to hear the Torah reading, or recite the prayer for the sick, or stand with my feet together in imitation of the angels for the silent prayer. Babies may look like angels, but they generally don’t allow their parents to stand angelically still. And so in subsequent weeks I instead prayed from home whenever the baby napped or my husband could take him off my hands.
     Now that we have three toddlers, it is important to us that our children grow accustomed to attending synagogue and learning the prayers and melodies. I want synagogue to be a strong Shabbat association, as it was for me. And so like my mother, I pack up the cheerios and raisins and set out with my husband--who has already davened elsewhere--and kids in tow. There is an egalitarian minyan that meets a few neighborhoods over, and before I had children I would always pray there. But now it is a far walk with the kids, and it’s not easily accessible with a stroller, and so we go there only rarely. More often we daven in  an Orthodox partnership minyan where men and women sit separately and there are parts of the service that only men can lead. It has a mehitza, true – but it also has a wide ramp leading up to the synagogue, a place for me to park my double stroller, and a children’s service in which my kids have learned to sing many of the Shabbat morning prayers.
          I do not feel entirely comfortable in that minyan, even though it is committed to many of my most deeply-held progressive and feminist ideals. Though I love to read Torah, I will not leyn at the partnership minyan because on some level I am not prepared to call it home. For the same reason, I have not become a member, though we gave a donation equivalent to the membership dues. Only rarely do I manage to make it into the main sanctuary, since I'm usually in the children's service and then the playground. But there are times when I find myself sitting behind the mehitza, trying not to think about what my idealistic twenty-year-old self would have thought if only she could see my now.
            Have I, too, sold out? Part of what I always found so frustrating about the egalitarian minyanim I took part in both in college and beyond was that they rarely attracted families. Most of our members were students and single people in their twenties. I am beginning to understand why. Even if we were in an egalitarian synagogue, it would be impossible for my husband and me to sit in synagogue at the same time, or for both of us to take on leadership roles. Someone would have to be primarily responsible for the kids. And so I have a newfound appreciation for the Talmudic sages’ exemption of women from time-bound commandments. There are some stages of life when it is simply impossible to pray regularly at fixed times. Being a parent of small children is one such stage. It need not necessarily be the woman who is exempt, but the reality is that at any given moment, it is generally only one parent who can be praying. And so the “woman” – a Talmudic category that I would define as whichever parent is in charge of childrearing at that moment – is granted an exemption that affirms the sanctity of his or her work. Handing cheerios to a child or adjudicating a dispute between toddlers is just as important as praying; it too is a form of divine service, and so the one who engaged in that service is excused from prayer.

            I remain committed to gender egalitarianism as an ideal, but I would like to think about how to translate that ideal in a reality more sensitive to the needs of young families. I hope that as soon as we are stroller-free, I'll be back in the egalitarian minyan so my kids can hear me leyn more regularly. In the meantime, I leyn the full three paragraphs of the Shema every night to them—its frightening threats notwithstanding—so that one day it will be easier for them to associate the words with the trope. On Shabbat mornings, when I sit with my kids in the children’s service, I imagine a time when my daughters as well as my son will lead the congregation in these prayers. And hopefully by the time they have kids of their own, they won’t have to choose a synagogue based on the ramp, but on the very same deep-seated commitments for which they are inspired to pray.

Sunday, January 04, 2015

Holy Eating (Zevahim / Menahot / Hullin)

If there was any quality that Daniel and I were certain that we did not want to pass on to our children, it was my vegetarianism. I did not realize that I was a vegetarian until I met Daniel and joined his family at a Shabbat table laden with roast beef, rack of lamb, and sautéed duck, none of which I could identify. His mother noticed that I filled my plate with rice and broccoli and asked if I was vegetarian. “I guess so,” I told her, wondering about it myself. I did not avoid meat as a matter of identity or principle, but as a general aesthetic preference: Why pick the flesh off the wing of a dead bird when there was fresh quinoa salad on the table? I became a full-fledged vegetarian only a year later, after learning Seder Kodashim, the order of the Talmud that deals primarily with sacrificial worship and ritual slaughter.
The first tractate, Zevahim, is essentially a giant barbecue. We learn about which animals may be burnt on the altar, and who may eat the leftovers, and what happens if they are left to burn for too long or sacrificed with improper intentions or accidentally mixed with other sacrificial offerings. The Talmud enumerates four primary sacrificial rites: slaughtering the animal, receiving its blood in a basin, carrying the animal to the altar, and sprinkling the blood on the cover of the ark. Sacrifice was such a bloody business that there were holes in the floor of the Temple intended for draining the excess blood, which would flow into the Kidron river (35a). And the pile of ashes from a day’s worth of sacrifices grew so high that it had to be cleared off first thing every morning, a task I often think of when I start my day by taking out the garbage.
As I read about the priest slicing the neck of a bird with his nail, taking care not to sever it completely (a process known as melika, which the Talmud describes in graphic detail, 64b), I decided that I could no longer eat my mother’s chicken soup, my last carnivorous vestige, which I’d previously permitted myself because it didn’t look anything like flesh and because, well, because it made my mother happy. I realized that chicken soup, too, was once a thing with feathers. In consciously renouncing flesh-eating I was perhaps bringing myself back to that antediluvian stage before God permitted Noah to eat meat, that idyllic Edenic era in which the trees of the garden provided for all of humanity’s needs. At the very least I was returning to the period of the Israelites’ desert wanderings, when, according to Rabbi Yishmael, they were forbidden to slaughter “lustful meat,” that is, meat that they desired to eat for their own nourishment and pleasure, without any sacrificial component. Rabbi Akiva disagrees, arguing that although the Israelites had not yet been given the laws of how to ritually slaughter animals, they were permitted to stab animals in the nose—a process known as nehira—and consume the flesh (Hullin 17a). I was prepared to engage neither in ritual slaughter nor in nostril stabbing, and decided that I would simply abstain from meat altogether.
Since then people have often asked me if my vegetarianism is related to an affinity for animals; I tell them they are barking up the wrong tree. I am no animal lover. I am terrified by the dogs that run alongside me when I jog and repulsed by the cats that leap out from the municipal garbage bins (known as “frogs” in Hebrew because they are big and green) when I try to throw out the trash. But as I made my way through Seder Kodashim, I was struck that alongside countless passages about bloody dead animals and their entrails, the Talmud also contains several stories and legends about living animals, many of them quite entertaining. There is the discussion at the end of tractate Zevahim about how the mythical re’em – a kind of unicorn -- survived the flood; surely it could not fit in Noah’s ark, since, as Rabba bar Hana testified, “I once saw a young unicorn and it was as big as Mount Tabor!” The rabbis suggest that perhaps Noah inserted the tip of its nose into the ark. But then wouldn’t the waters of the flood plunge the unicorn up and down, another rabbi asks? No, reassures Reish Lakish, they tied its horns to the ark and thus it was spared from drowning. But weren’t the waters of the flood boiling as punishment for the hot passion with which people sinned? Yes, but the waters adjacent to the ark were cooled so that the unicorn could survive. And thus the rabbis manage to spare the unicorn not just from the flood but also from their own barrage of Talmudic questioning.
The other richly imagined animal tale I loved is of the Emperor and the lion (Hullin 59b). The Talmud contains several tales in which the Roman Emperor challenges one of the sages with a theological question. In this case, he asks Rabbi Joshua ben Hanania about a Biblical verse (Amos 3:8) that compares God to a lion. The Emperor asks how God can be so great if He is likened to a lion; after all, any good horseman can kill a lion. The rabbi responds that God is not likened to an ordinary lion, but to a special kind of lion from Bei Ilai. “Show him to me,” demands the Emperor, and the rabbi warns him that he will not be able to behold this creature. But the Emperor insists, and so Rabbi Joshua prays and the lion sets forth. When it is still quite a distance away, it roars. Immediately all the pregnant women miscarry and the walls of Rome collapse. When it comes a little closer, it roars again and the teeth fall out of the mouth of every man, including the Emperor himself. Like Pharaoh begging Moses to stop the plagues, or like the Israelites beseeching Moses to shield them from God’s voice at Sinai, the Emperor pleads with Rabbi Joshua to pray that the lion return to its place. And so it does.
The lions and unicorns of Kodashim were far more appealing to me than the detailed anatomical diagrams of gullets and gizzards that filled the back pages of my volume of Hullin, the tractate dealing with the laws of kashrut. But my vegetarianism was less about any affinity for wildlife—real or mythological—than about a general minimalist tendency. I like to get by on less, and for me this has become not just a principle of economy but of aesthetics as well. During my anorexic phase I took this notion to a dangerous extreme when I tried to get by on eating almost nothing, a temptation that I still sometimes struggle to keep in check. The laws of Kashrut appeal to me because they limit what we can and cannot eat, reducing the overwhelming number of choices out there. Vegetarianism takes this one step further. The world is enough with beans and grains and chocolate; I do not need hamburgers too. Besides, at least according to Rav Nahman’s wife Yalta, everything that is forbidden has a kosher counterpart that tastes just as good (Hulllin 109b) – for every bacon there are bacon bits. Yalta gives several examples: we are forbidden to eat pig, but we can eat the shibbuta fish which tastes similar (though one has to wonder how she knew what pig tastes like); it is forbidden to eat blood of animals, but we can eat liver. She also cites a few examples that conflate eating and sex: It is forbidden to sleep with a married woman, but one can sleep with a divorced woman during her husband’s lifetime and therefore “taste” the forbidden. The story ends when the ever truculent Yalta insists that she wants to taste meat and milk together, but can find no kosher equivalent. Thereupon her husband instructs the butchers, “Give her roasted udders.”
Of course, vegetarianism is not kashrut, though you’d be surprised by how many people confuse the two. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I should have cooked the potatoes separate from the meat,” our Shabbat host will apologize. But I have no problem eating potatoes just because they were cooked next to meat; there is no issue of noten ta’am – of a forbidden substance lending its taste to a permitted substance –when it comes to vegetarianism. And I am far more flexible with my vegetarianism than with my Kashrut. I would never eat food that is not kosher, but when it comes to vegetarianism, I have my own mental hierarchy of the increasingly permissible – from fish to chicken to beef. I try to eat the “most vegetarian” option available without inconveniencing myself or my hosts. After all, given that my guiding principle is one of minimalism and simplicity, it would be ironic if my vegetarianism made life more complicated.
My notion of hierarchy is not entirely foreign to the Talmudic sages, who discuss how many “signs” various kinds of living things must have in order to be considerd kosher (Hullin 27b). Their claims reflect a primitive evolutionary theory: Animals, which the sages say were created from land, need two signs – both the trachea and the esophagus must be incised. Birds, which were created from swamps (and which the rabbis claim have scales on their feet like fish) need only one sign – either the esophagus or the tracha must be cut. But fish, which were created from water, need no signs; fish can be eaten even without ritual slaughter. My preference is always to eat the food with the fewest signs.  If there is no plant-based protein source available, I would each fish. Lacking that, I suppose I would consider chicken. But I would have to be pretty desperate to bite into a steak.
For me, there are so many gustatory pleasures that are not meat – or wine for that matter, which I eschew for similar reasons. A dark chocolate bar is infinitely more appealing than the most expensive cut of lamb. And I would always take a hot cup of coffee with steamed milk over a glass of alcohol. One of my favorite treats is to sit in a coffee shop engrossed in a book; the little caffeine I allow myself gives me a boost of energy and confidence, particularly in those late afternoon hours when my concentration starts to flag. These are simple pleasures, I know. But the Talmud advises that a person should always spend less on eating and drink than his means allow and honor his wife and children more than his means allow (Hullin 84b). Food should be a way of honoring our bodies, and of honoring Shabbat and other sacred occasions, and of honoring the guests we invite into our homes; it is these values, above all, that I would like to transmit.
I do not want to pass on my own hang-ups about food to my children; if they wish to become vegetarian of their own accord, they are welcome to make that choice later in life. But when they are young, it is important to me that they see me modelling healthy and respectful eating. In tractate Menahot, which deals with grain offerings, The Talmud references the figure of Ben Drosai (Menahot 57a) a highway robber contemporaneous with the early Talmudic sages who was so impulsive that he would grab his meat off the fire before it was fully cooked. When I come home starving and I’m tempted to devour anything in sight, I remind myself not to eat like Ben Drosai, but to stop to sit down like a civilized human being and take pleasure in my food. “Food is Kadosh [holy],” I will later tell my son when he tries to throw his supper or leave too much on his plate; and I’ll repeat this so many times that when I then take him to synagogue and point to the Torah and tell him it’s Kadosh, he’ll look at me earnestly and ask, “Can we eat it?” Still, I find it appropriate that the order of the Talmud that includes the laws of kashrut is known as Kodashim, holy things. The rabbis teach that following the destruction of the Temple, a man’s table resembles the altar (Menahot 97a) – a reminder that in a world without sacrifices, the food that we eat has the potential to bring us close to the sacred. 

Sunday, November 30, 2014

The Daf on the Bus, Again

I am on the bus with my double stroller, trying to keep the twins calm. Liav is eating a baguette, strewing crumbs all over her fleece, the stroller, and the floor beneath. Tagel is inexplicably screaming “bubbles,” her favorite activity, but as far as I can tell there are no bubbles in sight and I have no idea how to console her. I hand her a ball. She throws it on the floor angrily, it rolls to the front of the bus, and she sobs louder. I offer her a piece of baguette. She throws this too. I take a sip of my water, unsure what to do next. Tagel starts yelling, “Mayim, mayim,” insisting on holding my bottle. I hand it to her, knowing that she will object if I try to screw the cap back on. Predictably, she spills it all over herself and her sister. Tagel bursts out laughing, but now Liav is shrieking. I reach into my bag for a dry washcloth, and the man sitting across the aisle from me—a religious man with an open Gemara—kindly offers to hold the stroller so I can have two free hands. I look at the top margin of his Gemara and sure enough, he is learning the sixth chapter of Yevamot, which I started last night. Looks like he’s up to the case of the man who is just about to have sex with his wife on a rooftop when suddenly he rolls over, falls off the roof, and lands in the waiting arms of his brother’s childless widow, penetrating her. I wonder if I should spare him all the rabbinic deliberations and just summarize the Talmud’s conclusion: “The bottom line,” I’d tell him, “Is that it all counts. Intentional or unintentional, voluntarily or by force. It’s all the same.” But this man is still holding onto my stroller for me, and so for the sake of my daughters I wisely bite my tongue. I wipe off the girls’ dresses and make out why Liav is screaming – she wants her pacifier. Oh well, so much for trying to wean her off it – in light of the glares from my fellow passengers, I give in. Liav sucks away contentedly, and Tagel amuses herself by alternately crying out “egg” and “moon” while pointing excitedly to the first page of the Very Hungry Caterpillar board book. Both girls are relatively calm. I am about to sit down when a religious woman, her hair and every inch of her body covered, taps me on the shoulder and motions that she wants to whisper something in my ear. I lean in, my mind already racing: What parenting blunder have I committed now? What did I do that this mother of eleven-or-so kids sees fit to censure me? The woman whispers, “Excuse me, when you bend down, I can see your….” I thank her, not even bothering to adjust my pants. Yes, I should tuck in my shirt. But as far as I know, there is no one about to roll off the roof of the bus. And besides, there is no time – the girls are crying again.

Monday, November 03, 2014

Divrei Vayera

            Last week was the first Shabbat that we could make Kiddush and Havdalah with the kids, thanks to what is known in Israel as shaon horef, the winter clock. For the first time this season, the kids were awake when the Shabbat siren went off and Matan could rebuke me with cries of “Muktzah, muktzah” when I tried to give our very congested Liav one more dosage on the nebulizer machine during the “eighteen” minutes. Soon we were all lighting candles together in front of an open window, watching the rainstorm abate and breathing in the scent of the freshly-washed earth, as if it too had bathed for Shabbat. The twins, now 1.5, saw me cover my eyes and started playing along, convinced that it was a game of peek-a-boo, known in Hebrew as “Cuckoo.” And so I blessed over the candles to cries of Cuckoo, and then we all made our way around the corner to the neighborhood shul. On the five-minute walk home Matan and Tagel delighted in splashing through the puddle-wonderful driveway; Liav simply took off her shoes and sat on the ground, waiting for someone to pick her up. We came home, took off the kids’ wet clothes, and made Kiddush and Motzi – and miraculously everyone managed to hold off on drinking or spilling their grape juice until it was time. It felt like an idyllic Shabbat -- until it was not.
            On Shabbat afternoon we were all cooped up inside because it was raining again. The sky was dark and overcast and I was reminded of the first line of Jane Eyre: “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.” For us, too, “the cold winter had brought with it clouds so somber, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.” The kids needed constant attention and D and I were exhausted, and at some point I snapped at him unnecessarily. He snapped back. We kept carping at one another, and before long the storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest in our teapot. Arguing in front of the kids on Shabbat; it doesn’t get worse than that, I thought.
            I am fortunate that D has a capacious and forgiving soul, and by the time we had turned off the lights and gathered around the havdalah candle—with the kids all washed and ready for bed, excited about the fire and the grape juice—we had more or less made up. But I was still reeling from our fight when I sat down later that evening to read through the following week’s parsha, Vayera. It is a parsha about family dynamics – about the relationship between Abraham and his wife Sarah, Lot and his daughters, Abraham and his sons Ishmael and Isaac. No one has an out-and-out fight, but nor are these models of exemplary relationships.
            When the parsha opens, Abraham invites three strangers into his tent, commanding Sarah to “Hurry, three seahs of choice flour! Knead and make cakes!” (18:6) He does not say please or invoke any terms of endearment, nor does he take the time to explain to her why he needs this food so quickly or invite her to join the messengers once they break bread. When Sarah overhears the news that she is going to have a son, she laughs: “Now that I am withered, am I to have enjoyment – with my husband so old?” (18:12) Later she realizes that she has insulted Abraham and covers up by lying, insisting that in fact she did not laugh.
            In the parsha’s next scene, Abraham tries and fails to count out ten righteous men so as to defend Sodom from destruction. The angels arrive at the gates of the city and Lot greets them and welcomes them into his home. When the townsmen demand that he release these new arrivals so that they can abuse them, Lot instead offers his own daughters: “I beg you, my friends, do not commit such a wrong. Look, I have two daughters who have not known a man. Let me bring them out to you, and you may do to them as you please; but do not do anything to these men, since they have come under the shelter of my roof” (19:7-8). It is presumably those same daughters who then go on to get their father drunk and sleep with him after the destruction of Sodom: “Our father is old… Come, let us make our father drink wine, and let us lie with him, that we may maintain life through our father” (20:31-32).
            If these family dynamics weren’t awful enough, the camera then pans back to Abraham and Sarah, who have just arrived in Gerar. Abraham lies and says that Sarah is his sister so as to save his own life, since he is concerned that the king of the place, Avimelech, will kill him so as to take his wife. Following the episode with Avimelech, Isaac is born and Sarah insists that Abraham cast out his other son Ishmael, who is banished to the wilderness. And of course, after banishing one son, Abraham proceeds nearly to sacrifice his second son in response to a divine command in the parsha’s climactic final scene.
Taken as a whole, the figures who populate this week’s parsha seem to be far kinder and more sympathetic to outsiders than to their own family members. Abraham privileges the needs of strangers over his wife’s feelings, and Lot protects those same strangers by sacrificing his own daughters. Abraham listens to God’s voice, which makes him the patriarch of the Jewish people; but he does so at the expense of his own sons. Why?
Alas, I can identify all too well with this tendency. With our own families, we sometimes make the mistake of believing that we can get away with behavior that would be unpardonable with others. Our family members love us unconditionally, so if we fly off the handle on a particular rainy afternoon, then surely they will come around and forgive us. Perhaps it is also the case that we assume that our family members are part of ourselves; if we are rude to them, it is only because we are acting as a team towards some higher purpose – say, to be hospitable to angelic guests, or to perpetuate humanity after terrible destruction. We forget that the people we love have feelings, and that those feelings ought to be as dear to us as our own. When they hurt, we hurt. And it is precisely because they love us unconditionally that we must guard their feelings so carefully.
The midrash states, “Great is peace, for the great name that was written in holiness may be erased for the sake of peace between a man and his wife” (Vayikra Rabba 9:9). The midrash refers to the Sotah ritual, whereby a man who suspects his wife of adultery tests her by bringing her to the Temple, where the priest writes out the divine name and dissolves it in water. God allows for God’s own name to be erased so that there is peace within the house. My intention here is not to condemn our Biblical forbears, who are powerful if complex role models. But the next time I find myself about to lose my temper with the people I love most, I hope I will stop and count to ten. I may not be able to save the city, but hopefully I will preserve peace within the walls of our home.