In the New York Times, psychiatrist Pooja Lakshmin describes the societal betrayal of mothers during this pandemic. This concept resonates deeply with me. It is the underlying issue behind my four month absence from blogging.
Societal betrayal of mothers
This societal betrayal of the communal need to support raising children led me to reflect more intentionally on Judaism. It left me adrift in the breadth of androcentrism, throughout the history of written Jewish sources. The relentless focus on male lives, separate from familial obligation, is oppressive. My faith shattered and my soul could not imagine completing my intensive jaunt through psalm 25. Severed from the psalm and all forms of piety, I could not write.
Moving beyond biblical androcentrism
My way back to some semblance of wholeness came through my final presentation for a Tanakh course last semester. I realized I am not betraying myself by engaging with the Bible. Those narratives, composed by men, offering deepest insight into men’s lives. Simultaneously, the civilization grounded in the Jewish Bible and worldview transforms me.
Many sources of wisdom have problematic components, whether it be they were outspoken Jew haters, racist slave owners, or misogynists. Do we chuck all of it because they aren’t people we’d want to have dinner with?
Using imperfect sources
Can we separate the true wisdom from the husks? Is it possible to transform received wisdom with our deeper insight into the breadth of human potential?
My goal is to place wisdom into digestible formats for human growth towards the best versions of ourselves.
Towards that end, my next post will conclude my meditations on psalm 25. Then, I’ll try to go back to studying the psalter and writing shorter posts on each psalm along the way. L’Chaim!
Shabbat Nachamu, the Shabbat of Consolation, just ended. Last week’s Torah portion began with the word “v’etchanan,” I pleaded.
Our sages say that Moses was praying for the ability to pray. The original fore-prayer. The term fore-prayer was coined by Reb Zalman Shachter-Shalomi to describe the need to prepare oneself for prayer.
The ultimate version of this is the prayer that is not a prayer, a line from Psalm 51: “Adonai, s’faitay tiftach, ufi yagid t’hilatecha;” traditionally translated as “O Lord, open my lips, so that my mouth may declare Your praise” which is the opening meditation before the formal beginning of the Amidah, the Standing Prayer, known simply as Prayer / Tefillah in Judaism’s oldest surviving discussions of liturgy.
Still, it feels like getting ahead of myself to speak about that beautiful line of poetry. The first fore prayer I say in the morning is a command to my soul from Psalm 104:
Bless, my soul, HaShem. HaShem, my God, You are very great; clothed in majesty and splendor, wrapped in a robe of light; spreading out the heavens like a tent. [Based on Rabbi Jonathan Sacks‘ translation in the Koren siddur.] Barchi nafshi, et HaShem, HaShem Elokai, Gadalta Me’od, Hod V’Hadar Lavashta; Oteh Ohr Kashalmah, Noteh Shamayim Kariyah.
My soul, Bless HaShem! HaShem, my God — very great; clothed in majesty and splendor; wrapped in light like a robe; spreading out reality like a map.
I cherish beginning my davvenen with this line of poetry. It is the most beautiful description of The Cause of Being that I have: the Essence of the Universe that is wrapped in light. Try to sink into the idea that reality is unfolding like a map and you may never read another word of prayer.
These are the words I utter before I prayer; specifically, before I say the blessing for my tallit and wrap myself in it, imagining that I am wrapping myself in light — as I wrap myself in the light of the tradition, the light of holiness, the light of goodness. I also try to remember that I cannot see all of reality. That whatever I am upset about or anxious about or enjoying is just a fraction of the reality that exists in the world.
And yet, I continually fail at these meditations because I fail at the most basic aspect of the life I yearn for: consistent, daily prayer.
I looked into a lot of aspects of last week’s Torah portion in preparing to speak about it at Temple Beth Israel of Highland Park. Ironically, I failed to mention anything about fore prayer during my d’var Torah.
There is so much to say as we embark on that seven week journey toward the High Holy Days. What is sovereign in your life? What do you revere? How do you show your reverence on a daily basis?
They say that the Haftorah portions for this period reflect the ascent to the holiest days of our calendar, rather than being related to our Torah portions. And yet, I find them to be intimately related. I cried out to HaShem and She answered: “Comfort, oh Comfort.” Nachamu, nachamu – the words from Isaiah that begin the prophetic portion are a clear response to the anguish we feel. Anxiety for failing to meet our own expectations of ourselves. Shame that, as Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk said, we put our ego between HaShem and ourselves. Embarrassment that we still worship idols; we covet physical things and focus our energies on material reality, ignoring the palaces in time calling to our souls.
It is all okay. Ain od. There is nothing else. The Divine is everywhere, experiencing everything alongside us. And She will suckle us through the narrow places and we will arrive into ourselves when we are ready to take our place and heed the call to our own depths.
At the Davennen Leadership Training Institute, we were asked to work on our leyning skills. That is, we were asked to step into the ability to decode tropes, the musical system used to chant the Torah. And for those of us who know the trope system, we were given intermediate or advanced options. We could work in partnership to chant conversations as a dialog in English or individually take a section of Torah and provide our own translation.
This project terrified me before I ever opened a Chumash. I am somewhat comfortable preparing a talk on the Torah, from the comfort of my own home with my teachers surrounding me. I take out five or six commentaries and meditate my way into a conversation on a portion.
My process for creating this English story based on the Torah
So, being at Isabella Freedman Retreat Center, with a handful of unfamiliar commentaries, was quite disorienting. Further, I chose a section that I thought would allow me to enter into the deep mystery of knowing HaShem, Exodus 24.1-11; the section of the parsha Mishpatim known as the Sapphire Vision; an entry point into Jewish mysticism.
First, I went through the available commentaries and wrote a straight-forward English version of the text. I stared at those words, devoid of any women, full of ancient blood rituals, and I felt a chasm open up between me and HaShem. I asked our holy teacher, Hazzan Jack Kessler, how much space I had for interpretation. He encouraged me to explore the story however I wanted to, and pointed out how strange the ending of the passage is. (You see HaShem’s throne and your response is to eat and drink?)
I practiced chanting the Torah portion in Hebrew, to get myself more deeply connected to the holy sparks within it. I also assumed that it makes the most sense to follow the trope cadence already assigned when developing an English translation. So, initially, I was going to chant my English story as simply as Mishpatim describes The Sapphire Vision. And then, on the first day of English leyning, my holy sisters and brothers pulled out rare tropes to adorn their English. And I thought, well, if any portion deserves adornment, surely it is a vision of the Divine. Plus, all that fancy note work might keep people from booing me out of the room for the heresy of my story. (Because there was still a large portion of me terrified of sharing my story publicly, in front of an open Torah.)
In terror, I stepped forward.
This is the hardest thing I did last week. It cracked open a part of me that I didn’t know was there. I am so deeply grateful to Reb Marcia Prager and Hazzan Jack Kessler, along with our other holy teachers, for creating the space that allowed me to greet the Shechinah with open arms.
I wrote this in an attempt to explain why the majority of Jews find anti-Zionism to be anti-Jewish. I fully recognize not all Jews agree with this position, but it is the position that people find so difficult to understand. Perhaps after reading this, you will still disagree with us. Before responding, I hope you will take the time to read my entire comment.
First, if conversations are going to continue, words need to be defined. Zionism is the desire of Jews for self-determination. In 2019, Zionism describes the right of Jews to self-determination in the land of Israel.
Second, the reason Zionist Jews find anti-Zionism anti-Jewish is because our connection to the land is as inherent to our identity as the term Judaism. We are Israelites. Traditionally, “Israel” in our prayers refers to us as a collective people. It is deeply offensive to be described as colonialists — for centuries, archaeologists have been discovering how we lived in our land before the multiple times we have been expelled.
Third, there is a difference between criticizing Israel and being an anti-Zionist. An anti-Zionist denies that right of the Jewish state to exist. That ridiculous opinion piece claiming that no state has the right to exist is another piece of rhetorical deflection. At the same time that Arab states continue to keep Palestinians in refugee camps for generations, they were expelling their Jewish citizens. This is not a “gotcha” question. It is a question that clears the way for understanding whether there is any room for discussion. North American Indigenous nations exist within the reality of accepting that the USA exists. And the constant analogies to indigenous people is also offensive.
Here’s the thing: I try hard not to use the term “anti-Semitic.” I do not deny that as a Jew, I am a Semite.* But I also understand the term was created because people found it too difficult to broach the words “Jew” and “Jewish.” And yes, it is anti-Jewish to deny our right to self-determination. I get that not all Jews feel the need / want to be associated with Israel. The majority of us, and more importantly the majority of us who live there, want Israel to exist. That’s what self-determination means. It means that collectively, we made a decision and our collective decision was recognized by the United Nations. The existence of the state of Israel is not racist. The actions of the Israeli government, like the actions of any government, can be critiqued. But when you claim our state, and only our state, does not deserve to exist, then you are anti-Jewish. That is why anti-Zionism is such an offensive term and ideology to Jews.
*And let’s go back to the understanding that Jews are Semites. We’ve been kicked off our ancestral land generation after generation, century after century. We were murdered in Europe and Israel during the Crusades. Islamic rulers pushed us out. And then we came back. We are not colonizers. We are indigenous people returning to our land. Should Israelis find a peaceful way to co-exist with Palestinians? Absolutely! Does that mean accepting the “right of return” for everyone claiming Palestinian heritage? No. Modern states divide territory between peoples who have competing, legitimate desire to the land.
This is the world view that progressive Jewish sisters are asking you to understand.
It is also worth questioning: why is this the one and only foreign policy issue that “must be part of the collective platform of the movement for women’s rights.” There are more than two sides to any geopolitical dispute. And women’s rights in the United States are not dependent on the successful negotiation of peace between Palestinians and Israelis. Just as our rights are not dependent on Rohingya women in Burma being able to live freely, or any religious people in China (Muslim, Jewish, Christian), or Tibetans. Fundamentally, there is a distinction between gathering for women’s equality and advocating on foreign policy. And it is worth questioning why it is so easy to call out, and indeed demonize, Jews in the “pursuit of peace.”