Book Review: Chanukah and Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach

I've been on a bit of a Chanukah (c)hiatus this week while ironing out some new work that I'm really excited to be taking on and trying to have some time with the hubsters before the wee one shows up. The truth is that nothing I've planned has gone according to, which is just proof that planning is for the foolish!

The upside of a bit of downtime has been that I've been sleeping a lot and devouring books at a rate for which I'm quite proud.

For Chanukah my literature of choice has been The Soul of Chanukah: Teachings of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach (published by Mosaica Press) as compiled by Rabbi Shlomo Katz. Now that's two big names in one small chunk of sentence, and I have to say that this is one of the nicest looking books I've gotten for review in a while.

There are countless reasons why this book rocks, chief among them (according to Mr. T) being that it's in English. In Israel it's easy to land a lot of Rav Carlebach's work, but in Hebrew, which is awkward because most (if not all) of his morsels of wisdom were shared with the world in English. On that note, when it comes to morsels of wisdom in the form of divrei Torah or conversations, you want a concise book that is inspirational, powerful, and thought-provoking. This book is a mere 114 pages split into -- you guessed it -- eight chapters for eight nights, meaning that it's the perfect sit-and-learn option for Chanukah (so buy it for next year, why don't you?).

Unfortunately, the book only hit my post box midway through Chanukah, so I haven't completely devoured it yet, but what I've read will have me reading it well into the post-chag. But I want to give you an idea of the brilliance and inspired ideas that make Rav Carlebach such a prolific and unique individual.

Now, I refer to Rav Carlebach as "hippie dippie," which drives Mr. T nuts, but with my background and philosophy on Judaism, I often find it hard to relate to the "deeper" side of Judaism found in Hasidic teachings. Yes, I sit down every Friday night and read from a collection of Hasidic stories and found some of my greatest inspiration and peace in Judaism through Chabad and other Hasidic teachings, but I still don't get into the sit-in-a-circle and sing style of Judaism. It's just not in my fabric.

Lucky for me, I married a lover of Hasidic philosophy and understanding, so we find a lot of the same "aha" moments really powerful, just in different ways.

So after reading through Chapter 1, Shining Eyes, I had to share some of the tidbits with the husband because it screamed "Mr. T." This first chapter was all about how we're meant to perceive the world uniquely on Chanukah, especially because it's one holiday where we don't go out to greet the king, but the king (that's HaShem) comes into our homes to greet us. How much more special and meaningful is it that the king comes to us?! We're all commanded to light the chanukiyah (menorah for Chanukah) -- every man, woman, and child -- and the king is meant to come to our homes to check out our gnarly lights. It's like Justin Bieber showing up to taste your famous homemade waffles, if you need a ridiculous, modern reference to something that can't even begin to compare with what it's like to experience the presence of HaShem.

Also: Did you also realize that Chanukah is the one chag that we celebrate that actually took place in Jerusalem? Passover/Pesach was in Egypt, Purim was in Persia, and so on. Now that's a powerful reason to kindle the lights and experience the miracle.

One thing Mr. T is always kvetching about is how so many Jews (and people in general) are constantly asking "Mah magiah li?" or "What's in it for me?" instead of asking what can I provide, what can I do, where can I go? Rav Carlebach talks about how on Chanukah we're meant to look around and just take it in because we can't use the lights of the chanukiyah for anything, we can only enjoy them.

I can look at something and say, "Can I use it or can I not use it? Is it good for me or not?" Just like the spies said. But the fixing of Chanukah is that I'm not trying to use it for anything. I'm just so glad it's there.  ... The Torah of Chanukah is that I'm learning Torha, and I'm just looking at what I'm learning. No calculations, no expectations; I'm just looking at the light and I'm so glad it's there." (21)

That's some powerful, beautiful Torah right there. Chanukah, for Rav Carlebach, is all about how we look at the world, the people around us, the beautiful things that we are and are not doing. It's all about refocusing ourselves and reconsidering things, "fixing" as he says Chanukah by our perception.

There are moments where I can definitely see Rav Carlebach with guitar in hand calling something "deep" or talking about the "deepness" of Chanukah, which does make me giggle a bit, but whether you're into his style of Judaism or not, the morsels of Torah and truth in his vision are incredibly powerful.

I absolutely recommend this book, because the truth is this is one of those rare moments where I have nothing negative to say about it. Yes, mark your calendars, folks, because this is one book that will grace my shelves for years to come. It might even make for a Chanukah gift in the coming years.

Note: I received this book for review purposes, but my reviews remain honest, unbiased, and from the heart!

Ask Chaviva Anything: Women of the Wall

ANNOUNCEMENT: I am super stoked to say that there will be a Mr. T video coming up in the next few weeks. Brace yourselves for the awesomeness that is my husband. Stay tuned to the YouTube channel and/or here for the video. If you have questions for Mr. T, feel free to ask them in the comments of this post and/or on Ask Chaviva Anything!

And now ... back to your regularly scheduled post ...

I had a question on Ask Chaviva Anything about my thoughts on "Women of the Wall," so I thought I'd go ahead and address it since, for now, the insanity surrounding the group has died down a bit. Although the next time Rosh Chodesh rolls around it will be one more big giant display of Chillul HaShem from both sides of the issue down at the Kotel, which I find hugely disappointing and a shame for Judaism.

Women of the Wall is an organization that has been around since the late 1980s in Israel but only in the past few years has the group come under increased scrutiny after throwing themselves at the media like a 12-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert. According to their website, their main goal is

to achieve the right, as women, to wear prayer shawls, pray and read from the Torah collectively and out loud at the Western Wall (Kotel) in Jerusalem, Israel.

As my understanding of the group goes, the group struggled for the ability to do this in legal battles up until 2003, when the group was granted the right to hold their services at Robinson's Arch. In 2009 a complaint was filed and the insanity broke out again, and over the past few years Anat Hoffman and the WoW crew have taken their plight to new media levels. On the WoW website, it says that Anat has dedicated her life to "the Jewish principle of tikkun olam, which literally means repairing the world." But seriously, is what WoW doing repairing the world? At all? In any way shape or form? 

I believe in the right for any person -- Jewish or not -- to express themselves and their religious beliefs in a manner that does not bring physical or emotional harm on others, in a manner that follows a standard of basic human rights, but that also is conscious of the responsibility of one human being on another human being for respect. 

(Also: I have to say that wearing a prayer shawl or tefillin or a kippah or anything like that has never appealed to me, even when I was a Reform Jew being called up for aliyot regularly. I'm a firm believer that equality is a misunderstood concept. Men are not women and women are not men. If men and women could be perfectly equal in the eyes of HaShem or Judaism or any religion, then there would only be one human and that human would be sexless and genderless and everyone would look exactly the same. Unfortunately, that's just not how we were created.)

Do I think that Women of the Wall meet that perspective? Not really, no. Do I think that the violent Haredi mobs that attack WoW meet that perspective? Definitely not. Do I support either side? No, I don't. 

Basically I think both sides are screwing up royally, and, in the process, are making the ritual side of Jewish life look like a joke and making the kotel look like a pagan shrine rather than what it is -- a retaining wall from the time of the fall of the Second Temple. Yes, it's an important site, but good lord we've turned the Kotel into the last thing on earth it was meant to be. We're treating it as if the wall itself holds the shechinah, the dwelling place of HaShem. And if that's how people on both sides of the aisle want to see the Kotel, then I think Judaism has a major, major problem. 

If the Women of the Wall really wanted to do themselves, Judaism, and ritual a favor, they'd go into the Kotel tunnels and hold their service at the space closest to the Holy of Holies. Call me crazy, but it seems to make a whole lot more sense. 

Also, as an aside, I think that their choice of name is just ... sigh ... unfortunate. Historically, women of the wall were prostitutes. Rachav, in the book of Joshua, was a woman of the wall. Prostitutes worked in the city's walls because they would catch travelers going in and out of the city and because for dignitaries it was far enough away from their homes that no one would traverse the seedy area looking for them. 

I know I'm opening myself up for criticism here, and I'm willing to take it. I believe we all connect to HaShem in our own way, in our own time, and I support everyone's right to connect or not connect. For me, what is most important is owning -- 110 percent -- where you are, defining yourself by what you believe and who you are as opposed to what you are not. I think that one of the problems with the Women of the Wall and a lot of very liberal organizations is that they devote themselves to not being Orthodox, to not separating men and women, to not keeping kosher, to not doing this and that. 

It's easy to define ourselves by what we aren't. It's a lot harder to define yourself by who you are, what you believe, and to own it. 

It's a Modest, Modest World

For this installment, we have two great questions about issues that fall under modesty or tzniut in Judaism. (Note: tzanua or anav is the adjective form, meaning modest.) We'll start out at the head and end up at the toe!

Hair covering - do you cover all the time? At home alone? What about at home with just the family? What if you were hanging out with just a bunch of women, with no chance of a man interrupting you?

I can count on one hand the number of times I've gone around my house alone without my head covered, and there are zero times countable that I've been at home with the family or in a group of women and not covered my hair. A good example of this is earlier this week at the Pre-Shavuot Sushi Night here in Neve Daniel -- not a dude in sight, and plenty of women were taking off their tichels to try on new scarves to buy, but not me. I'm the kind of gal who will try a tichel on on top of other scarves. It's just my way.

This is the tichel I purchased at sushi night!

Consistency allows me to feel completely comfortable when I am covering all the time, and the truth is I really do love covering. For me, the sentiment from Micah 6:8 to walk humbly with HaShem is something that I try to enact at all times, and it shows that it really isn't about the involvement of a man in my hair-covering experience.

Hi Chaviva. (Great blog btw.) I live in a charedi community in Eretz Yisrael where the custom is for us to wear stockings outside (in the 36 degree Celsius heat) all year round, and most of us also in the house also. I have seen that some communities do differ in this opinion - what is the stance of your community?  How do you find tznius and Eretz Yisrael in your time here so far?

This writer (thanks!) also included a link to an interesting piece from the Rav Kook perspective on stockings, which says the following,

... in regards to the part of the leg below the knee, the halacha depends on the custom of the place: if it is the custom to cover it, it must be covered. If not, it need not be covered. In practice, since the majority of ‘poskim’ are stringent, it is preferable to act in this way. A woman who chooses to be lenient is permitted, for she has reputable sources to rely on.

To be completely honest, the entire concept of stockings isn't something I've thought much on in the past, mostly because where I grew up (non-Jewishly), stockings were meant for two things: winter and dressy occasions. For some reason, my mental place for stockings and tights is still in that place. Where I lived in Teaneck, Denver, and now in Neve Daniel, the standard of the community seems to be stocking-less in the summer and various observances in the winter. Some people wear leggings and others wear tights. Until very recently, I couldn't find a comfortable pair of tights so would often wear leggings under a long skirt or leggings with heavy socks over it.

So far, there is definitely a much more clear community dividing line than places I've lived in the U.S. as far as what people wear. Looking around the room at the Sushi Night earlier this week, I realized how very similar everyone in Neve Daniel dresses. It's very flowy, simple casual but put together, and the hair-covering style is up my alley (tichels, tichels, tichels). Although there is a certain set of women who wear pants and short sleeve shirts, it doesn't seem to be the norm here.

What do you think about stockings in the dead of summer and covering all the time? Have a related question or something off the wall? Just ask!

Ask Chaviva Anything: The Mish-Mash Edition

Another installment of Ask Chaviva Anything! Let's do some random ones this time. To start us off, we have the following.

Can we meet you in Israel? (Not trying to be sketchy)

Sketchy? Psshaw! Never. I'd love to meet anyone and everyone who visits Israel or lives here. I'm also going to be in the UK over Pesach for a few weeks, so if you live there, shoot me an email and we'll get together.

This one isn't a question, but I'll address it anyway.

I asked questions that we never answered.

You did? What were they? Feel free to re-ask at the link or to post your questions below. Alternatively, you can email me at kvetching dot editor at gmail dot com. I try to answer all questions that are asked. However, I don't answer questions that are derogatory, mean-spirited, or just plain hateful.

The next question could be a long-answer query, but I'm going to keep it short.

Why are there so many different "catagories" of Orthodox Jews? Where do you fall in?

Like everything in life, and in every religion and country, we feel most comfortable when we can categorize someone or something. It makes it easier to say "He is this, and I am not" or "She eats that, but I do not." Without these boxes or categories, people find it difficult to breathe. It's sort of like the joke about the Jew on a deserted island who is rescued. When the rescue party shows up, they notice there are two synagogues on the island that he built. They ask him why, and he points to one and then the other saying, "That's the synagogue I go to, that's the synagogue I wouldn't step foot into." Humans are creatures of adjectives -- it's just how we function. The bummer about this is that we limit the adjectives and categories we have when it comes to religion.

Most people would peg me as Orthodox, or, here in Israel, as Da'ati Leumi (National Religious or Religious Zionist) because of how I dress, how I will cover my hair, the people I surround myself with, etc. However, I don't like to put myself in boxes. I've written about it before, but these days I'd just call myself shomeret mitzvoth -- I observe the mitzvoth that HaShem has gifted us.

Next up?

Do you want to have children?  A lot? A little? Do you think Israel is the ideal place to raise children?

Yes, yes, yes. It's interesting how when you end up with the right person the thought of children is almost compulsory. Many of you will remember in the not-so-distant past that I was hesitant about having children. Because of some strained relationships, I thought that I would not be a good mother, that I would do more harm than good with having children, so I was considering just writing off kids forever. Moving to Israel and meeting Mr. T has changed my needs and wants astronomically. For the first time in my life, I can actual picture myself having children (as many as HaShem has in store for us), because Mr. T is an amazing father already. He lights up eyes in children without any effort, and I find it beautiful and inspiring. We're eager to have our own brood so that we can screw them up as much as possible. (Joking, of course.)

As for Israel being a good place to raise children, I would say a million times yes (especially in Neve Daniel). There's a freedom and comfortability here for children, and I'm eager to bring Jewish kids up in a place where they're free to be Jews but where I also can teach them about the global community in its diversity. I'm blessed to come from a non-Jewish family, so my kids will never exist in a bubble where the world is all Jews, all the time. At the same time, they'll be comfortable and happy in a country where being Jewish is more normal than in many other places.

We'll close off this round of questions with another easy question.

Will there be a photographer at the wedding and will we be able to see the pics? : )

Yes! One of Mr. T's friends will be taking pictures, and I'm going to have several friends there who are Social Media superstars, so there will be lots of live-action Tweeting and Facebooking going on, I predict. We're also still trying to figure out whether a livecast on UStream or YouTube is possible, so be on the lookout for that.

Bad Decisions: A Response

I don't know where to begin this blog post.

I feel violated, torn, and like the institution that I've always taken such great pride in being a part of -- journalism -- really let me down. Someone I worked with ages ago at The Washington Post decided to write an article about me, my conversion, and the tumult I was in while I was dating a non-Jew during my out-of-body experience in late 2011/early 2012. After I broke up with said non-Jew and focused all of my energy on tons of teshuva and then aliyah, I found out the article was being updated and finally going to print. So there was updating, fact checking, and all of that jazz.

Then the article came out.

For the first time since my marriage collapsed, I'm heart broken. Truly heart broken.

So I'm not posting it here, and I'm going to ask that if you have read the article also not to post it here. In my opinion, it amounts to lashon hara, a lack of fact checking, and a tone that is bad for converts.

Also? It contains some of the most personal information about my life that I've never blogged about, for good reason. I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to share the intimate details of my upbringing. But one friend put it appropriately: The writer abused my intimacy.

There are a few blatant errors in this article that I want to correct. I'll post those portions here, because it's relevant. Here are the corrections.

I was not searching for a "new family." I was searching for a place to belong, like everyone does. I did not grow up in near-poverty. My family -- like all families -- have rough patches. I did not start working to loan my parents money. I started working so I could buy the things that I wanted to that my parents could no longer afford.

"So years later, when she learned in a Jewish history course at the University of Nebraska that every Jew is considered a son or daughter of Abraham and Sarah, the teachings spoke to her."

This is the cheesiest, most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, and I did not say this, nor is this an accurate assessment of why I came to Judaism. If you're curious how that happened, I can tell you. It's in my conversion essay.

She wanted, she wrote on her blog, "to throw myself into the tidy box of Orthodoxy—Get Married, Move to a Big Orthodox Community, Have Only Orthodox Friends, Dress the Part, Wear the Headcovering, Go to the Mikvah, Live and Breathe the Box of Orthodoxy." She wanted to show converts that they could be just as Orthodox as someone born in Teaneck.

Okay, this falls into the story's narrative of 2010, after I got married. The actual location of this? It came from December 2011 when I was recalling how these were all of the things that I was not comfortable doing. This was me reflecting back -- as a divorcee -- about what that period of my life was like. Mind you, I was recently divorced, and I was going through some crazy reflection and changing. Either way, misquote, wrong place in the narrative, oh dear writer.

Though Orthodox Judaism is officially governed by a handful of Israeli rabbis, their secrecy empowered Chaviva to pass judgment on what it means to be Jewish after just a few years in the faith.

Uh, this sounds very Elders of Zion, doesn't it? Factually incorrect. There is no master body of Orthodox Judaism.

She would watch TV or use the elevator on the Sabbath if Hibbs pressed the buttons.

FALSE. As I told the writer, and I reiterated to the fact checker a dozen times, I never, I repeat never, used the elevator on Shabbat with his assistance. The truth is that most Shabbats that he was around, I didn't leave my apartment. In fact, I didn't leave my apartment much at all on Shabbat -- I was on the seventh floor! The TV watching? I also happened to be in homes on Passover where people had the TV on (Jews, at that). Shocker!

Just under two years after her Orthodox conversion, she removed the word "Orthodox" from the header of her blog, relabeling herself "Underconstructionist."

Um. Let's see. I first blogged about feeling like this term best described me in 2008. In fact, in a blog post from 2009 in which I explain why I'm converting to Judaism, I cite that all Jews should be Underconstructionist.

Sigh. I'm anger and embarrassed and exhausted and frustrated all at once. I feel like this will impact my "sellability" as a wife, mother, and partner. I worry that it will anger family and friends. I worry that it makes me look like someone who is insincere. It brings tears to my heart and a pain to my stomach that I cannot describe in any understood lexicon. 

There are reasons that I don't share with the world what happened in my marriage or how I grew up. There are reasons that intimate details remain intimate. Some people seem to think my entire life is here on this blog, but it isn't. The secret dark and lonely places that I have experienced are not meant for this blog, they're not meant for your eyes and ears. They're mine. And, B"H, some of those things are and will always be quiet, private, my own. And those things, that you all will never know about me could fill libraries, ocean liners, islands. 

I allowed myself to be vulnerable after my divorce. I made some bad choices, and allowing myself to be interviewed for this article was one of them. My ultimate goal now and going forward is to live my life as intentionally as possible. And when I slip up, I evaluate, I do teshuva, and I move forward. It's the only way I can move. 

So judge me if you must. Question my conversion, my commitment, my actions, everything. Whatever you feel like saying or doing, you will. In the end, only HaShem has the right to judge me -- and you.

Yom Kippur in Galut

I had an incredibly emotional Yom Kippur, and for the first time in many years I was able to power through a migraine and fully fast without drinking anything. There was something in the air this year about Yom Kippur ... something fulfilling and powerful. Something that moved me to tears during the confessions or vidui.

We have willfully sinned.

That one got me every time. Thinking back on the past year and knowing that I made choices that were ones of sin, and yet acted anyway, well, that smacked me in the gut and brought tears to my eyes. I think that for the first time the Yom Kippur service held a deep and painful personal meaning for me, and it stretched back beyond last year into my failed marriage. 

I was asked to speak during Kol Nidrei with Minyan Na'aleh for roughly five minutes on "new beginnings" because of my impending aliyah. I gladly accepted -- to be asked meant so much to me. I toiled over what to say for a long time, and I ended up turning to my rav to hash out exactly how to connect Yom Kippur with aliyah with new beginnings with my ever-changing experience. The result, I think, had a more powerful impact than I could have known. I won't repost the text here, mostly because it's that personal. Yes, I stood in front of a crowd of largely strangers, but for some reason it made sense. The message? Choices. I spent three years of my life devoid of choices. Aliyah is me breaking out with the ultimate choice. 

I managed to stand throughout the entirety of Neilah, despite fatigue, a headache, and the fact that I was completely freezing. The sanctuary was frigid, and I was dressed for a typical Colorado summer day. Near the end of the service, when the shofar was blown and a burst of adrenaline had the men dancing around the bimah singing "L'shanah ha'ba'ah b'Yerushalyim!" (next year in Jerusalem), I realized that the words were so apt. So personal.

As Yom Kippur ended and I grabbed some Orange Juice and headed home, I realized that I'm so close to Israel. I'm mere weeks away. I just have to power through the eight days of Sukkot and Simchat Torah and Shemini Atzeret and then ... I'm off.

Sell my car. Sell my bed. Pack my clothes and books. And say goodbye to Colorado and hello to the choice of a lifetime. 

Big Differences: Ba'alei Teshuva and Converts

I recently received the following email from a blog reader.

...More than once people have drawn the comparison between being a convert and being a BT. I find myself having a hard time explaining the difference to people who cannot relate. My question to you is what is your thoughts on this and if you can help me figure out something smart to say about what makes converts different than BTs.

So for starters, BT stands for ba'alei teshuvah, also known as someone who is born Jewish and either isn't religious and then becomes religious, or is religious, strays, and returns to the religion. 

This is a conversation I have more frequently than I'd like, and it's also one that very rarely has a clean resolve. BTs often feel like they've gone through what a convert has, while converts are often left feeling like BTs and even FFB (frum-from-birth) Jews just "don't get it." In fact, I find it personally frustrating when BTs say that they're also "Jews by Choice." A Jew by birth didn't choose the birthright, it was inherited. A convert chooses to answer the call of the small, still neshamah within. 

So my conversation ender is usually something along the lines of this: 

A born Jew can eat pork one day and have an aliyah the next day. They'll always be Jewish, no matter how far they stray from the path. A convert who has a halachic conversion is held to a "higher standard" that requires a strict adherence to the path. If he or she strays, the entire conversion becomes one big question mark. 

This is something I had cause to deal with earlier this year, as you all know. And I'm sure there are still people who would think twice about having me at their Shabbos table, let alone setting me up with a sibling or cousin. 

I want to emphasize that I'm not saying that BTs or converts are better, holier, or have a more difficult experience than the other. I'm saying they're different. The experiences are different. The outcomes are different. And the struggles are different. 

Whereas a BT might have to deal with a long-secular family thinking they've gone nuts or joined the "dark side," a convert might have an incredibly supportive non-Jewish family that doesn't get it but is willing to support them. On the other hand, a BT might mess up and eat meat and milk together and people will chock it up to the learning curve while a convert might be told that they clearly had a poor education and aren't committed to the law. It's different. Apples and oranges, folks. 

So what do you think? Is there a magic bullet that separates the BT from the convert? A conversation stopper that says there are differences? 

Disgusted: Social Media Squashed at Religious Girls School

I'm horrified.

Beis Rivkah High School in Brooklyn makes girls sign NO SOCIAL MEDIA contract. And if they have a Facebook? Fined for $100 or kicked out.

“It’s not a modest thing for a religious Jewish man or woman to be on,” Benzion Stock said.

Because we want our Jewish teens to grow up not knowing how to use and interact with basic technologies that will inevitably be necessary in the workforce? Because we don't want to give our Jewish girls the opportunity to connect with Jews and Israelis all over the world? To build friendships and connections? To find long-lost relatives? To connect with what the global Jewish community is doing and experiencing?

Why don't we just say "You're going to be a stay at home mom, so you won't need it."

Or, you know, we could TEACH our kids how to use social media. No one is doing that. Instead of TEACHING our kids how to use Facebook, Twitter, and other platforms, we're shutting them down in fear. We're squashing a beautiful and necessary resource. But since we're so afraid ourselves, we just can't muster the strength for a Social Media Curriculum. Because we don't understand the technologies and aren't willing to, we are harming our Jewish girls! Modesty? Someone should tell that to the entire Chabad movement, then, shouldn't they. Or to all of those Orthodox business owners who sell diamonds or food online. Or to the Orthodox restaurant owners with websites and Twitter accounts.

It's like saying, here are a bounty of amazing books. But since we're not sure how you're going to interpret the texts, and it might brainwash you, we're not going to teach you how to read.

Bravo, Beis Rivkah. Bravo for sending us back in time.

Observance, Ethics, and Being a Good Jew

I want very much to thank Stella for passing this along to me. I'm surprised I missed this back when it printed in 2010, but, well, life was in a funny place at the time.

The article -- Joining the Covenant -- was posted on Jewish Ideas Daily more than two years ago, and it was written by Rabbi Irving Greenberg (aka Rabbi Yitz Greenberg), a modern-Orthodox Jew, and details his thoughts about synthesizing "traditional requirements of the law with a principled openness to converts who will not become fully Orthodox."

The article is beautifully written, and I want to highlight a few thing that he says that gives me peace in my perpetual state of flux as an underconstructionist Jew.

Furthermore: I believe with perfect faith that God loves and honors good, serious Jews-whether or not they keep all the mitzvot. I believe that the merit of the mitzvot they do keep, including in the form of good deeds and self-sacrifice, outweighs all the punishments that can be incurred by non-observance, and that God will treat them accordingly.

Also:

As a concluding note I add this: when it comes to defining a good Jew, stressing the "particularist" ritual mitzvot over against the "universalist" mitzvot of ethical behavior is itself a gross distortion.

I think Rabbi Greenberg has hit the nail on the head. So often, we forget what it means to be a Jew. We also forget that our actions are our own in the end and only HaShem has a right to say, think, or act on our individual neshamot. 

It's an old article, but it's worth a read and a consideration, if not more -- action.

Gam Zu L'Tovah: I No Longer Am Consistent

I thought about making a podcast. I thought about writing a cryptic slam poem. I thought about just saying that this blog has taken too much out of me and I've passed up on many a chance to focus on me, to be and live for me. But this blog has been my baby, my internal dialogue, my therapy. You guys are the flies on the wall of my mental canvas. You get to see the inner workings of a stranger. The world gets to see the inner workings of a stranger. So what would be stranger than me simply disappearing from the blog, citing stress, questioning everything I know about myself, family drama that cannot even be described, and new people in my life?

The weirdest thing about being divorced is feeling like I was never married. Is that normal? Is it normal to look back and think, where did the past three years go? Who was I? Was that even me? Don't misunderstand: I got married because everything seemed to fall into place. I sought the physical and emotional comforts that marriage and relationships provide. But looking back and reflecting on it all, I did myself a great disservice denying my own feelings about the whole thing. To put it more simply: I have no clue who that woman was over the past three years.

There are clear moments: Graduate school, my Orthodox conversion, Israel. But all of the things that should matter, that should stick with me are as if a fog. Like watching a tragic movie with a tragic woman who wants nothing more than to be that image of the Orthodox woman living the Orthodox life with her Orthodox husband in an Orthodox world. And I got that. I dressed the part, I spoke the part, I ate the part, I lived the part. I was that person that people strive to be, and for those who read this blog and look for guidance on conversion to Orthodoxy, I was that example to follow.

And all of the important stuff was honest. It's the superficial stuff that I'm starting to wonder whether it was real. I believe everything -- I believe and have a firm conviction in all that Orthodox Judaism provides and demands, but I've hit this point where, because I'm unraveling who I was for three years, I don't know that I am capable of following through as that person. Not right now.

Man. I sound like I'm being cryptic. Like what I should say, what I want to say is so obvious. But, you see, I've placed myself under the microscope of so many people, at least 55,000 a month. And as you start to question yourself and where you're going, it's like the sun is shining so bright you're on the verge of combustion. In the Jewish community, for me at least, the fear of retribution, exclusion, denial are beyond words. The fear that, if I decide that eating out at a vegetarian restaurant is something in which I want to dabble that I will be rejected wholly by those around me. That if I decide that I'm interested in someone who isn't Jewish that my readers and friends will look at me with judgment and horror.

Oh how the mighty might fall.

In one of the segments of Ask Chaviva Anything! someone asked whether I put too much emphasis on being a convert, and I said that it's impossible, because being a ger is the very fabric of who I am. It defines my social life, my diet, my clothing, my approach to everything in life. A Jew can go "off the derech," and we scoff and laugh and pray that they come back into the fold, no matter how nominally affiliated he or she is. But no matter how not Jewish he or she chooses to date, he or she will always be Jewish. An ancestor's ketubah or picture of a grandparent's grave, and matters are solidified. A convert? Well, I have a folder that holds both my Reform and my Orthodox conversion certificates. Pieces of paper signed by modern rabbis in a modern rabbinical court in an environment installed with processes and circumstance. But those papers can disappear, they can be questioned, they can be enough to cast away someone indefinitely.

I sound dramatic, I know. But this is a glimpse into my head, my life, my world right now. People tell me that HaShem never gives us something that we can not handle, and others say gam zu l'tovah (this, too, is for good). And that makes me wonder why I currently find myself in the circumstances that I do. The more difficult thing, however, is that I feel good. I feel right. I feel happy. For the first time in a long time, I feel like me.

People are fluid. Our experiences are fluid. From one moment to the next, we cannot expect consistency from either ourselves or others. We're impacted by our environments, our emotions, our genetics, resulting in an ever-changing sense of self that should never stand still. Drastic changes, we assume, must be attributed to some life-altering event or emotion. However, in truth, it seems to make sense that we would be constantly in flux, changing, inconsistent. After all, that's why Judaism has so many installed proscriptions of how to live -- consistency. Everyone works better on a schedule. Or do we? I guess what I'm saying is that we expect too much from ourselves, from others, in the way of consistency. We expect people to have patterns, and when the pattern is thrown, we assume the worst.

Don't assume the worst, please.

Also: As an aside, if you didn't see Mitch Albom's "Have a Little Faith" on TV the other night, then you need to find it and you need to watch it. It had me in tears at the end, and I don't cry easily. The only movie I ever cried during was "My Best Friend's Wedding." But in the movie, the rabbi (played by Martin Landau) poses the following (and I'm paraphrasing) Why didn't G-d create one perfect tree? Why did he create multiple trees, spruces, pines, oaks? It's the same with man and our beliefs. There are many ways to G-d, not just one. (And this, folks, is my comfort.)

Choosing: Ashkenazic vs. Sephardic

I've been meaning to post this question for quite some time (okay, since the divorce), but after talking it over very briefly with a few friends, here I am finally posting it.

Before I got married, I had the option -- as a convert -- to choose my minhagim or customs. That means that technically, because I didn't grow up with any, I had the option of choosing the lifestyle of the Sephardim. Beans and rice on Passover! And a lot of other really awesome, fascinating, unique customs that would have made me more normal in Israel than here in the U.S.

(Sephardim, oddly enough, are more strict on many things, including bishul akum, which forbids a Jew to eat food prepared by a non-Jew, something I observed when in the conversion process that I had no problem with -- this is where that "Jew turns on the flame" bit comes in handy for a non-Jew at a grocery store bakery or the like).

Then I got married, to someone with nominally Ashkenazic traditions and a strong Ashkenazic genealogy. Although he grew up not always following the no-leavening bit on Passover, he loosely identified with the Eastern European ways, considering his family came from Romania and areas around there. So we took on those customs, despite my pleas and knowing that we technically could choose our customs. We adopted our rabbi's Yekki tradition of washing our hands before both kiddush (blessing over wine) and motzi (blessing over bread), which, by the way, has a very legit and sense-making reason if you're interested.

But now, since I'm divorced, does that take me back to square one? Do I get to choose my customs? Or am I bound to the 16-month commitment to Ashkenazic traditions? I mean, I look like I'm straight-up Eastern European (note: my family hails from England and France and Switzerland), but ... until I get married (please HaShem) again, can I just have a little bit of Sephardic fun?!

VERSUS

I don't like the eggs, but ... 

For those of you interested in the halachos that are out there, they're incredibly confusing, and opinions are incredibly varied, but there's a great response and plenty of contradictory sources cited over at Fifth Avenue Synagogue. According to Rav Schachter, community comes before family, but how often do any of us live in a community anymore where there is a single established minhag? 

Can't wait to hear your thoughts!

Conversion's a Racket

NOTE BEFORE READING: This is not a post bashing Denver. In fact, if you go back and read my past posts, I love the community here and it has been nothing short of amazing. This is a post about a specific topic: conversion to Judaism. This is not something that is isolated to Denver, it is a problem everywhere. My point is to express how instead of the weight of mitzvot making converts really consider their conversion, the weight of money pushes them away and out of the process, into Conservative or Reform conversions.

---

This is the scenario -- here in Denver, anyway.

$20 a week for at least 78 weeks = $1,560

+

$180 mikvah fee

+

however much it costs to fly a Queens rabbi out every six months = roughly $900

+

if you're a guy, $75 for the circumcision

Overall? You're looking to pay probably well over $2,000 to convert to Orthodox Judaism in Denver, Colorado -- and that's before you've even considered buying new dishes (Dairy, Meat, Passover, Parve) and all your other kitchen items that can't be kashered (probably $4,000 or so) and all those tzniut (modest) clothes, moved into the Orthodox community, and so on.

Can you imagine it? Dropping $8,000 or more just to be Jewish?

Some of you were lucky enough to be born into it. Not a single penny was spent for you to be Jewish.

And did I mention that all that studying is done to be converted on a private beth din with some local rabbis (not Rabbinical Council of America-affiliated) and a rabbi flown in from Queens?

You have no institutional backing, you just dropped $8,000, and there you are. Jewish in Denver.

Had I been living here when I decided to convert, when I was freshly starting graduate school and had zero cash in-pocket, I wouldn't have been able to do it. Even today, single and living on my own and struggling to find jobs that pay enough to pay the rent, I wouldn't be able to afford it.

It's a racket. An unfair, unconcerned-about-the-convert racket.

And I'm taking a stand, because I can't, in good conscience, stand by and let anyone convert under the current process.

At any given time, there are supposedly 10-20 people in-process. Those people should have options -- an RCA Beth Din, or the current, in-place private beth din that wants them to drop thousands just to be Jewish.

I've heard more excuses than I can really stand at this point -- bad blood in past bad conversions, a Christian couple that infiltrated the community, not enough RCA rabbis (which is no longer true), and so on.

It's not okay for some guy to have a monopoly on conversions, it's not okay to not have institutional approval, it's not okay to charge $2,000 for a conversion, and it's not okay that people aren't willing to take a stand and make a change.

So this is my mission: I'm going to reform and make more reliable, more attainable, and more stable the process of conversion to Orthodox Judaism in Denver, Colorado.

Come hell or high snowfall. I'm going to do it.

Note: When I was converting, I studied every week with my rabbi in West Hartford (I commuted about 45 minutes to do this study) and spent all of the Shabbatot and Chagim there, too. Ultimately, I ended up paying $250 to the RCA Beth Din for mikvah and beth din fees, and I donated $180 to the rabbi's discretionary fund -- never once was I asked to give my rabbi a paycheck. 


Also, if you want to read an article from September 2010 about all the "good" the current guy running things is doing, the article is here. He says that the fee "needn't be expensive." Seriously? I'm enraged. 

Hereville: Orthodox Jews and Monsters!

Last night, while staving off sleep, I picked up one of the many books I nabbed at the library on Monday. The book? Well, it's not so much a book as a graphic novel.

What's a graphic novel? According to m-w.com, and the easiest possible way to explain, a graphic novel is "a fictional story that is presented in comic-strip format and published as a book." Some of the most well-known graphic novels in the Jewish world include Maus I and Maus II, as well as the bounty of works by Will Eisner. I used to read a ton of graphic novels -- they were the ginger to my sushi, clearing my palate between "real" books.

So a friend suggested the graphic novel Hereville: How Mirka Got Her Sword, which I devoured very quickly, while learning some Yiddish on the way. The interesting thing about this comic? It's a comic book about an 11-year-old troll-fighting Orthodox Jewish girl. 

Yeah, you read that right. 

The graphics are really great, and the inclusion of a bounty of Yiddish terms and explanation of Jewish traditions (like Shabbat and challah), and the theme of the narrative is interesting. A girl growing up in a town where pretty much everyone is like her and where there are certain expectations, she finds her own way without losing sight of who she is as a Jew. 

My advice? If you have a kid, get them this graphic novel. At least check it out from the library. And tell your super frum friends who don't read my blog to read it, too. I think this book would be kosher for any Jew, whether you're observant or not, I think the book has a great message. 

And to the author, Barry Deutsch? Give us something else soon!

News for Orthodox Converts!

Okay folks, huge, huge news just passed on to me. I'm pulling the text from eJewishPhilanthropy, because it's up there already. But, well, this is just gigantic, amazing news for converts!

Shas and Jewish Agency Reach Agreement on Orthodox Conversion Aliyah 

via Dan Brown

In a letter dated yesterday, the Interior Ministry of the State of Israel notified the Knesset of a change of policy as to procedures for granting Oleh status to Orthodox converts. Instead of turning to the Chief Rabbinate for eligibility approval, it will now turn to the Jewish Agency for Israel.

According to sources close to the issue, Chief Rabbi Amar supports the move which also had to gain approval of [Shas] Interior Minister Eli Yishai.

This agreement represents the first real compromise between the Shas led Interior Ministry and Jewish Agency Chair Natan Sharansky on a question of Jewish identity.

Many conversion questions are up in the air and the only forum actually dealing with the issue is the conversion roundtable chaired by Sharansky. This is only one of many issues, but it represents the first real agreement to come from the process.

The Tale of the Magic Tichel and Its Hijab Envy

Last week I was sitting in the office of a coworker (I use that term loosely since I work from home and don't technically have coworkers) when a woman walked in and began talking to him swiftly in Hebrew about something he had sitting on his desk. The conversation was incredibly fast-paced, even for me, and I didn't catch most of what was going on. Something one of them said I did understand and I smiled, and the woman looked at me and said something in Hebrew (I forget what) and then asked if I spoke/understood Hebrew, to which I motioned that "so-so" thing with my hand. She apologized and said she'd assumed I spoke Hebrew, I said "kol b'seder" (it's okay), and they continued their conversation.

I immediately realized why this woman had assumed I spoke Hebrew. I was sitting in an office at a Jewish institution, and I was wearing a tichel (nifty Isreali head-scarf) on my head.

The tichel, I realized was the tip-off to my supposed mastery of Hebrew. The tichel meant I was Israeli or had some connection. I wasn't wearing a hat or a sheitel (wig).

That got me thinking -- again, as always -- about head coverings and what they mean. In my Hebrew class last week we read an article about the politics of the kippah and what it means, whether it's black velvet, or knitted, or one of those Nah Nach style ones. Our headgear, it seems, delegates how others view and categorize us, both politically and religiously. If you wear a tichel, chances are people will assume you're somehow tied to or involved in Zionism and Israel. If you wear a sheitel, you're from Monsey or one of the more religious and showy areas of Teaneck. And if you wear a hat -- especially a baseball cap -- well, then we all know you're just doing it to appease everyone else. (These are generalizations, folks, not my own beliefs.)

And then I was sitting in Bergen Town Center, biding time waiting for Tuvia to show up so we could look at those fancy lightweight suitcases since I'm going to be traveling so much and have a problem with ... ahem ... overpacking. I was people-watching near the fancy fishtanks that attract children and elderly alike for their bizarre, prehistoric-style fish that just look fake. Two Muslim girls walked past me in the most beautiful hijab coverings I've ever seen. I started thinking: These women look so beautiful in their head coverings that wrap over and around and here I am, wearing a headscarf that I'm perpetually shifting and pulling and tucking and I don't feel beautiful in it.

I expressed my frustration on Twitter and people suggested that it's because no hair is showing -- the focus of the viewer rests entirely on the face of the woman. Someone else posed a question that I've been wondering for quite some time: Is there anything that says a Jewish woman can't cover her hair hijab-style? And if not, why don't we? Is it because it's a Muslim thing to do and we want to distinguish ourselves? I know that in many parts of the world, Jewish women do cover their hair hijab-style, and it tends to be those with historic ties to historically Muslim lands.

Yes, that's J.Lo on the right. Stylin' in her tichel.

I guess, what I'm saying is, the hijab seems to be more, well, more tzniut and more stylish -- more mysterious, if you will. Am I nuts?

When the seasons change, I always have this kind of existential hair-covering crisis. I got married as spring was upon us, then I dealt with the summer-to-fall change, the fall-to-winter change, and now I'm dealing once again with that winter-to-spring change. I'm almost a full cycle of weather-related hair woes, and I don't think I'm a pro yet. I've had my bangs since I was a wee lass, and I just can't get rid of them. That bodes well for cute winter knit hats, but I am not loving how it looks with a tichel these days. I feel like I'm cheating. Tefach (the hand's breadth allotment of hair showing) or not.

I'm guessing if I walked out of my house and to shul with my scarf wrapped all hijab-like, I'd probably be chastised, and my conversion would go out in the window (she's a closet Muslim!). But sometimes, I troll the sites that sell these beautiful scarves and am jealous. Envious. I sometimes covet the beauty that these women accomplish in their clothing and hair coverings.

Sure, some might say I fall into the Orthofox category with my fashion sensibilities, but I'll never look as good as some of the women I see schlepping around the mall. And my tichel will never fit the way it should -- even so far as my ability to suddenly master Hebrew when it's placed upon my head (like a magic slipper or something).

Thoughts?

A Response: Dating During Conversion

I've been pondering a response to Kochava's Why You Shouldn't Date During Conversion blog post, and I think I'm finally in the right mood to write it. In short, I almost completely disagree with just about everything she wrote (but I do adore her, so it's no personal :D).

The long-dating couple before my first beth din meeting in NYC in November 2009.

As you all know, I converted Reform in 2006, many moons before meeting my now husband Tuvia. I started attending an Orthodox shul in Chicago in 2008, many months before meeting Tuvia. I moved to Connecticut, and almost instantly I met Tuvia, who at that time was in a sort of religious oasis -- he'd grown up in a religious community, gone to a Conservative day school for 15 years, been incredibly active in Hillel during college, and after college even attempted to find a Conservative synagogue, but with no luck. When I met him, he was in what I like to think of as an "either way" kind of space. But in one of our first conversations, I told him plain and simple: I'm a Reform convert going Orthodox, and if you're not going in that direction, then let's not waste each other's time. Tuvia was willing to go on the journey with me, and that journey had a lot of challenges, but none that I regret.

I knew about the complications of dating while in-process, but after speaking with a lot of people and doing my own research and soul searching, my conclusion was that you're damned if you do, damned if you don't. I frequently tell those in-process that this is how it works:

If you're dating a Jew while in-process, the community and rabbis will think you're converting for marriage. Some will be okay with that, some won't. If you're not dating anyone while in-process, the rabbis will be highly concerned over how on earth you'll ever land a husband, being a convert and all, and post-conversion will insist on setting you up with other converts (which is fine, but it pigeonholes converts, much like the Jews of Color community, which often gets set up with other Jews of color -- again, fine, but pigeonholed). Catch 22!

Tuvia and I started studying with a rabbi for my Orthodox conversion in January 2009. It's funny how it was all a review for me, but it was largely new to Tuvia, who really enjoyed learning. I struggled for many months with whether Tuvia was doing Orthodoxy for me or for himself, and I didn't want there to be a developed resentment in our relationship where I became the religious zealot of a convert and he became the unwilling participant in a love conquers all situation. (This falls under what Kochava wrote as "if your new partner isn't orthodox but you're in the orthodox conversion process.") We had a lot of discussions about it, and Tuvia assured me that he was doing it because he wanted to -- not for me. And things moved forward. (Although, let's be honest, this still haunts me, and Tuvia knows it.)

Perhaps we were blessed, but our community had zero problems and didn't react negatively at all to our situation. In fact, many people in the community thought that Tuvia was the one going through the conversion process -- not me. The decision to start observing shomer negiah was largely mine, but Tuvia understood the importance and was more than willing to go along with the observance. Was it easy? No, but for us, it was a powerful mitzvah to take on in our journey together. Many in the community were actually impressed/shocked/flabbergasted that a young modern Orthodox couple would even observe shomer negiah, believe it or not. But we held to it, because it was powerful spiritually for us (well, at least me).

We never faced chastisement, and we were upfront and honest with the beth din about everything.

The only major problem that ever came up, in the entire time of our dating and studying and going from community to community and Israel and to the two beth din meetings I had leading up to my Orthodox conversion on January 1, 2010 was the following question, posed by my beth din during the first meeting.

If you knew you were going to convert Orthodox, and you'd decided to do so before moving to Connecticut, why on earth would you join JDate (that big, ugly, non-Orthodox dating service) with the intent of meeting someone? 

Talk about a great question. Mad props to my converting rabbis. This is a great question, and the funny thing is, I really don't have a good reason. I hadn't been on JDate for probably a good two years, back when I was living in Washington D.C. from 2006-2007. But there was this funny feeling I had, especially after my good friend Reuven visited the Lubavitcher rebbe's ohel and davened (prayed) for me to make a shidduch (match) with a nice fellow. I moved to Connecticut mid-August 2008, and I joined JDate almost instantly when I arrived. Within a few days, Tuvia had contacted me, and the rest is history. It just felt right, oddly enough.

When I explained this to the rabbis, they sort of cocked their heads sideways at me. But they understood. If anything, they understood that I'd helped bring one Jew -- Tuvia -- closer to mitzvot and observance through my own actions and passion for Judaism. I think that this, above all else, allowed my beth din to see that I wasn't doing this for marriage, and that if anything, I was bringing a little light into the world through Tuvia. They asked Tuvia, many times, what his background was and how he'd arrived at Orthodoxy, because they also wanted to know that he was truly into Orthodoxy and not just along for the ride with me. But neither of us had a problem with this. (This also falls under what Kochava wrote as "if your new partner isn't orthodox but you're in the orthodox conversion process.")

All this being said, I understand where Kochava is coming from. It doesn't always work out so swimmingly. Plenty of people drop out of the process, plenty of people intermarry when they get fed up with the process, and yes, it happens. But, and I believe this firmly, if you meet someone while you're in-process, and you fall in love, and you know that this person is your one, then the passion that existed before you met that person will shine through, and your beth din will be beyond cognizant of this. It's all about planting your feet firmly and saying, "I am a Jew, I am meant to be a Jew" and your story will tell itself.

Does this work for everyone? No, but I'm not a believer in sacrificing your happiness for an assumed opinion of the institution of Orthodox conversion. Believe it or not, conversion still works on a case-by-case basis (except maybe in California, but in all things, exceptions exist ... it is Judaism after all). To write off your happiness for fear of chastisement by a rabbi or the community just means you're letting yourself be bullied. Be happy, be confident. It can be worth it.

Rashi on Shaving: Ki Teitzei

I used to sit down, every week, in a coffee shop, and read the weekly Torah portion (aka parshah). I'd make notes in a notebook, which I still have, and then write up a blog post with some semblance of my thoughts made coherent. That ritual began when I was living in Washington D.C. in 2006, and it continued well into 2008 before I moved to Connecticut. But when I moved to Connecticut, I got busy with school and my weekly parshah study was replaced largely by my academic probes that translated into personal discovery with Talmudic and midrashic study, as well as Hebrew.

Something Elul has me thinking about and reflecting on is my devotion to weekly, if not daily, Torah study. Or examining the halachos or some other aspect of this Jewish life I carry so proudly. Thus, I give you, some thoughts on just a bit of the upcoming parshah, Ki Teitzei. 

(Deuteronomy 22:5, with Rashi commentary from Chabad.org)

5. A man's attire shall not be on a woman, nor may a man wear a woman's garment because whoever does these [things] is an abomination to the Lord, your God.

ה. לֹא יִהְיֶה כְלִי גֶבֶר עַל אִשָּׁה וְלֹא יִלְבַּשׁ גֶּבֶר שִׂמְלַת אִשָּׁה כִּי תוֹעֲבַת יְי אֱלֹקיךָ כָּל עֹשֵׂה אֵלֶּה:

A man’s attire shall not be on a woman: making her appear like a man, thereby enabling her to go among men, for this can only be for the [purpose of] adultery. — [Nazir 59a]

לא יהיה כלי גבר על אשה: שתהא דומה לאיש כדי שתלך בין האנשים, שאין זו אלא לשם ניאוף:

nor may a man wear a woman’s garment: to go and abide among women. Another explanation: [In addition to not wearing a woman’s garment,] a man must also not remove his pubic hair or the hair of his armpits [for this is a practice exclusive to women]. — [Nazir 59a]

ולא ילבש גבר שמלת אשה: לילך ולישב בין הנשים. דבר אחר שלא ישיר שער הערוה ושער של בית השחי:

because … is an abomination: The Torah forbids only [the wearing of] clothes that would lead to abomination [i.e., immoral and illicit behavior]. — [Nazir 59a]

כי תועבת: לא אסרה תורה אלא לבוש המביא לידי תועבה:

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Okay. What struck me about this particular verse is that it relates that a woman shouldn't wear the article, or as it is understood, clothing item, that belongs to a man, while a man shouldn't wear "a woman's dress" is what it says specifically. Does that rule out bras? I'm joking, of course. The reason for this command, according to the text, is that it is an abomination. Rashi understands this to be because it would lead a man or woman to commit adultery. The modern and commonplace act of wearing pants and button-downs among women aside, how does Orthodoxy understand this?

Women in the Orthodox community wear skirts, by and large, wear skirts, so pants aren't an issue. But what about shirts that could be understood as men's clothing. A button-down, for example. The "boyfriend tee" as many places call it. A simple, classic, professional button-down shirt, skirt or not ... would it make Rashi shudder? 

And how do we view the man who wears a skirt on Purim for kicks and giggles -- is it in the spirit of this simple command not to don the dress of a woman? You won't find too many women in the Orthodox community donning full male attire for Purim (that whole skirt thing, of course), but men. Men wear dresses and skirts and get their hilarity on with ease. What validates this, considering this command from Deut. 22:5? It does seem, at the end, with Rashi, that only if the act of wearing a skirt or men's button-down would lead to "immoral and illicit behavior" is it an abomination. The assumption, however, is that the clothing itself will result in an abomination (no free choice?), so donning it isn't even an option or consideration. Or, rather, it shouldn't be. The point: No good can come from wearing the clothing traditionally worn by the opposite sex, so don't do it. Stam. 

What I'm really taken with, I will say, is the mention of how women remove their pubic and armpit hair. I was always under the impression that this was very much a 20th-century thing to do, a modern insecurity with the hair of our bodies. Now I have to wonder whether this was a normative activity even back in the 11th century. It seems strange to me, considering how difficult it must have been to shave back in the day. There weren't easy-to-use BIC razors, after all. No bikini-line razors and what have you. Definitely no Nair. Does anyone have a good history of shaving (for women, that is, I know Alexander the Great made a big to-do out of being clean-shaven; way to go Alexander!)?

I'm sure there are plenty of interesting and curious aspects of this simple verse from this week's Torah portion that I'm missing, so feel free to share what you see in it, or what you think about this whole "women dressing as men" and "men dressing as women" command. It's such a strange and unusual concept to us in the 21st century, even within the Orthodox community where women wear skirts and head coverings and men sport suits on their way to shul. I wonder what this verse will mean to us in 100 years? 500 years? What happens when we all go Star Trek and wear body suits? 

Thoughts a'plenty over here!

Anonymous Blogging: Woe is Me ...

I sure hope I don't get blasted for this post, but here goes. 

Listen, I get why people blog anonymously. At least, I get why some people blog anonymously. Some people are honest in their fearing for the future of their family, their children, shidduchim, etc. It's hard sometimes to be completely "out" in the sense that everyone knows who you are and can link your face and your name to all that drivel you spill out on the internet every day (a joke, folks), but some people do it purely to be able to get a rise out of people. If you have no name and no face and no community, you can say whatever you want, no matter how far on the fringe it might be from your beliefs, and you can watch mostly innocent folks prowling the internet freak the heck out. Good for you. Except not.

There are blogs I respect for maintaining anonymity, like DovBear, who I'm pretty sure lives in a very frum community and I'm pretty sure is a really great guy who just wants to be able to ask questions and talk about things without the fear of someone claiming he's off the derech or on his way there. Although I don't always agree with the anonymous blogging, I get why he's doing it. For me, I think anonymous blogging is sort of a cheat, a way to blast whoever you want, whenever you want, and you won't face any repercussions. At the same time, everyone out there will take what you say with a grain of salt because to be honest people need to know the face behind the curtain. Look at the Wizard of Oz or that episode of Family Guy with the man-eating fish. But DovBear? I'll let him slide. He's making it work, and he's honest about what he does; he isn't a thrill-seeking shock jock (and if he is, boy he has me fooled).

The reason I'm writing this blog post is because there's a new shock-jocking anonymous blogger on the web, and, well, to be honest I'm a little concerned. This new blogger is a rabbi. An Orthodox rabbi. With a congregation for which he is at the helm. His blog? The Orthoprax Rabbi. Okay, fine, what's the big deal? Well, he says, and I quote from his first blog post, "... while my congregants are all Orthodox, to varying degrees, I am not. I don’t believe in any of it. I am an atheist. I personally don’t keep much of any of Jewish law."

Sigh.

He goes on to talk about how his congregants all like him, how he got a contract extension, etc. That his gig is just a gig like any other gig (comparing it to being a plumber, of all things), and that belief is not important for his job.

What? Are you serious?  Why become a rabbi if you're not preparing yourself to lead a congregation, both spiritually or functionally. They don't want someone to answer black and white questions with some textbook answer, they want a spiritual guide in their rabbi. It's why they hire you.

Listen, this guy can believe whatever he wants and do whatever he wants behind and in front of closed doors, but I have a serious -- SERIOUS -- problem with the fact that he's blogging anonymously, dragging his unknowing congregation through the mud with him. Do his congregants (who all like him!) know how flippant he is about his Judaism (or lack there of) and his disregard for his congregants' well-being on a PUBLIC BLOG?!

I'm guessing no. I'm also guessing that this guy doesn't give a rat's you know what about his congregation, their spiritual well-being, or the future of his children (who he mentions) in the big, fat Jewish world. It's depressing.

If you're going to be flippant and disrespectful to a community who you say likes you, but who probably doesn't know that you're an athiest or how openly willing you are to express yourself and how completely unimportant your job is to you, then blog publicly. Have some self-respect. I guarantee that your community wouldn't like you -- the real you -- as much as you think. Especially if any of those congregants are looking for a spiritual guide (which they are).

Rabbi, if you don't like your job, if you don't believe in it, if you're only doing it for a paycheck, then get a new job, don't take your congregation down and don't mislead them. We all have our moments of questioning, but you seem to have made a big decision to just not search, to not care, and to just dish out black and white answers without any feeling, passion, or self-respect. So go become a lawyer, a plumber, just don't taint your congregation because you're having a spiritual drought.

You, sir, are what's wrong with anonymous blogging. Internet: Take note.

(Hat tip to several folks for also blogging on this, including but not limited to, ADDRabbi, The Rebbetzin's Husband, and Adventures in Jewish Thought.)

Modesty, Shomer Negiah, and Me

Photo courtesy of Aunt Patty!

This is a post that could be said even to be outside my comfort zone, and, typically, nothing gets me all "ooo, what will the people say and think!?" So what's the topic that has me a feeling a little squishy?

Shomer negiah. Modesty (tzniut). Not touching your boyfriend, significant other, partner, spouse. Observing ta'arat ha'mishpacha (that's family purity). And all that good, no-touching stuff.

This is probably the most private post I'll ever write, and I'm okay with that because I think that what is known and understood about modesty and shomer negiah is misunderstood. So here I am, hopefully to serve as an example and provide the positive, necessary experience that these aspects of being observant and Jewish can offer for your neshama. Get it? Got it? Good.

I spent my entire teenage and adult life, up until this narrative begins, living as a normal girl with the normal urges and the normal actions. I was a product of secular America and I dated boys, kissed boys, and hugged boys. Then, Tuvia and I met in late August 2008, went on our first date Labor Day 2008, and were knee-deep in a serious relationship shortly thereafter. We were, for all intents and purposes, like every other "normal," American couple out there. We kissed, we hugged, we were in love. We held hands, we gave cozy snuggles. As time went on, however, I started to feel ... uncomfortable. My neshama was not happy with how I was carrying myself as an Orthodox Jewish woman, especially one going through the Orthodox conversion process. Tuvia and I discussed being shomer negiah a dozen times or more, with me spearheading the effort. I needed to be shomer negiah, I needed that modesty.

I needed to not kiss him, or hug him, or touch him.

So we started slow. There was no more physical intimacy and the kisses and hugs grew further and farther apart. Finally, at last, we reached a point where I declared no more. No more kisses, no more hugs, no more hand-holding. Nothing, nada, zilch. The intimacy that would exist, then, was a touch-less, emotional intimacy that had to translate into words. It was difficult at first, but as time wore on, it became life. We understood that it was necessary for our relationship and the success of our relationship in the long-run, to devote ourselves to modesty and thinking forward to family purity via the route of shomer negiah.

Many people assumed that after my official RCA conversion we'd skip out on shomer negiah, that it was just part of an act we put on for the committee of rabbis. It always bothered me that people thought that this aspect of respecting each other and our not being married yet was not who we were, but was just part of an act. It was never an act -- never. In fact, after the conversion, time officially could tick down to the wedding; the countdown made the observance of shomer negiah all the more easy (for me, anyhow).

So the wedding day came, we took pictures, we went to the chuppah, and the we went to the yichud room -- exhausted, tired, sweaty. Everyone assumes that people get down and dirty in the yichud room, but I can't imagine that it's like that for every couple. After all, for many couples, the marriage is quick, they know each other very little, and they've never touched before. If anything, I think the yichud room typically is calm, serene, and romantic.

It's funny how -- even after the several months we spent together kissing and hugging and holding hands -- it was so awkward at first kiss and first hug. It was, without a doubt, like feeling those physical emotions translated into pure emotion for the first time. I often wonder how couples make the wedding day special after having lived and experienced each other in the same way they will as a married couple all along. It seems to me that traditionally, among all cultures, a sense of modesty and separation was the norm for just about forever, up until maybe the past 100-200 years. The way we view and appreciate each other is incredibly key in how we grow to appreciate and view each other in marriage, I think. So why not start in modesty and respect to end in modesty and respect?

The times were tough, they were unbearable at times when my emotions were running rampant in a ridiculous roller coaster ride, and all I wanted was a hug. But I resisted. I knew that my neshama and HaShem were rocking something special, and I was prepared to wait for Tuvia's big arms to be wrapped around me. I can say, firmly, without a doubt that it was all worth it. The stress the months of not touching or kissing or hugging. Because now, I know how to appreciate Tuvia for who he is, how he speaks and thinks and acts, without having to touch him to feel him. It's a powerful feeling to feel so connected to someone without a need for physicality.

Now, I prepare myself for all that will come along with the new steps of modesty and family purity. I cover my hair (which, for me, so far, has been awesome -- I feel a lot more comfortable, I can walk freely in the rain without worrying about messing up my  hair even!), and I will begin going to the mikvah and observing the laws of niddah (you know, those days where Tuvia and I can't touch, again). These days of niddah, in truth, allow a couple to reboot. To relearn to love each other without touch. To talk, to listen, to laugh, and to have no expectation from the other. In my eyes, it's a beautiful, serene thing, issued by HaShem for the sake of shalom bayit (literally, peace in the house!).

Each day, a hat or scarf. Each moment, anew. Each second, my neshama is growing and thriving because of it.

Without these observances of modesty, without creating these lines of peace, I'm not sure how some couples persist. We all need to reboot, we all need to respect and fall in love all over again with our spouses. It's a roadmap to shalom, if you ask me.

How do you do it if you don't have these observances? How does the relationship stay fresh? How do couples not drown under the weight of one another? <--- Those are serious questions, by the way, if any of you want to answer!

I never thought I'd be this person; I never thought I would have been able to go so long without the touch of a man I love, but I did. And I will. Because love is more than touch, it's more than the sensation of feeling -- it's love, emotion, the feelings traversing time and space to create an impression. HaShem has a roadmap for us, and it makes sense to me. Despite never thinking I'd be this person, I am, and I'm so proud to say that without shomer negiah, without modesty, without family purity, I'd be wandering.

The Big Questions. Answer at Will.

Life is hard. Life is tough. My father says, "Life's a bitch, and then you die." Sometimes, I think his approach is accurate. I try to maintain my optimism, and Tuvia is a great help. But sometimes, it's difficult to see through the clouds. So let's pose a question. I'm asking for some full-frontal here, so feel free to respond anonymously -- I won't be hurt!

If you're a ba'al teshuvah, or if you hate that term but are still someone who has returned to Orthodox roots, or even non-Orthodox roots, but has found some type of active Jewish lifestyle contrary to how you might have grown up, or if you're a convert, how has your family dealt with your lifestyle choices?

How has your family dealt with your wedding or simchas that might be out of the bounds of what they are familiar or comfortable with? What do you do when family events -- weddings, graduations -- are on Shabbat and you simply can't make it and family doesn't understand?

Maybe you changed your  name, or go by a different name, what has been the reaction to that?

And most importantly: How do you cope with all of these things? Or do you not? Are you closer, less close, with your family? How much can you say, "this is my life, and this is how I choose to live and be," and how much do you feel you have to back down and give in?