Invitation to a Bris

Recently, Mr. T was sent a Facebook "invite" to a brit milah (ritual circumcision of an 8-day-old baby boy also called a bris), which set of an interesting discussion and a bit of research about something that I hadn't heard of before and that Mr. T didn't completely have aligned in his head.

There's a common belief in Judaism that you shouldn't formally invite someone to a bris because it obligates them to perform a mitzvah, and -- if they can't come -- you're basically setting them up to fail at performing a mitzvah.

After a bit of crazy Googling and asking around, I ended up arriving at the source of the minhag, which is the Rema, also known as Rabbi Moses Isserles who lived in the 16th century and who is known for his inline commentary on the Shulchan Aruch. I listened to a very informative podcast by YU on the topic, and it seems that our minhag derives from a misunderstanding of the text.

The Rema writes (Yoreh De’ah 265:12) that anyone who does not participate in the festive meal that accompanies a bris is viewed as if he is “excommunicated from Heaven," adding that if offensive people are participating in such a meal, one is not obligated to join them.

A basic reading of this suggests that if you go to a bris and decide to scoot out before the festive meal or attend the festive meal and don't eat anything, that you're a pretty rotten person. There are thus two aspects to the bris that play into this minhag -- the attendance of the mitzvah of bris and the festive meal that accompanies it. It's the latter that seems to be the point of contention for the Rema, not the bris itself, and not the invitation itself. 

At the same time, there's an opinion that if there is already 10 adult Jewish men at the meal, the guest is not obligated to take part because the commandment will be fulfilled without him (Otzar Ha-Bris, p. 163).

So I can understand why people think that outright inviting someone to a bris would automatically obligate them to come and attend the festive meal, but ultimately it's about the decision someone makes once they're at the bris/festive meal, not before hand. 

Do you hold to this minhag? 

Terumah: Just a Thought

Before we purchased this couch, we invested in Torah.

This week's parshah (Torah portion) is Terumah, in which HaShem commands us to build the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary and dwelling place, as the Israelites travel through the desert. The Mishkan became the Holy Temple, and after the Second Temple fell in 70 CE, the Jewish home became the central dwelling place for HaShem.

Driving down any street where new construction is going up you'll see the shells of homes under construction. We start with the bones of a building and construct it inward, with the knickknacks, drapes, color combinations, bookshelves, and family photos all coming in at the end stages of construction.

In this week's parshah, however, we see that the first aspect of construction was the ark -- the resting place of Torah -- and then come the various vessels, the walls, and finally the framework.

What does it all mean? Why do we build our homes hafuch? (That's the name of a popular take on coffee in Israel, which just means upside down or inside out.)

When we build a home, we must place Torah at the center of everything before we begin to build anything else. Before we pick out towel colors or bathroom mats, before we pick out a couch or decide on plate patterns, Torah must have been placed at the center of the relationship.

If anything, Mr. T and I placed Torah on the ground floor of our relationship before building or exploring the everyday, seemingly monotonous aspects of our future together. Can you imagine first dates talking seriously and passionately about tzedakah and minhagim (traditions)? With a Torah-based marriage, you're setting yourself up for a dwelling place for the shechinah (the presence of HaShem). Until the Holy Temple is rebuilt, the Jewish home is the best and most important way we can express our dedication to HaShem, Am Yisrael, and, ultimately, each other.

So, what do you think about it?

The Magical Minhag Tour

At the beginning of November, I posted about my curiosity when it comes to divorce and minhagim (customs) -- do you keep 'em? What if you're a convert, do you go back to being able to choose? Does it matter if you have kids? Does the length of the marriage matter?

Basically, I'm trying to figure out what constitutes minhag retention in the "frum" (religious) Jewish community.

In case you were wondering perhaps why traditions are so important. Check it, Proverbs 1:8.

I spoke with a rabbi recently about this question I had, and after some quick conversation, he said that he doesn't understand why I wouldn't be able to go back to choosing my own minhagim. So I'm researching and exploring Sephardic traditions, because for some reason, a lot of them seem to make a whole lot more sense to me. That and they're absolutely fascinating. (One Sephardic tradition has it that when you say havdalah, you are to look into the wine, and if you see your face, you laugh aloud after the bracha!)

But you're probably asking yourself: Wait, why would you choose your customs? Who chooses their own customs? Isn't the point of a custom that it's something that's passed down?

Well, when you grow up in a nominally Jewish family (you know, the kind of family where you know you're Jewish but have no clue what a lulav is) and become a ba'al teshuvah or when you choose to be Jewish and convert, you don't have customs. You don't claim any traditions, and when you do, they're typically the kind of things where you know what Chanukah is and you light the menorah. There are minimal traditional differences in lighting a menorah (right to left? gain candles or lose candles?)

So, in these situations, you're blessed with the opportunity to choose your customs, your minhagim.

Well, what if you're a convert, you practice nominal Ashkenazi traditions throughout your pre-conversion existence, then the moment you convert you get engaged, and then married to someone who also has nominal traditions that no one really practices, and then you get divorced from that person. What happens?

Let's say you grow up without any Jewish customs, you become religious in your early 20s, you meet a nice Satmar fellow and get married. You take on the stringent Satmar customs, and then, just a few years into your marriage, you get divorced. Are you bound to holding to those Satmar traditions until you meet someone new? And then what if that person isn't Satmar?

What if you're married, observing Lubavitch customs, and you get married and have three children. Then, you get divorced when your kids are all under the age of 5-years-old, and marry a Spanish Portuguese Jew. Do you adopt the customs of you new husband? Because your children are under the age of b'nei mitzvah and their father plays no role in their life, do your kids take on your new husband's traditions? Or do you raise them in the Lubavitch tradition of their father?

Is your HEAD exploding now!?

Over Shabbat we were considering all of the variations and complications that come with minhagim and the wide, expansive set of traditions that can vary from community to community and even family to family within that community. The glory of minhagim is that they are not law. As Rabbi Marc Angel says in "Exploring Sephardic Customs and Traditions,"

One needs to always remember that the purpose of observing minhagim is to bring us closer to God, closer to our tradition, and closer to each other. 

Furthermore, Rabbi Angel cites Rabbi Eliezer Papo who says that "God knows what is in a person's heart" and that minhagim are not meant to be oneupmanship. If the observance of a minhag results in presumptuousness, it's a very uncool thing.

So my question to you, readers is: Have you been married and divorced? How did you choose your customs, or did you just stick with what you  knew? Did you even think about it or consult a rabbi or was it just something that you didn't think about? If you did get to choose your customs as a ba'al teshuvah or convert, how did you go about doing so? 

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!

I've Got Questions, You've Got Answers!

From my questioning brain to your eager eyeballs, I have a question. Are you ready?

On which hand/finger do you wear your wedding band and/or engagement ring? 

I think it's interesting that the logic behind the left-hand-ring-wearing tradition is partly due to the fact that most people are right handed and thus the ring might become busted up if worn on the dominant hand. I do, however, appreciate the idea (shared also by the Eastern Orthodox Church) of using the right hand. Why? The right hand resembles oaths, at least traditionally. Think about when you go to court or swear an oath, you're always asked to "raise your right hand." This also was a Roman and biblical tradition, that is to use the right hand. If you want to get more sticky, you can also reference the fact that the left hand is viewed as evil or sinister. Interestingly, there was a long-standing belief that people who were left-handed were somehow defective or damned. In many cultures, children were trained (I even know someone who had to deal with this in the not-so-distant past) to write with their right hand, just in case. It's just a hand people!

Anyhow, feel free to answer. I know the traditional way is to wear the wedding band on your right finger, and only much later did Jews start wearing the band on their left finger in the Protestant fashion. I'm also curious how other folks roll -- Buddhists, Hindus, Christians, etc. Different people have different traditions, so fill me in!

From 613 to 3:16: An Interesting Thought

Bonus points if you get why I chose this image!

I've seen the bumper sticker more and more lately, and it simply says: "JOHN 3:16." After all, that's really all you need to know. The verse, the tour de force of Christian theology, says "For G-d so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." I'm not here to argue truth, fact or fiction. No, I'm here to discuss something incredibly interesting.

I was walking through the library yesterday when I saw a book, simply titled "3:16" when it hit me -- 3:16 is the reverse of 613, the number of mitzvoth in Torah. The crux of one flipped on its head to be the crux of another. One, with its 3:16 showing that it was Jesus dying that nullified the need for the 613 mitzvoth to be followed.

So, automatically, I asked myself: Which came first? The Gospel of John? Or the identified tradition of 613 mitzvoth? The Torah, of course, was written long before the Christian canon. But the issue is more complicated than just that.

The identification of 613 mitzvoth comes from the wisdom of a few rabbis. The Talmud notes that the Hebrew gematria (numerical value) for the word Torah is 611. If you combine Moses' 611 commandments to the two received directly from G-d at Sinai, we get 613! This number -- 613 -- is attributed in the Talmud to Rabbi Simlai (early 3rd century CE), but other classical sages held this view, too, including Rabbi Simeon ben Azzai (early 2nd century CE) and Rabbi Eleizer ben Jose (2nd century CE). So we can confidently say that in the early 100s, if not earlier, this idea was evident among the rabbis. There were 613 mitzvoth, and these mitzvoth -- 365 negative, 248 positive -- are the "rules" we as Jews are to live by.

The Gospel of John is a more difficult text to really wrangle. There is already a boatload of suspicion of who he was, where he was writing, whether he even knew Jesus, and most importantly, WHEN he was writing. From what I can conclude from a quick bit of research online, the "general" consensus is that the Gospel of John was written around 100 CE.

So here we have a text and an idea -- John 3:16 and 613 mitzvoth -- both from the early 2nd century. Whether the rabbis had exposure to the Christian text is something that I don't think we can really know, and there are some scholars who argue that the rabbis recording the Oral Torah were completely isolated from the greater world around them (I think this is kind of, well, ridiculous). But what we do have here is an interesting polemic coming from John, whose language was intentionally antagonistic against Jewish traditions and customs.

Thus, where better to write the championing verse for Christianity but in the reverse of the numerical tour de force of Judaism?

I don't know if this is something that anyone's written on this, but I think it's really fascinating and most definitely something worth considering. Maybe I'll spend more time on this during the school year, but I think it would be worth taking a more developed and in-depth look at the most agreed-upon dates of the texts and whether there is any literary evidence to maybe connect the two numbers.

I'm not big into gematria, but I think it's quite fascinating. Even if you're not into gematria, that there are 613 mitzvoth is something all frum Jews cling to and all Jews regardless of creed identify with. At any rate, I hope you all find this as fascinating as I do.

The Chag is Over!

The holidays are over -- at last! I don't say this entirely out of excitement, but it will be interesting to get back to the regular humdrum of my academic life. I spent Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah at Chabad, eating in the sukkah with friends and neighbors and playing with the children and then dancing around as the Torah bounced about in the room. It was joyous, by golly, and this being my first year observing these holidays? Well, I feel good about where I am going. The holidays that follow Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are staples in my life now and as an eternal covenant.

What else is new? I got a copy of "Going Kosher in 30 Days" in the mail earlier this week from The Jewish Learning Group. If you'll recall, I blogged about this book earlier this year (in July actually), and they actually sent me a copy! I've only read through the introduction, but I'm already quite excited about the book. I think it might have come in more handy when I wasn't living a kitchen-less college lifestyle, but as I anticipate not getting a meal plan next semester, I'm going to be living a crockpot/microwave/toaster lifestyle that will allow me to do the kosher thing on my own terms. (Okay, I never mentioned it but the vegetarian thing just didn't work out.) Add to this that Evan has decided to go "kosher style," I am finally tagging on no MEAT no DAIRY, period. Before I would rationalize chicken/dairy because it isn't a kid in its mothers milk (as opposed to goat meat in goat milk and beef in cow milk), but, well, I'm going the distance. I know the reasons behind the ruling, and I know that I don't necessarily agree. But the ethical reasons are compelling even if the rabbi's reasons aren't necessarily. Then again, as "Going Kosher" says: "... mitzvot that are observed solely 'on faith' ... are the purest demonstration of our faith and dedication to G-d's Words."

But it's on that note that I offer up a couple little explanatory morsels on things that I've always wondered about and haven't really understood. The challah thing has been something I've wondered about for years and years and have meant to ask about or look up, and yet haven't. The other is something new that I have been exposed to recently that I was curious about. Although I agree with the "Going Kosher" take, I also think it's important for us to understand why we perform the traditions and mitzvot that we do. If there's anything YOU have wondered about, let me know, and I'll fix you up an answer straight away!

+ Why do we say the hamotzi over two loaves of challah on Shabbos and festivals? This has perplexed me for eons, seriously, for years, and I never got around to looking it up, I just understood that that was how things were to be done, and even when I made the blessing myself, I'd make sure I had two challah loaves. This double loaf -- lechem mishneh -- represents the manna that fell from the heavens when the Israelites were wandering in the desert during the 40 years. The manna did not fall on the Sabbath or holidays, instead a double portion fell before the Sabbath and the holidays.

+ Why during the blessing after the meal -- birkat hamazon -- is there a hand-washing portion? So technically the hand washing is meant to happen before the birkat hamazon, so I'm confused (still) about whether the portion before the birkat hamazon is something different or related. But at any rate, the practice is prevalent in Orthodox communities and is more a tradition than a mitzvah. It was instituted for health reasons (back when people ate with their hands more) and there is even a ritual dispenser (called mayim acharonim) that is used to dispense the water. The practice appears in Talmud, but it's sort of up in the air from group to group as to whether it's really binding.

The Etrog of My Heart

Today, I did something I have never done before. I took some steps, into a structure, and did something that I have wanted to do for so long, yet, haven't had the chance to go through with.

I was on my way to the cafeteria for some lunch before my 12:30, and it was about 11:45. On my way I passed through the graduate quad and saw a table set up outside the pop-up sukkah, so I decided to pop by and see if I could get my lulav shaking on. Lo and behold, there was the fellow who got the sukkah put up doing some prayers. I stood off to the side, not wanting to intrude, and he came out of the sukkah, gestured for me to go in. He handed me the lulav, and delicately opened the little white box to reveal the etrog cradled gently in foam. He took it out and handed it to me, directing me on how to hold the two objects in my hands, but silently.

He opened his siddur, which, might I add, was all in Hebrew/English and lacking transliterations, and pointed to the prayers as I read them aloud -- in Hebrew -- while holding the objects. He then directed me in the movements of the objects: forward, to the heart, forward, to the heart ... and so on. The rustling of the lulav was accomplished with the most subtle of movements, and as I pulled the lulav and etrog toward me, it was as if the etrog were thrusting itself through to my heart, placing itself in my chest chambers, and moving back out with each movement.

And when I was done, the kindly fellow asked me if I'd said the Shema yet, and I hadn't, so he pointed me in the siddur where to go, and I read the Shema and some other things and then we talked about why I haven't been by the rabbi's for Shabbat, how women aren't bound to the Sukkot requirements, etc. And then? I plodded off, listening to the band Beirut, and got some lunch while reading some documents he'd given me about Sukkot, Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah (adorned with the rebbe's likeness and what have you).

When we were talking, and when the ritual was being performed, I couldn't smell or think of anything but the potency of the etrog. Because of it's shape, the etrog (a citron, sorta like a lemon), is said to resemble the heart. It is meant to represent the ideal Jew -- one who has both knowledge of Torah and good deeds, as the etrog is both pleasant in taste and in smell.

And, perhaps, when I felt that thump in my heart as I brought the etrog and lulav toward me, I was longing to be that ideal Jew, the one with a balance of Torah and deeds. The Jew I am in my dreams of Hasidic teachings and the Jew who will daven.

Forward I go, and with that -- Chag Sameach!

Some Lag B'onfire Photos!

My hair smells of smoke. Not cigarette smoke (ew) and definitely not bonfire smoke. Yes, I did just get home from the Lag B'onfire at the nearby Conservative shul. However, the bonfire was meager (think: more like an eternal flame), and it was the smoke coming off the gigantic (and brand new) grill, manned by the rabbi. The meat was kosher, the goods were kosher, the people were kosher (in that, you know, they were Jewish). Bada ching? Anyone? Anyhow, the "bonfire" was enough to keep us warm on this chilly Chicago evening.

So, I smell like smoke, and it's delightful. There was a good crowd out tonight -- a cross-section of Reform, Conservative and Orthodox Jews. People who I've met at all the different shuls I've been to in the past year. Old acquaintances, new acquaintances, and everything in between. There was beer, there were burgers and hot dogs and slaw and there was a band, as well.

Perhaps the coolest part of the night was the cutting of the hair! You see, if you keep the omer, you're not supposed to do a variety of things -- one of them being cutting hair. However, you *can* cut your hair on the omer. In the same vein, is this tradition (אפשערן) upsherin. The tradition has that a boy should have his hair cut on his third birthday. Now, if you're a kid whose birthday happens to fall during the omer, well, this means you have to wait until Lag B'Omer and then have the ceremonial haircutting. So tonight, we were lucky enough to have a three-year-old and yes! People took turns lobbing off the kid's beautiful head of thick, curly hair. The child seemed indifferent, which was sort of surprising, but that's what this photo is of ...

So I spent about an hour and a half mingling, took a few photos (you see, I left my 4GB card at home, and was stuck with the 16MB backup, making me have to take my photos VERY carefully), and now I'm home. So enjoy these photos.

And in case I don't end up with anything interesting to say tomorrow -- Shabbat Shalom and enjoy the long weekend (those of you in the U.S. anyhow!).

Revolving Mezuzot!?

While I stood yesterday at my favorite Jewish-ish diner in the South Loop of Chicago -- Eleven City Diner -- waiting for one of my best friends from high school and her newish husband to arrive for lunch yesterday, I discovered a perplexing question I had no answer to, as I watched people shuffle in and out of, well, a revolving door -- the choice of entryway for many Chicago establishments, to keep the cold in and the heat out. The question?

Do you affix a mezuzah to a revolving door? Is there any responsa about revolving doors and whether it is necessary to affix mezuzot to them?

So, if anyone knows, please let me know. Otherwise, I'll find a rabbi and ask, like the Orthodox community websites for Brandeis and Penn tell me to!