Shame Shame Shame

Our family is back in the Holy Land, touring and visiting friends. What really struck me today was an off-hand comment by our dati tour guide. Arabs, non-Jewish, pork-eating Russians, Bedouins, Druze and Baha’is are full citizens of Israel.

And I’m not.

G-d must be some kinda disappointed in the Jewish people. We received this extraordinary, astonishing Land as a gift from G-d. And the millions of Jews who live in chutz l’aretz (outside the Land of Israel) have chosen to live elsewhere. As if it’s an equivalent choice. Chocolate or vanilla? Potayto or potahto? Jerusalem or Baltimore?

I’m ashamed of myself.

Guest Column: Anita Tucker's Visit to Baltimore

On January 16, 2006, we had the very great honor of hosting Anita and Stuart Tucker at Moses Montefiore-Anshe Emunah. The following account of Anita Tucker's visit to Baltimore was written by my friend and sometime chavrusa, Ruth Eastman. Ruth wrote this piece because she wanted to "do something" to help. Through her very accurate transmission of Anita Tucker's message to us, may we all be inspired to "do something" to help strengthen those who are still hurting so they may again soon return to their status as ba'alei chesed.

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BS”D

ANITA TUCKER'S VISIT
by Ruth Eastman

It was not in Hashem’s plans to save Gush Katif. But it is certainly not in Anita Tucker’s plans that anyone should forget the people of Gush Katif.

Passionately, warmly, and with humor and incredible emunah, Mrs. Tucker describes her own personal rise and fall of Netzer Hazani, one of the several communities bulldozed by the Israeli government on August 18, 2005.

Anita tells of arriving in Beersheva in 1969. She and her husband were young idealists, leaving the comforts of Brooklyn to make aliyah. She describes the reasons she came: her parents were refugees from Germany; her grandparents were refugees from Germany and Poland; her great-grandparents were also refugees. She didn’t want to be a refugee. So she “went home” to the Land of the Jewish people.

Anita and Stuart lived in Beersheva for seven years. Then they decided that their children would need a challenge. So they moved with their three kids to the sand dunes of Gush Katif, with the guidance of the Ministry of Agriculture. They were greeted by the religious leaders of the neighboring Arab communities, who asked how they expected to grow anything in the land the Arabs had called “The Cursed Land” for generations. In the twenty-nine years they spent in Netzer Hazani, they made the desert bloom.

On the morning of August 17th, all of the children lined up at the fence. They filled gas canisters with kerosene, and set them on fire. Anita tells us that all of the protests that the youth engaged in were carefully negotiated with the highest echelons of the IDF, so that no one would be hurt. It was very important, the residents and the Army felt, for the children to have a safe outlet for their rage. On the 18th, when the soldiers came to evict the families, more than a hundred media people joined the residents in crying over the soon to be destroyed communities.

The soldiers were dressed in specially designed gray uniforms. The uniforms were made bedavka to be intimidating, so as to make the expulsion easier. The soldiers marched up to Anita’s home in five rows of three. They were sent in these waves, in order to prevent the soldiers from breaking down. If the first row would become emotional, the second would come, and then the third…

Each family found its own way to protest the expulsion. One woman emptied her home of everything precious, filled it with wood and kerosene, and set the house on fire. She screamed at the soldiers: “You think you are destroying my home? This is just a structure. My home is my community. You can’t take that from me!” Anita’s family took nothing out of their home. They set the table with a beautiful cloth, and laid out a lovely breakfast. When the soldiers came to the door, the family rushed them inside. The soldiers were caught off guard by this behavior, and did not resist. Soon, they were sitting around the Tuckers’ table, hearing the stories of how the family had spent its last 29 years.

The soldiers remained stoic throughout the stories and tears and entreaties of the family members. They did not cry; their faces did not lose their robot-like expressions. Finally, calm, rational Anita broke down. “Please, dear soldiers, give me one crumb to take to my children! Tell me how you really feel about this! Don’t leave me not knowing how you truly feel about what you have to do! For my children and grandchildren! For your children! Give me one crumb!” Her youngest son, who had just ended his military service with an elite unit of the Golani Brigade, protested by wearing his full uniform, and tearing kriah in his uniform shirt.

Still nothing. No change in the soldiers’ demeanor. Finally, Anita’s eldest daughter, Mia, grabbed the first soldier she could, and dragged him and Anita into the parents’ bedroom. “My parents slept in these beds for 29 years. You are not going to leave until you give my mother just one crumb, just one true thing, about how you feel.” Then she went out, closing the door on her mother and the soldier! Anita looked the soldier in the eye… and he began to cry like a baby. Her spirits lifted. She was no longer afraid for the Jewish people. There was hope, because the Jewish feeling inside the soldiers had not been extinguished. Mia pushed one soldier after another, one at a time, into the room; Anita looked them in the eyes… and fourteen soldiers wept like children. The fifteenth, the leader, remained stoic… And Anita left him in the room.

Later, when the family was being escorted out of the house, Stuart remembered that he had left his tallis and tefillin behind. He asked permission to go back and retrieve them. When he walked into the house, he saw the leader of the soldiers… crying like a baby.

The families were marched or dragged to big black buses. They asked to be taken to the Kotel, to pray for the House that would be eternal. (Somehow, the media misquoted Anita, and CNN reported that she had requested to be taken to the Temple Mount, so that they could begin to build the Third Temple. This caused a stir in the government.)

The evacuees were told that each family would get 50,000 shekels “off the bus,” to compensate them for their loss. (This money has still not materialized, for most families.) But there were miracles… And at this point in her story, Anita Tucker refers to her “virtual clothespin.” “I really believed, right up until the last moment, that Hashem would make a miracle in the blink of an eye. But I realized: I must have blinked. I missed it. The miracle didn’t come. So now I have these virtual clothespins, to keep my eyes open all the time. And I see a yeshua happen in so many ways. There are miracles from Hashem everywhere.” She told about a woman who approached her at the Kotel, when the buses first dropped them off. Anita was as dazed and traumatized as the other evacuees. And the woman came up to her and said, “Your name is Anita, isn’t it? You have a job to do. Take this pen and paper. Go to all of your people. Find out what they are missing. Everybody forgot something that they will need for Shabbat. Get the list, and take this money, and buy what the people need.” She left Anita with a pen and paper, and a plastic bag with 10,000 shekels! Anita did what she said. When the purchases were all made, only sixty shekels were left. Anita has tried to find this woman, but has never seen her again. Miracles are everywhere.

Anita pointed out that the biggest miracle is the Jewish people. As the evacuees were being driven away in the buses, they saw that the streets were lined with people. When the buses would stop, Jews pushed flowers and food into the windows, offering expressions of sympathy and encouragement. Individual Jews have tried to help, to try to convince the government to treat these displaced families humanely and fairly, to not forget them.

The government is still letting the people down, and they are still living in the terrible limbo of hotel rooms and tent cities. They are still expected to pay the mortgages on their destroyed homes! Their possessions are still locked up in containers, due to a dispute between the storage company and the government. Many young people, discouraged and angry, are getting into trouble. No one knows what will be. Like many of the Gush Katif evacuees, Anita and Stuart are in their sixties. They gave their youth to the Land, to build their country, to retrieve the holy yerusha of our ancestors.

In two minutes, 29 years was bulldozed to nothing before their eyes.

Donations may be sent to Central Fund for Israel, Ein Tzurim D.N. Sde Gat, Israel, 79510. The memo should read: Netzer Hazani. According to Anita Tucker, 100% of the funds go to the refugees.

Why We Chose Ma’ale Adumim

We could have bought an apartment anywhere in Israel. Literally. We are still living in America most of the year and wanted to buy a small apartment so we could establish our proverbial foothold in Israel, and, because we still earn our living in America, we were not tied to any location because of employment considerations.

We looked at about 20 different communities before we chose Ma’ale Adumim. We had a wish list for the apartment, of course, but we were also looking for three specific features in the community: we wanted to be near (but not in) Yerushalayim, we wanted to be among lots of English speakers and we wanted to share our community with people who were different than us.

Back in America, we narrowed our search down, synchronized our schedules and found that we unexpectedly had the same four days free. We booked tickets back to Israel and started looking at specific properties in three communities.

In one community, we looked at an apartment on a street that had the same Hebrew name as my father (A”H). I thought that might be a sign. But the climate was too hot and the neighbors, lovely though they were, were all 20 years too young. In another, we saw a nice-enough apartment, except for its view of three other apartment buildings.

The realtor must have been teasing us. She saved Ma’ale Adumim for last. A positive feeling about Ma’ale Adumim remained with me from our first visit. My first, strongest impression was that Ma’ale Adumim was clean and well-run. The rows of palm trees at the city entrance reminded me of the Miami Beach of my childhood. I loved the rhythm and rhyme of the entrance sign that said, Bruchim HaBaim l’Ma’ale Adumim (Welcome to Ma’ale Adumim; but it sounds so much better in Hebrew.)

The city has so many services we have come to appreciate. There’s a mall with a kosher food court, a large outdoor shopping plaza, a local cab company, excellent bus service to Yerushalayim, a makolet (local grocery) with lots of American products, a pizza shop that offers free delivery, a community center with indoor and outdoor pools and a library with excellent air conditioning and a collection of English books.

In four days, we had found a community, bought an apartment, hired a lawyer, organized a mortgage, opened a bank account and picked tile for the kitchen and bath. Just as Hashem shorted the road for Eliezer as he went searching for a wife for Yitzchak, this was our sign that Hashem had blessed our efforts to buy a home in Israel.

The apartment we bought was surprisingly affordable and had everything we wanted. And more. Opposite our front gate, where we go to take out our trash, is a view of Har Nevo where Moshe stood and looked out upon the Land he would never get to enter. And from our mirpeset (porch), we have an amazing view of Har Hatzofim (Mt. Scopus) and the rest of Yerushalayim. The first Friday night we spent in the apartment, I sat on the mirpeset, sang L’cha Dodi, watched Shabbat descend upon Yerushalayim and wept at my extraordinary good fortune. The mirpeset is still our favorite part of the apartment. It’s the place my husband and I sit, at the end of the day, and talk about what a miraculous piece of real estate G-d set aside for the Jewish people.

Even with all this, hands down, the most important part of Ma’ale Adumim is the people. Our first Shabbat in Ma’ale Adumim, my husband went to the Carlebach minyan and met an old school friend he had not seen in over 30 years. A new friend, who later became the woman we trust to look after our apartment in our absence, furnished our apartment so we would have beds to sleep on when we first arrived. We never lack for invitations for Shabbat meals nor for help negotiating whatever Israeli system we have to face.

The truest signs that Ma’ale Adumim is the right community for us are the magical reverberations that have occurred among our family and friends since we bought this apartment. Previously reluctant friends and family from America have come to visit Israel because we have a safe, comfortable home in a great community where they know they can stay. Friends who are considering aliyah are now looking seriously at Ma’ale Adumim. And my brother, who made aliyah a few months ago, loved the community so much, he rented an apartment down the street from us.

Because of Ma’ale Adumim, our family has begun to come home.

Gush Katif and Me

As I sit in a modest synagogue in Netzer Hazani, one of the 21 towns of Gush Katif, listening to the staggering life story of a young mother named Mayan Yadai, I realize that I’m crying. Born a non-Jew in Croatia, Mayan grew up in wealth and comfort. Then came the war in Yugoslavia followed by years of trauma. Upon escaping Yugoslavia, she fell in love with an Israeli. Understanding that he would not marry a non-Jew, Mayan was determined to learn about that which meant more to her future husband than their love for each other. In the process, she became a Jew. In Mayan, I recognize a Jew with more faith in G-d and with more of an unwavering bond to the Jewish people and to the Land of Israel than I may ever merit to have. And that’s why I’m crying.

I have just spent an entire day in Gush Katif with my family. This was our second trip there this year. If anything, I am more in awe of the people of Gush Katif than I was five months ago.

This is not a political story, although there are, unquestionably, political issues at hand. This is a personal story of what I saw today, with my own eyes.

The Maoz Yam Hotel (formerly the Palm Beach Hotel) was a wasteland in January. It closed at the beginning of the current Intifada when people stopped vacationing in Gaza. Arab vandals came in and decimated the beachfront property, tearing out and carting away literally everything, including toilet bowls and ceiling tiles. Recently, with permission of the private owner, dozens of Jewish families and singles have moved into the hotel, renovating it just enough to make it habitable. Although maligned in the press as extremist settlers, I saw only selfless people working around the clock to renovate the abandoned property so those who are moving into Gush Katif to support the local residents will have a place to sleep at night.

In Gush Katif, I keep meeting people who are indomitable in their love of G-d, in their love for all Jews and in their absolute, unwavering love of the Land. They live each moment with intensely heightened purpose.

I listened to Rachel Saperstein as she showed us the remains of an actual kassam rocket that landed within a few feet of her home in Neve Dekalim. The government wants to give her home to the terrorists who nearly killed her daughter in a suicide bombing. Rachel Saperstein looks like everyone’s Jewish grandmother. But she insists that we see what is happening to her family in the larger context of Jewish history.

Everyone we meet in Gush Katif reminds us that it is not just their homes and greenhouses and synagogues and cemeteries that are threatened. It is no less than the 3300 year-old relationship between Jews and the Land of Israel that is being threatened.

As we travel through the Gush Katif towns of Netzer Hazani, Neve Dekalim and Kfar Darom, I see how G-d blesses the sweat and effort of countless Jews over the past 30 years. Where once there was nothing but sand dunes, I see 36 synagogues, 1000 acres of greenhouses that yield 15% of Israel’s total agricultural export and 60% of its organic vegetables, beautiful homes, gardens, schools, playgrounds and yeshivot. And everywhere I look, I see Jews who did more for Israel in the past hour of their lives than I have done in the past 20 years of mine.

I go home to my apartment in Ma’ale Adumim. I look out over the lights of Jerusalem. I think about how the government of Israel wants to hand over a gift of this magnitude to our enemies in exchange for absolutely nothing. I shake my head in disbelief.

And then, I cry some more.

Naso 5765: Hair, There, Everywhere

In this week’s parsha, Naso, we find a biblical reference to the practice of married Jewish women covering their hair. The Sotah ritual was designed to test, through supernatural means, the possible guilt of a married woman whose husband suspected her of committing adultery. During the Sotah ritual, the Kohein (priest) was required to stand before the woman suspected of adultery and uncover her hair. The Talmud explains that, from the fact that her hair is uncovered during the Sotah ritual, we can infer that a married woman's hair is normally covered.

The practice of hair covering is one of the immediate markers of an Orthodox woman and one that many people don’t fully understand.

An obvious parallel to hair covering for women is the kippah (known in Yiddish as a yarmulke). However, the two are not identical.

One important difference is whether one is covering one’s head or one’s hair. A kippah is meant to cover one’s head. The Talmud teaches that the purpose of a kippah is to remind the wearer that G-d is always above. In fact, yarmulke comes from an Aramaic expression (yirah malka) that expresses veneration for G-d. By contrast, a woman’s head covering is meant to cover her hair.

Even the most casual synagogue attendees are likely familiar with the chapel cap (doily), which some women pin onto their heads while attending synagogue services. Women who do not generally cover their hair sometimes wear hats to synagogue. These customs appear to emerge from the sense that one ought not pray while bareheaded. In that sense, they are more related to the head covering of the kippah than to the hair covering of an Orthodox woman.

Another difference is that even young children may wear a kippah whereas hair covering is reserved for married women. A third difference is that, in non-Orthodox communities, it is not unusual to see a woman wearing a kippah, often in a very feminine style. While Jewish men are required wear something on their head, there is no mitzvah for them to cover their hair.

Both a kippah and hair covering are markers of Jewish identification. For the insider, the style of kippah or the style of hair covering signifies with which part of the community s/he is associated. For example, a black velvet kippah signifies association with the yeshiva world where a kippah srugra (knitted kippah) identifies the wearer as a Modern Orthodox Jew. These distinctions are not always completely accurate. I recall being amused seeing a kippah for sale that was half black velvet and half kippah sruga.

This sociological principal applies to women and their hair coverings as well. For example, a Modern Orthodox woman will sometimes wear a hat that does not cover all of her hair. Lubavitch women almost always wear sheitels (wigs). Women in the yeshiva world will generally wear a sheitel for formal occasions, but often wear snoods (decorative fabric bags worn at the back of the head to hold the hair) for less formal occasions.

Many wonder how a Jewish woman can wear a sheitel that is practically indistinguishable from real hair and may even improve her appearance. The underlying assumption is that a married woman covers her hair in order to look less attractive.

This is not the case.

Covering one’s hair is a way of containing the sensual energy that is emitted through the hair and directing it right back to the woman herself. By contrast, uncovered hair dissipates this energy into the world at large. Covering one’s hair is a reflexive spiritual process that has more to do with the woman’s intimate relationship with herself and her husband than with the world around her. This might be why some Chassidic women wear a hat on top of a wig. The wig is the hair covering that contains her sensual energy and the hat is a social statement, marking her as a married woman.

This explanation, that hair covering is something a woman does for her own spirituality, goes a long way to understanding why, whether a woman covers her hair with a hat, a tichel (scarf) or a sheitel, as long as her hair is covered, she has fulfilled the mitzvah.

Among the 613 commandments, there is no mitzvah to be unattractive.

Pesach 5765: Sing Women Sing

There are so many traditional teachings that emphasize the greatness of the women in the time of Yetziat Mitzrayim (the Exodus from Egypt) that the Talmud asserts, “It was in the merit of the righteous women of that generation that the Jews were redeemed from Egypt.”

On the second days of Pesach, we retell the story of how G-d miraculously propelled the newly freed Hebrew slaves across the Yam Suf (Reed Sea) by sending a wind that parted the waters and dried the seabed. This scene is one of the most powerful and enduring images of women in the Bible. And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances. (Ex. 15:20)

Once the immediate danger had passed and all had crossed the Yam Suf safely, Moshe (Moses) led the men in songs of praise to G-d for their salvation and Miriam led the women. Can you picture this famous visual image? Women with clothing flowing in the breeze, dancing feet and tambourines held high above their heads, led by Miriam.

Although Moshe was the greatest prophet Judaism will ever have, Miriam’s prophecy is equated with that of Aaron. Miriam is such a strong leader that she is often grouped with her brothers Moshe and Aaron. For I brought you up out of the land of Egypt, and redeemed you out of the house of bondage, and I sent before you Moses, Aaron, and Miriam. (Micah 6:4)

A ritual example of this is found in a lost custom of Seder night. The foods on the Seder plate are said to remind us of numerous things. Rabbi Eleazar of Worms (12th century) teaches that the shank bone and the egg remind us of Moshe and Aaron. He further teaches that some people add a portion of fish to the Seder plate, to honor Miriam in addition to Moshe and Aaron.

Fish on the Seder table is also associated with the women of the generation of the Exodus. It was the women who saw a future for the Jewish people and who wanted to continue to have children. The Egyptians decreed that the men should sleep out in the fields and the women sleep at home to reduce the opportunities for them to be together. Nevertheless, the women believed in Redemption. They groomed themselves in copper mirrors so that they would look attractive and their husbands would want to be with them. When going out to see their husbands in the field, they brought jars of hot water in which little fish appeared. By eating the cooked fish and drinking water, the men were refreshed. On these visits, the women would encourage their husbands by reminding them that Redemption was certainly coming.

Water, in addition to being used by women to rejuvenate their husbands in the fields, is associated with other Biblical women. Rivka came and drew water for Eliezer and his flock of camels and this proves to be the test of her worthiness. Rachel is first met at the well where she has come to water her father’s flocks. Even Moshe meets his future wife, Tzipora, at a well and she later sustains him with food and water during his 10 years in her father’s prison.

Miriam herself has multiple connections with water. Her first appearance is near water, when she is sent to look after her brother Moshe as he is placed in the Nile River. As mentioned, she is associated with the Song of Miriam that she led at the Yam Suf and also with the Well of Miriam that, until her death, supplied the Hebrews with water in the wilderness.

We evoke these associations by placing the Kos shel Miriam (Miriam’s Cup) on our Seder table. The Kos shel Miriam is a relatively new symbol. Rather than the wine that fills Kos shel Eliyahu (Elijah’s Cup), the Kos shel Miriam is filled with pure water, symbolizing all the associations between Miriam, the women of her generation, and water.

Wine in the Kos shel Eliyahu is produced only through human effort. Water in the Kos shel Miriam, like the Ultimate Redemption of the Jewish people, comes only from G-d.

Vayikra 5765: G-d is in the Details

I am unfailingly attracted to the color olive green. I am also consistently drawn to tapestry. So when I saw a couch pillow in olive green tapestry, you’ll understand why I bought it on the spot.

Although this pillow has been in my house for a few years, I recently awoke from an afternoon nap with this pillow on my lap. And in that transition from sleeping to wakefulness, I noticed things in the olive green tapestry pillow I had never seen before. A basket of apples. A wheelbarrow filled with flowers. A house number. A rake standing next to an open door.

Parshat Vayikra can be like that. At first blush, it’s filled with so many details about the sacrificial system that it can all run together. But then one detail stands out. And the more we examine it, the more it reveals to us.

There is a detail in Vayikra on which I’d like to focus your attention. Acknowledging that you may have a negative visceral reaction, you are no doubt familiar with the concept of the sacrificial offering of animals on an altar. You may be less aware that, in certain cases, a sacrificial offering may be made from flour and oil. In this context, the detail to which I’d like to draw your attention is that every sacrificial offering, whether animal or flour and oil, must be accompanied by salt.

The more one studies the concept of salt in the Bible, the more details are revealed. For example, the medieval rabbinic commentator Rashi offers a reason why salt must accompany every sacrifice. According to Rashi, during the Six Days of Creation, G-d divided the Lower Waters from the Upper Waters in order to establish the heavens and the seas. Rashi says that the Lower Waters objected to this separation because they wanted to remain close to G-d. G-d consoled the Lower Waters by making a promise that, in the future, salt from the sea would be offered on the altar as part of every sacrifice. This is referred to as the Covenant of Salt.

As the quintessential food preservative, salt is a Biblical symbol of eternity and permanence. In rabbinic commentaries about Lot’s wife, the famous Pillar of Salt, it also a symbol of the care with which G-d chooses our punishments.

There is a concept in traditional Jewish thought called midda k'neged midda, which is generally translated as “measure for measure” but is best understood, in American idiom as “the punishment fits the crime”.

What was the midda k'neged midda aspect of G-d turning Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt? In other words, what did she do to deserve that?

Lot and his wife (whose name our traditional records as Edith, Edis or Irit) lived in Sodom and Gomorrah. The people there were profoundly hostile to visitors. However, as a result of having grown up as the nephew of the exemplary host, Avraham, Lot was a bit different than his neighbors and one day, he invited two guests into his home.

In response, Lot’s wife asked to borrow salt from her neighbors, thus subtly hinting at the presence of guests in her home. Some say that she wasn’t subtle at all but approached her neighbors by saying, “May I borrow some salt for our guests?” Since it was forbidden to host guests in Sodom and Gomorrah, Lot’s wife was aware that, by asking neighbors for salt, she was putting the lives of her husband’s guests into danger.

During the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, she famously looked back even after she was told not to. Her midda k'neged midda punishment was to be turned into a pillar of salt. Just as she sinned with salt, so she was punished with salt.

Some say that her pillar is destined to remain standing until the Messianic age. Her pillar never diminishes, no matter what the weather. Others say that everyday, animals lick the pillar of salt that is Lot’s wife until only her feet remain and every morning, she regenerates, serving as a constant reminder of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah for, among other things, being stingy to guests.

Now that you’ve heard something of the story of Lot’s wife, don’t just sit there. Fill up your salt shakers and invite someone to join you for a Shabbat meal!

Outgrowing

In Israel, I am
fluid in two rhythms,
fluent in two idioms –
in perpetual translation.

Re-entry jars me.
The landscape flattens.
Color dissolves.
Music dissipates.

And old rooms no longer
contain me.

I am a sea creature
outgrowing my salt water shell.
Dreaming of rapid molting
and my next
best Home.

Haneshama B’kirbi

like a blowfish
no!
like an Arab womb, heavy with child
but faster –
like a balloon,
the soul within me expands
to fill the hills, sandy and green
that stretch beyond my window
to Jerusalem

In fat orange pepper arising from arid sand,
a miracle in Gush Katif,
In the hot breath of a Bedouin’s camel
In a taxi driver’s Torah
In a bracha from the Rebbe
In a thousand Hebrew voices
In the dreams of the Jews
I expand
I inflate

in the sherut, back
i cry and cry
the soul within me deflates,
shrivels and wrinkles -
has to,
to fit
Outside the Land.

Mishpatim 5765: Are Women Tainted?

In Judaism, action is more important than belief. This idea is sometimes expressed by describing Judaism as a religion of “deed, not creed”. In fact, unlike other religions, Judaism has no set of beliefs that one must accept in order to be a Jew.

The closest Judaism has to a set of beliefs are The 13 Principles of Faith of Rambam, also known as Maimonides, who was one of the greatest medieval Jewish scholars. (While Orthodox Jews generally believe in the validity of The 13 Principles of Faith, liberal Judaism challenges many of them.)

One of The 13 Principles of Faith states that Moshe was the greatest of the prophets. G-d demanded that Moshe remain in a constant state of tahara, of spiritual purity and receptivity, in order to be ready to receive prophecy at any time. As a result, Moshe separated from his wife Tzipora.

Was Tzipora the cause of his spiritual impurity? Was Moshe tainted by contact with her impurity?

Let’s leave this question open for a moment and look at this week’s parsha. Most of Mishpatim is a rendering of civil law. At the end of the parsha is a section that some commentators suggest is out of chronological order. Chapter 24 details the ascension of Moshe onto Har Sinai for 40 days and 40 nights, to receive the Torah. The problem is that Matan Torah, the Giving of the Torah. was already detailed in last week’s parsha.

Prior to Matan Torah, the prohibition against intimacy between husband and wife was expressed explicitly. Moshe said to the people, “Be ready after a three-day period; do not come near a woman.” (Exodus 19:15)

To be honest, I resented the implication of this verse for a long time. I didn’t like the fact that it spoke only to the men and I resented the implication, as we saw with Moshe and Tzipora, that women are tainted and must be avoided in order for the men to remain tahor, spiritually pure and maximally receptive.

A typical rabbinic commentary on this verse suggests that, by demanding that men abstain from sexual intercourse for three days prior to Revelation, G-d was testing the men to see if they were worthy of receiving the Torah. The idea behind this test is straightforward. Since the Torah serves to elevate the basic human drives, any man who was able to control himself sexually was ready to receive the Torah and to submit to G-d’s will.

An interesting comment, but what does this have to do with the women who are also preparing to receive the Torah? Are we nothing more than a sexual temptation, which, by avoiding, a man can prove his readiness to accept the Torah?

If we turn to Rashi, the most important Torah commentator of all time, a different picture emerges. In order be on the elevated level to receive the Torah, all the people, men and women both, were required to immerse in a mikvah to remove any taint of tumah. Tumah, a category of spiritual impurity, is caused by, among other things, the seminal discharge that occurs with intercourse.

In simple terms, immersion in a mikvah is a process that transforms tumah, spiritual impurity, into tahara, spiritual purity or receptivity. It is critical to remember that tumah and tahara are spiritual concepts that have no parallel in the physical world and should never be confused with the concepts of dirty and clean.

Moshe needed to be ready to receive prophesy at a moment’s notice. Since he would not always have time to immerse in a mikvah before responding to G-d’s call, he separated from his wife in order to refrain from having intercourse with her.

Rashi teaches that if a woman still had semen within her body that was less than 3 days old, she would not be in the state of tahara, of spiritual purity or receptivity, necessary to receive the Torah. In other words, Rashi says that the demand for men to separate from women prior to Matan Torah was for the benefit of the women! In this way, they would be certain to be free from the tumah that accompanies intercourse and thus be eligible to receive the Torah along with the rest of the Bnei Yisrael, the Children of Israel.

Rashi comforts us.

Vayechi 5765: Knowing Who You Are

Eight years ago, I went to Israel for the first time in my life. I spent exactly one day at She'arim College of Jewish Studies for Women learning Torah in Israel. The class I most remember, taught by She’arim’s Director, Rebbetzin Holly Pavlov, was about this week’s parsha. Rebbetzin Pavlov went through the brachot, the blessings, that Yaakov (Jacob) bestowed upon his sons. When we think of a parent blessing a child, as many Jews have the custom to do at the Shabbat table on Friday nights, we imagine parents conferring all manner of exceptional wishes for a first-rate future.

When we examine some of Yaakov’s brachot, Rebbetzin Pavlov taught, they seem to be far less than ideal. In language that has to be unlocked by studying rabbinic commentary, Yaakov blesses his sons one-by-one, often by comparing them to animals. Judah is a lion's whelp (49:9). Naftali is a hind let loose (49:21). Issachar is a large-boned ass, couching down between the sheep-folds (49:14). Gee, thanks Dad! What kind of bracha is that?

But upon closer examination, we see that Yaakov wasn’t simply wishing his sons well for their future. He was telling them who they are. He was identifying for them their strongest characteristics and, in that way, helping them to know themselves and their roles better. In this way, Rebbetzin Pavlov taught, Yaakov gave them each the greatest bracha of all – the blessing of self-awareness.

Have you ever wondered about your own distinctiveness? Have you ever asked yourself what your personal role is in the world? Have you ever wondered why you, specifically, were created? Yaakov’s bracha to his sons was to hold up a mirror and let them know themselves. The rest of us have to figure it out the hard way.

Which brings me to our most recent trip to Israel. Each trip has its own flavor. This time, we saw many important and historic sites. But what most impressed me most was that I kept meeting the most intriguing people who had turned their lives upside down in order to live as Jews in Israel.

I met one couple who started their lives as Christians in Oklahoma and who are now, three weddings later, living as Orthodox Jews in Israel. One man from Texas met a 9 year-old girl from a marginally Jewish home when he was 12. After many long and complicated years apart, during which time he converted to Judaism, they were reunited. Two weeks later, they were engaged and are now married and living in Israel with their infant daughter while the man continues his studies in a yeshiva.

While in Jerusalem, I saw a one-woman show about a woman who was born to Japanese parents in Hawaii. She grew up and became a Broadway dancer and eventually fell in love with a Jewish man. This particular Jewish man knew very little about his Judaism beyond the importance of raising his children as Jews. The journey they embarked upon led both of them to become serious Jews now living in Jerusalem.

Then there are the Anousim Returnees about whom I’ve just begun to learn. These are people, descended from Jews who were forcibly converted to Christianity in Spain and Portugal, who are reclaiming their connection to the Jewish people. After centuries of being separated from the mainstream Jewish community, the Anousim are formally converting and many are returning to live among the Jewish people in Israel.

I’m consistently moved and inspired by the ways people, recognizing the radiance of a Jewish life, grow, change and fight to become proud Jews. The extreme contrast between these remarkable souls who risked everything to become Jews, and the American Jews who are utterly indifferent about their connection to the Jewish people and about their lives as Jews, is heartrending.

I wish I could give every American Jew a bit of what Yaakov gave each of his sons: knowledge from which they could understand their role in the world.

You are a Jew. You are part of a dazzling and eternal people. It may be that you don’t yet have enough information to judge the value of your inheritance.

But it’s not too late to find out. It’s never too late to learn who you are.

Toldos 5765: The Marriage of Rivka and Yitzchak

By all accounts, the marriage between Avraham and Sarah was a marriage of equals. The medieval commentator Rashi teaches that Avraham and Sarah spent time teaching others to have faith in G-d. At that time in history, belief in One Supreme G-d was a novel, and not particularly popular, idea. Rashi teaches that Avraham converted the men and Sarah converted the women. And although G-d spoke to Avraham numerous times, Sarah was far from being spiritually ineffectual herself. In fact, she had a level of spiritual insight that, at times, exceeded Avraham’s.

If Avraham and Sarah were essentially peers, the workings of the marriage of Rivka (Rebecca) and Yitzchak (Isaac) were much subtler and harder to understand. To begin with, Yitzchak was much older. Rivka had just been born when Yitzchak survived the Akeidah (“Binding of Isaac”) at age 37. There is one opinion that Yitzchak was 40 and Rivka was just three when they married.

In addition, Yitzchak was the son of Sarah and Avraham, two wholly righteous people. In contrast, though she herself remained untainted, Rivka grew up in a household and in a society where evil was the norm. Her brother Lavan was the famous Biblical swindler. In today’s terms, Yitzchak was “sheltered” and Rivka was “worldly”.

Another clue about the complexity of their marriage is the striking paucity of dialogue between Rivka and Yitzchak, as recorded in the Torah. In fact, there is only one line that passed between them. “Rebecca said to Isaac, ‘I am disgusted with my life on account of the daughters of Heth; if Jacob takes a wife of the daughters of Heth like these, of the daughters of the land, what is life to me?’” (Genesis 27:46) In this verse, Rivka bemoaned the fact that their son Eisav (Esau) married women from among the locals and expressed anguish over the possibility that Yaakov (Jacob) might do the same if they did not send him away.

Besides their dissimilar ages, backgrounds and the seeming lack of verbal communication between them, Yitzchak is among the most enigmatic characters in the Torah. He takes few decisive actions and is what we would today call reactive rather than proactive. Rivka, by contrast, was an active player in her life and in her marriage. Most of what the Torah relates about the events in the marriage of Rivka and Yitzchak is told through the actions of Rivka.

In his new book, Women In The Bible, Rav Shlomo Aviner, the Chief Rabbi of Beit El, Israel, offers us insight into the marriage of Rivka and Yitzchak. Rav Aviner teaches that Yitzchak existed on a plane that was above the mundane in this world. He was capable of seeing only those things that were eternal.

The Sages say that Rivka’s role was to serve as intermediary between Yitzchak and G-d. Imagine a Person of Great Achievement who excels at one specific thing. Such a person would benefit from having a personal assistant to handle the mundane, temporal aspects of life, freeing the Person of Great Achievement to achieve in one arena. Rivka was like the personal assistant to Yizchak’s Person of Great Achievement. Neither could be said to be superior because it took the combination of both of their skills to accomplish what neither could do alone.

Yitzchak’s character was primarily hidden and Rivka was the more overt player throughout their lifetimes. However, together they made a very strong union. So much so that Rav Aviner says that their unique relationship was the tikkun, was the spiritual rectification, for one of the curses that G-d pronounced upon Chava (Eve).

Rav Aviner says, “The appearance of Isaac and Rebecca rectified the damage done by Adam and Eve, which had punished Eve: And he will rule over you (Genesis 3:16). From the beginning of the world until this very day, the fact is that men dominate women, sometimes with a cruel hand. The strength of Isaac and Rebecca remedied this situation. Isaac in no way dominated Rebecca. Since childhood, it was impossible to dominate her. Even her father and brother could not control her.”

From Rivka we learn that there is not just one correct lifestyle choice for every Jewish woman. Each of us has our own manner of serving G-d. We do not all need to be the same.

Women in My Sukkah

Quick… picture an image of a Jew. Don’t read on until you’ve got an image fixed in your mind.

If you’re like most, chances are you imagined a Jewish man, or possibly a Jewish boy. Art and media images of Jews are, almost invariably, images of Jewish men. There are several reasons for this. Men, especially religious men, with their beards, payos (sidelocks), yarmulkes, hats and tzitzits look so obviously Jewish. And we live in a culture that is swayed by appearances.

There is also a traditional concern with safeguarding the privacy of Jewish women. I understand this, but the net effect is that Jewish women become, to the untrained eye, nearly invisible. To demonstrate my point, try looking at a display of Sukkah decorations and notice how hard it is to spot a woman in any of the posters.

This paucity of images of Jewish women doing Jewish things has always bothered me, especially since we have only daughters, which is why most of the Jewish art in our home features Jewish women. We also make a special effort to include images of Jewish women as we decorate our Sukkah. This unconscious overlooking of women as Jews is also incredibly common in books and speeches, where Jews are often equated with Jewish men, as in the expression, “the Jews and their wives”.

Happily, there is a Sukkot custom that gives us an opportunity to invite Jewish women back into the picture, literally. The Zohar, a classic Kabbalistic work, introduces us to the idea that the Patriarch Abraham, along with six other Biblical figures, joins us when we sit in our Sukkah. On a metaphysical level, the souls of seven men who looked after the Nation of Israel -- Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph, and King David -- actually leave their eternal home in the upper realms to join us in our celebration of Sukkot in this world.

The custom, known as Ushpizin (an Aramaic word meaning male guests), developed to formally invite Abraham to join us in our Sukkah in the first night of Sukkot and to do the same for each of the other Biblical guests on subsequent nights. It is common practice to decorate the Sukkah with a poster that bears the names of the Ushpizin. Some have the additional custom of setting aside a particularly fancy chair in the Sukkah, sometimes covered with sacred books, for the Ushpizin. Others light a candle to welcome them.

There is a parallel, through far less known tradition, recorded in the 17th century by an Italian kabbalist, that the seven prophetesses should also be invited into the Sukkah as Ushpizot. Who are these seven prophetesses? By name, they are Sarah (Genesis), Miriam (Exodus), Deborah (Judges), Hannah (I Samuel), Avigail (I Samuel), Huldah (II Kings), and Queen Esther (Book of Esther).

These are the seven women who were gifted with prophecy that was significant enough to be recorded in our tradition for all time. Their stories are largely unknown to us. Even some of their names are entirely unfamiliar. Open a T’Nach (the Jewish Bible) and look up their stories. It will enrich your Sukkot this year.

We find another feminine resonance embedded in the holiday of Sukkot. As the children’s song goes, there are mitzvahs for your nose and mitzvahs for your toes, but there are only a handful of mitzvahs for your whole body at once.

The inside of a Sukkah is a sacred space in which one is totally enveloped by the presence and protection of G-d. Similarly, the mikveh, one of the three mitzvahs to which women have a unique relationship, is also a sacred space in which one is totally enveloped by the presence and protection of G-d.

So this year, decorate your Sukkah with images of Jewish women or the work of Jewish women artists. The Internet is the single best source for these images. Do a little homework and learn about the seven women prophetesses. Discuss them over the Sukkot holiday, especially the much-neglected Huldah, after whom one of the gates to the Old City of Jerusalem was named. As you sit in a Sukkah, think about how the experience parallels the experience of mikveh. And take a moment to invite Ushpizin and the Ushpizot into your Sukkah this year.

Tzav 5762

(From a dvar Torah I gave at my older daughter's Bat Mitzvah on March 16, 2002)

The Torah portion that Ariella will read today comes from the third book of the Bible. In Hebrew, this book is known as Vayikra and in English as Leviticus. The Five Books of Moses, and each Torah portion within them, are named in Hebrew for the first significant word in the portion.

The English names are more like titles that capture the theme of the entire Book. So Genesis, for example, is about the beginning, the genesis, of humans and of Judaism. The theme of the Book of Exodus is the Exodus, what we call in Hebrew, Yetziat Mitzrayim – the exiting from Egypt. Leviticus is, in large part, about the role of the Levi’im, the Levites, the Priestly Class.

Although many people pray at home, the place of worship most familiar to Jews today is the synagogue. This was not always the case. After G-d gave the Torah to Moses on Mt. Sinai, he instructed Moshe to build a Mishkan – a portable sanctuary in the desert where sacrifices could be offered and G-d’s Presence could dwell among the Jewish people. The Jewish people carried the Mishkan around through most of their 40 years of wandering in the desert, assembling and disassembling it with each new encampment.

After the Jewish people settled in the land of Israel, the Mishkan was replaced with a more permanent structure that we call the Beit haMikdash or the Holy Temple. In both cases, all Jewish worship was centered in the Mishkan and later in the Beit HaMikdash. There were no synagogues then, as we know them now.

At the time of Ariella’s Torah reading, Jewish worship was centralized and focused on various kinds of sacrifices that were brought, on behalf of the Jewish people, by members of the Priestly class who were known as Levi’im and Kohanim.

As is the custom for the Shabbos mincha service, Ariella will read the first aliyah, the first eleven verses, of next week’s Torah portion. In a literary sense, this is a foreshadowing of things to come. In a culinary sense, this is an appetizer. In a spiritual sense, we connect one Shabbos to the next. This reminds us that, although we divide the Torah into sections for our convenience, it is really one seamless whole. Which is a reflection of the Oneness of G-d.

The portion Ariella will read is Tzav, which is a verb meaning Command. Hashem’s first words to Moshe in this parsha are, “Command Aaron and his sons…” Tzav – command, is related to mitzvah, which are commandments.

In the Mishkan, and later in the Beit HaMikdash, there was a complex system of offerings, each serving a different purpose. In the portion Ariella will read, Hashem is explaining to Moshe additional laws of the olah, the elevation-offering and of the minchah, the meal-offering. The olah was the only offering that had to be presented every day without exception. The minchah was an offering of flour and oil.

The Torah imparts to us a great deal of information about the system of offerings. For many people, the complex and specific details of each of the kinds of offerings, how they are given, when they are given, what the Kohain is supposed to wear when they are offered, and on and on… this is not exactly the most intrinsically interesting part of the Torah.

However, for the diligent student of Torah, many beautiful Jewish principles are learned from the minutest details of the sacrificial system. For example, as Ariella will shortly read for us, the very first task of each morning was the removal of the ashes that remained on the altar from the previous day’s sacrifice. This is a reminder that each new day brings new challenges. The one who is complacent, resting on past accomplishments, cannot make progress. Success comes to the one who understands that each day is a fresh opportunity. The removal of the previous day’s ashes reminds us to remove yesterday’s schmutz from our lives – to go forward without being hampered by the waste of the past. Even if we didn’t do anything to grow yesterday, or last week or last year or in the last decade, the daily removal of the ashes reminds us that each day is a new opportunity to grow – spiritually, intellectually or in refinement of character. Each day is a new chance.

In her leading of this prayer service, and in her Torah reading, Ariella is demonstrating that she has learned this lesson. Her preparation for her Bat Mitzvah, and her readiness to take on the responsibilities of an adult Jewish woman, represent significant Jewish growth. Ariella has been preparing for this day for many months. To learn to read from the Torah is no easy task. The Sefer Torah from which she will read, like all Sifrei Torah, has no vowels, no musical notes, no guidelines to assist her in the correct reading. Over the past months, Ariella has been diligently and patiently taught this section of the Torah in all its detail, by her loving Abba. I have been in awe, both of Ariella’s ability to master such a complex skill, and of Elan’s infinite patience and good cheer in encouraging her in this complex task.

Whether this is your first time or your hundredth time hearing the Torah read in a young woman’s voice, I invite you to listen to the voice of the future. And may Hashem grant us all the ability to grow closer to His
Torah.

Shabbat Shalom.

The Magic of Shabbos

(Written in May, 2001)

A few weeks ago, I had a particularly fabulous Shabbos. I was in my mid-20s before I first learned about Shabbos. More than 15 years later, I experienced a Shabbos that was, without question, scented with the aroma of the World-to-Come.

I didn’t grow up with Shabbos, or with much Jewishness at all, for that matter. No Hebrew school. No Sara and Abraham. No Shema. No sukkah. No Israel (though I was born after 1948). And most assuredly, no Shabbos.

My early Jewish memories are rather limited. My brother’s bris when I was four. My mother, with a square of paper towel on her head, turning orange Chanukah bulbs in a plastic menorah and reciting in English, “Bless-ed art Thou, O! Lord our G-d, King of the Universe who has sanctified us by Thy commandments and commanded us to kindle the light of Chanukah.” The perpetual problem of which grandmothers’ gefilte fish tasted better. The Bas Mitzvah of a junior high school classmate, which I attended, but didn’t understand. Yiddish, spoken to prevent me from knowing. No bologna with milk but also no explanation as to why not. Scant snippets of Jewish moments. Not even whole memories.

Ah! But this special Shabbos was saturated with memory-making moments. Friday night, our table brimmed with friends, old and new. Before dinner, our 11 year-old led us in a game of Jewish bingo she created that afternoon. Her cleverness warmed me. None of the special dishes I cooked for dinner flopped. And then, loudly singing our communal bentching, our raucous Grace After Meals, filled with our family’s idiosyncratic quirkiness that grows more complex each year.

Shabbos morning, I walked to shul for the first time in months, after a winter of being confined by knee pain. Cherished friends, members of another congregation, joined us to celebrate the 30th anniversary of the husband’s bar mitzvah. Before our friend chanted his Haftorah, just as he had at age 13, his wife spoke powerfully, highlighting a theme of the Haftorah and relating it to her husband’s admirable character. The pleasure of having impressive friends.

Another family, mutual friends of very long-standing, whose loyalty was proven in my darker days, also came to our shul. Our children all know each other, some literally from birth. At the kiddush, we ate sweet pineapple and strawberry shortcake.

Walking home from shul, all 13 of us, I had an urge to commit absolutely every detail of this glorious day to memory. The complete peacefulness of Shabbos. No cars to drive. No phones to answer. No bills to pay. No PDA to hotsynch. The warm, soft weather of early spring. Early blossoming trees in full bloom. Young, healthy children, laughing together and running ahead.

A long Shabbos afternoon spent joyfully, surrounded by well-married friends with whom we share our worries and our inside jokes. All the brachas that Hashem perpetually presents to me, sweetly tied together in one glorious 25-hour Shabbos.

Someday, looking back on it will make me weep.

Why We're Going to Israel Now

(From a talk I gave in June, 2002 when everyone thought we were crazy to go to Israel)

This week’s parsha, Parshat Pinchas, tells the story of the Daughters of Tzelefchod – five women from the generation that wandered in the desert – who had a profound love for the Land of Israel. Their father Tzelefchod died in the desert without sons. The story of the Daughters of Tzelefchod takes place when the time came to distribute parcels in the Land of Israel to each family. The women in this story so loved the Land of Israel that they insisted they be given a portion of the Land as their inheritance, despite the fact that there were no men in their family. They said:
"Our father has died in the desert.. And he had no sons. Why should the name of our father be removed (literally, be lessened) from the midst of his family because he has no sons". Give us (women) a possession together with the brothers of our father." (Numbers 27:3,4).

It’s far from coincidental that this story appears in this week’s parsha, as we prepare for our departure to Israel. After all, is there a page of T’Nach, of our Bible, that doesn’t mention the Land and its significance?

When I was a very young girl, my father, alav hashalom, once remarked, “If the United States was ever at war with Israel, I would go and fight for Israel.” It’s peculiar that I should remember that. It was offered without explanation, and I was too young at the time to understand its significance. In fact, this was the solitary comment about Israel that I recall ever hearing expressed in my childhood home.

I was not exactly raised with an abiding love for the Land of Milk and Honey. Or with any significant knowledge of Judaism for that matter. The place in me where a Jew ought to have existed was null and void. But I was driven by the desire to fill my empty space. And, with siyata d’shamaya, with help from Above, I eventually came to understand the significance of being a Jew so that I could live as one.

When I first started meeting Jewish people who had robust amounts of Jewish consciousness, I heard over and over again about the love of Jews for the Land of Israel. How much they looked forward to their next visit! How hard it had been to leave! How homesick they were, for the land that was not their home.

I heard it.

But I didn’t get it.

After the Rabbi and I were married, we went to Israel for my first visit. Although many Jews who visit Israel rush to the Kotel, the Western Wall, as soon as possible, I spent several days trying to avoid going there. I had heard so many dramatic stories of Jews encountering the Kotel. But I was apprehensive and afraid I wouldn’t feel anything.

Here’s what actually happened. At first, I was stunned by the assault of women charity collectors at the Kotel. Nobody had warned me, and I wasn’t prepared. So before I could even get to the Kotel, I had to wade through a phalanx of women calling to me, reaching their hands out at me, demanding of me. The barrage disturbed me, but I was even more bothered by my unpreparedness to give charity properly.

As I walked closer to the Wall, there was no open spot, but I noticed a little side room up a few steps, and I made my way in there. Seated at the entrance was a woman, engrossed in her recitation of Tehillim, but aware enough of her surroundings to shake a charity can each time someone walked in.

More than really praying, I spent my time holding a book of Tehillim distractedly. I reminded myself over and over where I was. My body was actually at the Kotel. I was standing at the remnant of the Holy Temple. I was an American Jew and I was standing before the Kotel itself. I experienced a surreal sense of wonder.

By the time I met my husband on the plaza, I was crying. I couldn’t stop crying for nearly an hour. I had heard the Kotel referred to as the Wailing Wall. I always thought that was because people stood before it and wailed from distress. Now I knew another meaning. Because the Kotel, working its magic in my Jewish soul, had just brought me to tears.

Just tears.

No words.

Just a recognition of the raw spiritual capacity that is accessible only in Israel.

On a later trip, we had the great privilege of getting to Hevron, to the Ma’arit HaMachpelah, to the Cave of the Matriarchs and Patriarchs. To enter the building that has been erected on top of the cave, we had to pass through Israeli security, even back in 1998. We entered through metal detectors, from bright sunlight to semi-darkness, until our eyes adjusted to the natural light streaming in from tiny windows.

At one of the windows was a man. A rag of a man. A penitent. In shredded clothing. Bending and straightening. Bending and straightening. Shukling. Rapidly. And crying out, from an unimaginable depth within. Heart-rending. I understood nothing of what he said. Some might have mistaken him for a madman. I, who was standing in the holiest Land on Earth, in one of her four holiest cities, in one of the holiest places in one of the holiest cities, I chose to see sanctity. Again, I saw the raw spiritual capacity that is accessible only in Israel.

Even given these powerful experiences, I happily returned to Baltimore from each of our trips to Israel. Nice place to visit… but Baltimore is our home. So much so that last summer, we toured all the local Jewish cemeteries, looking for the place we most wanted to be buried. You see, we expected to die in Baltimore, because we saw Baltimore as our home.

As recently as last summer, I was what you might call a theoretical Zionist. I loved and supported Israel, but only in a distant, impersonal sense. From my home in Baltimore.

Three things happened since last summer that changed my relationship to the Land of Israel and that impacted our decision to travel there to look for an apartment in which to invest. The first was September 11th. The second was going to work for the University of Haifa, and the third was something I heard at a lecture last year.

On September 11th, something dramatic shifted in my worldview. On that day, I began to see my life in the context of Jewish history.

There is a lengthy litany of the years and the lands from which Jews have been expelled over the course of Jewish history. After the crusades, expulsions of entire Jewish communities became commonplace. In 1290, all the Jews were expelled from England. In 1306, Jews were expelled from France. In 1492, Jews were expelled from Spain. Dozens of sporadic expulsions of entire Jewish communities in Europe continued into the 19th century.

I was born in America, after the Holocaust. On September 11th, my lifelong presumption of safety in America was immediately and irrevocably shattered. I abruptly came to see the United States, where my parents, and the two generations that followed them, were born and have been living, for what it really is.

A host country.

Don’t believe me? A few historical facts may help you see things more clearly. The first Jews came to America in 1654, but Jewish men couldn’t vote in Maryland until 172 years later. In 1692, the Church of England was the official religion in Maryland. And until less than 150 years ago, public office could only be held by those able to take the oath “upon the true faith of a Christian”.

As great as America has been to Jews, and it has been, it’s hard to escape the fact that we live in a Christian country. Two months of every year, we are overwhelmed with preparations for Christmas. A friend of ours who made aliyah last year said that in Israel, the holiday soda bottles say Chag Sameach, not Merry Christmas. Here, Christmas and Easter are Federal holidays. In America, Christians get their holidays off automatically. Who among us, with the possible exception of those who work in Jewish institutions, hasn’t had to deal with the necessity of negotiating time off to celebrate our Jewish holidays?

Make no mistake. America, for all its love for religious tolerance, is hosting the Jews who live in her borders. This country is not ours.
And it never will be.

Right now, Jews live in relative safety and security in America. But for how long will that be the case? As great as this country is, don’t allow yourself to get so comfortable that you can’t imagine America vomiting out its Jews. Remember the lesson of history. It’s happened in every other country where Jews have ever lived. Our sense of security in America is deceptive. It’s a mistake to rely on it.

Addressing the Jewish Agency last Sunday, June 23, Prime Minister Sharon said, “Whatever happens here [in Israel] will influence the fate of the Jews all around the world. If Israel, Heaven forbid, becomes weakened, don't expect even for a minute that you will be able to live the lives that you are living now. It will disappear in the blink of an eye. Your responsibility is therefore no less than ours… Because it is now not only our fate, but also your fate that hangs in the balance."

It’s a mistake to walk around believing that what’s happening in Israel doesn’t threaten us as American Jews. The more precarious things become in Israel, the more precarious our security as American Jews will become. It’s scary to think about it. But it’s even scarier to be oblivious.

After September 11th, I asked myself, “What does this event mean to me?” “Is this a foreshadowing?” “Is this horrific event supposed to wake me from a coma of apathy? ”

I have surely been awakened from my coma and my eyes are wide open.

A second event that turned my heart toward Israel was accepting a position with an Israeli university. I used to be the most apolitical, unaware person imaginable. I’m not kidding. My strategy for keeping up with current events was that if it was big enough news, someone would tell me about it.

That all changed when I went to work for the University of Haifa. As a function of my job responsibilities, I now must know what’s going on in Israel. In fact, responding to parents about terrorist events in Israel is part of my job. So it’s not just news anymore. It’s my job. Events in Israel, and world events that impact on Israel, hold my attention now in a way they never did before. I’ve gone from being fundamentally oblivious to being relatively well informed about current events in Israel.

All this thinking about Israel and praying for her transformed something inside me. I don’t believe in a political solution. I believe that only a Divine solution will bring lasting peace. And so now I wait for Moshiach, for our Messiah, with ever-increasing eagerness.

And in the meantime? I was just there in November, but I knew I just HAD TO get to Israel again soon. I could feel it in me, like a gnawing.

I don’t mean to suggest that deciding to go was a no-brainer. We postponed and revised our plans several times. But neither was it the toughest decision a Jew ever had to make. In the years preceding the Holocaust, Jews made gut-wrenchingly painful decisions. Some saw what was coming. Others insisted that it wasn’t that bad or that it would certainly get better. Some got out, or got their children out, in time. And some didn’t. So many Jews in that generation, so many Jews in history, have been called upon to make tough decisions. The most I’ve ever been called upon to sacrifice, as a Jew, was baby shrimp with cashews in hoisin-flavored sauce. In comparison to deciding whether to send my children on Kindertransport and risk never seeing them again, making the decision to go to Israel was a piece of cake.

Are we scared to go? Well, yes… and no. Yes, because Jews are getting blown up in Israel on a regular basis. And no, because we have emunah, we have faith. We know that Hashem’s protection is portable. We pray for emunah strong enough to travel in spite of our fear, and, if necessary, G-d forbid, to live with the harm that could come.

And we believe that going to Israel right now, even for a relatively short trip, is something every American Jewish family should be considering. In a message encouraging American Jews to support Israel, Sandra Sokol, the President of AMIT, remembers and paraphrases Mordechai’s words to Esther in Megillat Esther : Do not imagine that you will escape in your affluence from among all the Jews; because if you remain silent at this time, relief and rescue will arise for Israel elsewhere and you and your father’s household will perish. And who knows, if it was not for a time like this that you were so elevated.

Maybe we can’t all live there yet. But we surely can look for ways to support Israel from here. An important purpose of our upcoming trip is to find an apartment to buy. We plan to invest in Israeli real estate as a way of supporting the Israeli economy. And in this way, we hope that we, and our friends and family, will be strengthened to visit Israel more frequently.

When visiting Baltimore last summer, Rabbi Shlomo Riskin of Efrat, Israel said, “If Israel is your Disneyland, then only come when the sun is shining. But if Israel is your Motherland, then come now because your mother needs you.”

We Jews have had a good run in America. But our motherland is threatened. It’s time to put our bodies where our hearts and souls are.

And that’s why we’re going.

Shabbat Shalom.

Why I Love Jewish Books

I love Jewish books the way some women love shoes.

When I was in the ninth grade, I told my English teacher that I was generally in the midst of reading five or six books at any given time. Rather than applauding my insatiable appetite for books, she told me that my claim was ludicrous because nobody could keep the details of that many books straight.

I kept doing it anyway.

Books have always called to me in some inexplicable and inescapable way. My earliest book memories are of my mother and grandfather trading library books back and forth. Each visit to my grandparents’ apartment in the Bronx saw my mother schlepping a navy blue vinyl bag filled with titles like, “The Hospital,” or “Nurse Amy and Dr. White.”

Okay, so my mother and I don’t share the same taste in books. But a love of reading. That I got from her.

My first instinct, when my curiosity gets tickled about any new topic, is to find a book about it. So when I got interested in Judaism some 20 years ago, I turned to books.

I recall stepping into an old Jewish bookstore in New York and being utterly overwhelmed. Nothing was familiar. I had no ability to focus on a particular book because I lacked the capacity to distinguish among all the books in the shop. I was embarrassed, initially, that I was a Jew in a Jewish bookstore and I had no idea how to begin.

I got over that feeling of paralysis and went to Pratt library to check out my first Jewish books. I remember, 'What is a Jew?' by Morris Kertzer principally because my housemates teased me by asking, 'Nu, vat iz a Jew?' The other book was, 'The Nine Questions People Ask About Judaism' by Dennis Prager and Joseph Telushkin. Thus began my insatiable fascination with Jewish books.

Eventually, I began to buy Jewish books. Now, I can't seem to stop buying Jewish books. It's a delight, an exhilaration, an absorption and an obsession all at once. And it's really not helpful that I married a rabbi who also has the syndrome. Together, we own thousands of Jewish books. And we buy new ones all the time.

I take comfort in the fact that we're not alone. Perhaps because people who love Jewish books are naturally drawn to each other, I know lots of other Jewish book junkies, and I asked some of them why they love Jewish books.

Some spoke of Jewish books as a statement of Jewish identity. Social worker Rhoda Posner Pruce says: 'I like to have them in my house where they are visible because it helps my home reflect my Jewish identity.'
Elie Wiesel said: 'I do not recall a Jewish home without a book on the table.'

Some love Jewish books precisely because they cover familiar ground. Joyce Levitas, of PBCS Marketing, says, 'I love to read Jewish fiction because I can relate to the characters' experiences and feelings.' Amy Gross, senior planner at the Associated, finds that 'the struggles that people have with their Judaism validate my own.'

Others prefer to read Jewish books that introduce them to unfamiliar Jewish lives. 'The Jewish books I savor are the ones that help me question stereotypes, and enrich my perspective about the diversity of Jewish life,' says Susan Kurlander of Jewish Big Brother and Big Sister League.

The most important reason people gave for loving Jewish books was, of course, learning from them. 'I love Jewish books because they contain the wisdom and the memory of the Jewish people,' says Rebbetzin Holly Pavlov of She'arim in Jerusalem. Rabbi Morris Kosman of Beth Shalom in Frederick says, 'I love books. I want to learn from books. I know that I have to go to the basic texts so that I experience directly from the fires that warm all Jewish literature and Jewish experience.'

Ultimately, for me, being a Jewish book junkie is inexplicable. In the end, I love Jewish books because I'm a Jew and Jewish books both capture and reflect who I am in the world.

Maybe I should write a book about it.

Shoftim 5764

In this week’s Torah reading, Moshe reviews a series of laws governing the eventual appointment of a Jewish king. Moshe is aware that the Jewish people will want a king to rule over them, just as all the other nations have.

Although appointing a Jewish king is eventually permitted, there are special conditions that apply to Jewish kings. Jewish kings must be chosen by G-d. They must be from among the Jewish people and not foreigners. Jewish kings are forbidden from having too many horses and they also may not amass too much silver and gold for themselves.

Of particular interest is the ruling that any future Jewish king “must [also] not have too many wives, so that they not make his heart go astray.” How many is too many? According to the Talmud, an Israelite king was forbidden from having more than eighteen wives.

Polygamy was an accepted part of early Judaism. Avraham had both Sarah and Hagar as wives. Yaacov (Jacob) had four wives – the famous sisters Rachel and Leah and also two other, lesser-known wives – Bilhah and Zilpah. However, while polygamy was an accepted part of Biblical and early Jewish society, it is clear that is was never considered an ideal. Rabbi Joseph Telushkin notes that, if God had wished to communicate polygamy as an ideal, He would have created "Adam, Eve and Joan."

Although polygamy exists in the Bible, in every case, it leads to anguish. For example, when Hagar becomes pregnant before Sarah, there developed great animosity between Avraham’s wives. The Torah quotes Sarah saying about Hagar, “Now that she sees herself pregnant, she looks at me with disrespect.” About Hagar, the Torah says, “When she realized that she was pregnant, she looked at her mistress (i.e. Sarah) with contempt.”

Leah feels unloved and unhappy in her husband’s home (“God saw that Leah was unloved.”) and her sons come to hate Yosaif (Joseph) who is the son of the beloved Rachel (“Because of his dreams and words, they hated him even more.”).

Polygamy was an atavistic practice, left over from a less sophisticated time. The Torah did not immediately forbid it, but it is clear, as Judaism developed, especially as the prophets encouraged the people toward higher levels of moral and ethical behavior, that the incidence of polygamy decreased. Even when polygamy was permitted, monogamy was always considered the ideal form of partnership between a man and a woman.

Additional evidence that monogamy has always been preferred in Judaism is in the text of Aishet Chayil (“A Woman of Valor”). In these verses, customarily sung on Friday night, the woman of valor is clearly the only wife in the home. The prophets also compare the love between a husband and a wife to the love between G-d and the Jewish people. The implication is that, just as the Jewish people have no other G-d, the husband should have no other wife.

Although polygamy was legal in Jewish society for a long time, it was still quite rare, especially in the post-Biblical period. As evidence, over the hundreds of years that the Talmud was written, none of the rabbis of the Talmud had more than one wife.

Eventually, in the 10th century CE, the great Sage Rabbenu Gershom issued a rabbinic degree banning polygamy. Interestingly, polygamy has been illegal in Israel since the founding of the modern State in 1948.

Besides noting the unhappy outcomes in all Biblical stories of polygamy, Rabbenu Gershom also taught that polygamy constituted a chilul Hashem. A chilul Hashem is a behavior that makes Jews look bad in the eyes of others, especially among non-Jews. The concept of a chilul Hashem applies even today when the actions of one Jewish person reflect poorly on the community as a whole.

The opposite idea also exists. A Jewish person who behaves honorably is considered to have created a kiddush Hashem, a sanctification of G-d’s name in the larger world.

Thus, in a time when ordinary men could marry multiple wives, the ruling that a Jewish king must limit the number of his wives was revolutionary. Restricting the king to eighteen wives can be seen as part of the same progressive thinking that led to Rabbenu Gershom’s degree, which effectively ended polygamy in nearly every Jewish community even until today.

So You Want To Be A Rabbi?

Although I can summon up a beguiling persona in a heartbeat, I know I’ll never be a blues singer. If I had been born with the voice of Nell Carter, this might have been cause for genuine lament. As it is, I gratify myself vicariously through the torch songs of others, and, occasionally … ahem, well…

Some things are better off remaining private.

I also know I’ll never be a rabbi. Sadly, abandoning this aspiration has proven far more daunting. I’ve spent years on this one. There are ample reasons why I should be a rabbi. And only one real reason why I’m not.

Reasons why I’d have become a fine and able rabbi-teacher: I cherish my Jewish life. I came to a fuller observance of Judaism as an adult and my convoluted Jewish journey has inspired others. Studying new ideas and learning new things sustains me, and I’m compelled to share what I know the very moment after I’ve discovered it. I delight in connecting people to resources from which they might benefit. I’m devoted to teaching. I live in conscious awe of the personal and spiritual growth of others. I actually enjoy public speaking.

But I’m not a rabbi, because I am an Orthodox woman.

I chose to be an Orthodox Jew in my late 20s. Late, but not too late… if I had been born a man. There are places men can go to catch up. There are yeshivas that sustain newly religious men who are still learning the Hebrew alphabet all the way through to rabbinic ordination.

There is no such place for Orthodox women.

Things are changing, but not for women my age. Not for women who have families and responsibilities that bind them to other places. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of Orthodox women who know as much as, or in some cases, far more than many rabbis. There are no Orthodox women rabbis. Yet. There will be. But I won’t be among them. I got on the train too late.

Being, or in my case, not being, a rabbi is one of my life’s themes – a minor note that occasionally swells to major importance. So what do I do with an itch I cannot quell? I marry a rabbi, thus living out the title of a forthcoming book by Dr. Shuly Rubin Schwartz - They Married What They Wanted to Be: The Rebbetzin in American Jewish Life.

I marry a rabbi. And then I let it all roil around in me for a good, long time -

The voice of anguish – I am like the barren woman whose longing for a child scorches the heavens. I am like the nursing mother, bearing the torture of full breasts when there is no infant to suckle. I am the searing pain of wanting to give. And believing that there is no one to receive.

The voice of history – I’m in good company. When have there not been women who knew they could do a job and were prevented from doing so by virtue of gender?

The voice of desperation – I’ll study for non-Orthodox ordination. I’ll swallow every theological conflict just to get through it. Once I have the title, I’ll go back to being my authentic self.

The voice of cynicism and fear - Jews expect too much from rabbis. Rabbis get eaten alive by their congregants; they work too much; they sacrifice their own family life in service to others. Rabbis have no privacy and no one ever cuts them any slack. Finding fault with the rabbi is a Jewish Olympic sport – and every Jew is a gold medallist.

The voice of humility - I’m not good enough to be a rabbi. I’m too flawed. Such chutzpah to imagine myself qualified to represent G-d in this world.

The voice of feminism – WHO AM I KIDDING? If I only had a different chromosome pattern, my ambition would be applauded and my journey blessed.

The voice of grief – Intense desire for what I cannot have makes me weep.

The voice of faith – The time is not yet right for women to be Orthodox rabbis. Just as G-d revealed the Promised Land to Moshe from the top of Mt. Nevo, G-d sent me a husband, who is also a rabbi. I can’t be a rabbi, but I can make a life with one. This is as close as I can get. I have been given partial access to the rabbinic world, with all its glorious imperfections. With mercy and compassion from Above, I have been granted an extraordinary view.

In his commentary on Parshat Hayyei Sarah (5763), Rabbi Shlomo Riskin suggests to me, finally, that, in being a rabbi’s wife, I am potentially more crucial to my husband’s rabbinic accomplishments than I ever dared imagine.

“…[D]uring his more than three decades of post Sarah existence, there is not a single Biblical record of Abraham having any special communication from G-d as or of his achieving any act of significance on behalf of his family-nations - aside from his sending Eliezer to search out a fitting wife for Isaac. Apparently Abraham was the Rav in no small measure because Sarah was the Rebbetzin…”

The voice of resignation – I’ll never be a rabbi. That will always be my particular heartbreak.

Finally, the voice of acceptance - With hyper vigilance, I have fixated on my loss, overlooking that which remains yet in my hands. There is still so much that I can do. I can teach. I can write. I can speak. I have a voice and I have opportunities. This is my consolation.

This, I can do.

Pinchas 5764

Parshat Pinchas presents the story of five remarkable sisters, the Bnos Tzelefchod, the daughters of Tzelefchod. Praises for the Bnos Tzelefchod in rabbinic literature are arresting. They are described as chachmaniyot (wise women), darshaniot (Biblical explicators) and tzidkaniot (righteous women). They are credited with extraordinary appreciation of the spiritual qualities of the Land of Israel.

The Bible often credits women with having a superior ability to remain faithful in cases where men have lost their faith. A famous example of this is during the Sin of the Golden Calf. It was men, and not women, who participated in the Sin of constructing a Golden Calf to worship. In fact, women were so reluctant to give their gold jewelry to be melted down to make the Golden Calf, the Rabbis teach that husbands literally tore earrings off of their wives’ ears, in their misguided zealousness. The reward for the women's refusal was Rosh Chodesh, a minor holiday that occurs at the beginning of every Hebrew month. Rosh Chodesh is a special holiday for Jewish women, leading to a proliferation of women's Rosh Chodesh groups and other means of celebrating Rosh Chodesh, as women reclaim the Jewish expressions that are uniquely ours.

In introducing the Bnos Tzelefchod, the Torah traces their lineage back to Yosef, to Joseph. This is to demonstrate that, just as Yosef loved the Land so much that he had his brothers take an oath that they would carry his bones out of Egypt when they left for Israel, that's how much the daughters of Tzelefchod loved the Land. You might say it was a family tradition.

When Moshe, when Moses, began apportioning the Land of Israel through a census of males eligible for military service, the Bnos Tzelefchod grew concerned. Since their father, Tzelefchod, died in the wilderness without sons, the daughters worried that, because they had no father and no brothers, their family would be without a share of the Land and their father's name would be forgotten.

In an attempt to have their case heard, the Bnos Tzelefchod approached a series of judges, each of whom referred them to a higher court until eventually, they were referred to Moshe himself. The fact that they went to such great lengths to resolve the matter is a further indication of how much they loved the Land and wanted to share a part in it.

They are said to have argued cleverly. They offered several arguments to boost their claim that they should be given an inheritance in the Land in their father's name. One of the cleverest things they did was to speak up at an opportune time. They raised the issue exactly when Moshe was teaching the subject of inheritances.

Moshe took their question to G-d. This is one of only two cases Moshe brought before G-d. G-d answered that the daughters of Tzelefchod argued correctly. They were rewarded with a double portion in the Land. From this, they merited to have the laws of inheritance, which would certainly have been taught anyway, recorded in their name.

A highly recommended English novelization of the story of the Bnos Tzelefchod is Daughters Victorious by Rabbi Shlomo Wexler.

Astonishingly, the daughters are quoted in rabbinic literature as saying, “The compassion of G-d is not as the compassion of men. The compassion of men extends to men more than to women, but not thus is the compassion of G-d; His compassion extends equally to men and women and to all, even as it is said, ‘The L-rd is good to all, and His mercies are over all his works.’”

Rashi teaches that the Bnos Tzelefchod loved the Land of Israel for its holiness. Their desire was to elevate something in the material world – a plot of land, to connect to G-d.

Elevating simple material items by using them for a holy purpose is a task at which Jewish women excel. Think of the Shabbat candle, one of the most potent symbols of Jewish women. Of what is it constructed? Nothing more than uncolored, unscented wax and an ordinary wick. And yet, through the lighting of Shabbat candles, through the bracha, the blessing, she makes and through the prayers and requests she recites at the auspicious time of their lighting, the Jewish woman elevates the simple candle by using it to usher in Shabbat.

Naso 5764

In this week’s parsha, Naso, we find the description of a ritual designed
to test, through supernatural means, the guilt of a married woman whose husband suspects her of committing adultery. This “trial-by-ordeal” is referred to as the sotah ritual although, interestingly, the word sotah is not used in the Biblical account itself.

On first reading, the sotah ritual is a humiliating ordeal for a woman suspected of adultery. During the ritual, the suspected woman is intentionally wearied out by being paraded around the grounds of the Holy Temple, her clothing is torn and her head is uncovered. Some say her hair is disheveled. It is also sexist, since a woman who suspected her husband of committing adultery had no parallel recourse.

What a reading of the Biblical account doesn’t reveal is that the Sages of the Mishnah inserted numerous restrictions that served to limit the number of occasions when an accused adulterous woman would actually have to undergo the sotah ritual. Mishnah is the Oral Law which tradition teaches was transmitted orally by G-d to Moses on Mt. Sinai. The Mishnah was compiled in its present form around 1800 years ago.

The Mishnah details an astonishing 25 circumstances in which the sotah ritual is not conducted. These include cases where the marriage is forbidden by Jewish law, cases where the woman’s ability to conceive from the adulterous act is limited or non-existent, cases where the husband did not adequately warn his wife of his jealous suspicion and cases where the accusing husband is incarcerated or has a significant physical disability. If any of these 25 circumstances applied, the sotah ritual was not conducted. Instead, the woman was simply divorced without having to undergo the humiliation of the sotah ritual.

The Mishnah further narrows the opportunities for any woman to ever have to undergo the ritual by detailing specific conditions under which the ritual must take place. For example, the Mishnah specifies what kind of cup she must drink from, how much water is poured into it, from exactly where the dust to be added to the water must be taken and how much dust must be added. It also specifies what exact words the Kohen (Priest) must write, upon what kind of material the text must be written and upon what kind of material it may not be written. The Mishnah also specifies with what substances the Kohen may write the text and with what substances he may not write the text.

In a nutshell, the Sages of the Mishnah used every possible legal means to make it unnecessary for an accused woman to complete the sotah ritual. Eventually, after the destruction of the Second Temple, Rabbi Yochanan b. Zakkai abolished the sotah ritual completely.

When the accused woman is guilty, the sotah ritual ends in her immediate and gruesome death through spiritual means. The Mishnah teaches that, if the accused woman has led an otherwise meritorious life, the punishment did not take affect right away. Her affliction may not have begun for up to three years. Since she did not immediately become afflicted, it looked as if she was innocent.

This is the context for the infamous quote from Rabbi Eliezer, “Whoever teaches his daughter Torah, it is as though he teaches her tiflut.” Tiflut is variously translated as frivolity, obscenity or foolishness. In this context, the Sages argue about whether it is proper or improper to teach a woman that her merit may hold her punishment in abeyance.

Ben Azzai posits the argument in favor of teaching a woman Torah. If she is taught Torah, she will understand that, if she is guilty and nothing happened after she drank, it is her merit that prevented immediate affliction. Thus she will not erroneously conclude that the ritual is ineffective. Rabbi Eliezer argues against teaching a woman Torah by positing that if she is taught Torah, she may find a way to use her knowledge of Torah to conceal her improper behavior. It is this outcome, not a universal exclusion of women from Torah study, that Rabbi Eliezer intended to avoid by discouraging men from teaching Torah to their daughters.

The sotah ritual is yet another case, when it comes to traditional Judaism and women, where the reality is so much more sensitive and nuanced than it at first appears.

Shemini 5764

There are four women whose stories are connected to Shemini. The first is the shadowy Elisheva, whose name means, “My G-d is my oath”. Like most Jewish women prior to the 17th century, Elisheva is known primarily for her relationship to important men. She was the wife of Aaron, sister-in-law of Moses and the daughter of Aminadav (a leader of the tribe of Judah). Thus, she was from a distinguished family even before she married Aaron. Elisheva and Aaron had four sons: Nadav, Avihu, Eleazar and Itamar. Elisheva named her first child Nadav in honor of her father, Ami-Nadav.

There is a tradition that the Hebrew midwives Shifra and Puah were Elisheva’s mother-in-law Yocheved and her sister-in-law, Miriam. There is, however, a Talmudic opinion that Puah was actually Elisheva, rather than Miriam.

On the day the Mishkan (the portable sanctuary the Jews constructed in the desert) was consecrated, Elisheva witnessed the men in her life take prominent roles. Her husband became the High Priest. Her brother Nachshon merited to bring the first sacrifice because he was the first to step into the Red Sea before it split. Her two sons, Nadav and Avihu, became assistants to the High Priest. And her brother-in-law, Moses, was king.

It didn’t take long for Elisheva’s joy to be eclipsed by tragedy. Her two oldest sons, Nadav and Avihu, died as a result of their sins on the very day the Mishkan was consecrated. They perished from a supernatural fire that burned them to death while leaving their bodies intact.

The Biblical text offers us only one emotional reaction to the death of Nadav and Avihu. “And Aaron held his peace.” Aaron’s reaction was to accept G-d’s decree and to be comforted, without losing faith. But what about Elisheva’s emotional response? Despite extensive searching, I was unable to locate any reference to Elisheva’s reaction the dramatic deaths of Nadav and Avihu. The tradition is frustratingly silent about Elisheva’s emotions.

Contrast this to the story of Bruria, wife of Rabbi Meir and the most well known woman in the Talmud. Like Nadav and Avihu, the two grown sons of Bruria and Rabbi Meir died on the same day, close to the end of a Shabbat. Bruria learned of their deaths before her husband. She waited to tell him until Shabbat was completely over. Then she broke the heartbreaking news in an ingenious way, drawing on her emotional strength and knowledge of Torah to help her husband accept the death of their sons as she already had.

We can also contrast the lack of information about Elisheva’s emotional reaction to the deaths of her sons with the richness of information about the emotional life of Michal, about whom we read in the Haftorah for Shemini.

During the time in Jewish history when we were forbidden from reading from a Torah scroll, the Sages replaced each Torah reading with a Biblical reading that relates, thematically, to the banned Torah reading. In that way, those familiar with the cycle of Torah readings were reminded of the appropriate Torah portion even while prevented from actually reading it.

In this week’s Haftorah, we meet Michal, the first wife of King David, whose emotional life is richly described. More than once, the Bible tells us, “And Michal, Shaul’s daughter, loved David.” Later in their married life, while King David danced publicly in spiritual elation, Michal was embarrassed and she “despised him in her heart.”

We are left with an emotional void in the story of Elisheva in the Torah reading and a contrasting emotional richness in the story of Michal from the Haftorah. But there is at least one other way that Elisheva and Michal are connected.

According to the Arizal, a 16th century mystic, Aaron was reincarnated six times. Among his later incarnations was as Uriah the Hittite, the first husband of Batsheva (who later becomes a wife to King David). Elisheva, wife of Aaron, was reincarnated as Batsheva, wife of Uriah and later, of King David.

This correspondence between the Torah portion and the Haftorah, between Elisheva/Batsheva and Michal, who were both wives to King David, is a completely feminine connection. Like much of the study of women in Torah, it lies just below the surface, waiting to be unearthed. And it is a source of deep spiritual satisfaction now that it has been remembered.