On Women as Rabbis.

When I was little, among my favorite stories to be read was one about the lovably eccentric Ernie and his uptight roommate Bert. In this particular book, Ernie goes about placing contents in all the wrong containers, e.g. the goldfish in the vase, the flowers in the cookie jar, the cookies in a baseball cap and so on (I can't remember exactly why, maybe the first one broke?) and Bert nearly has a nervous breakdown over it. The reason it was one of my favorites was entirely because of how my mom read it, with hilarious voices and exaggerated reactions. (Happy Mother's Day, Mom!)

Even the most spontaneous and adventurous of us must admit that we all benefit from order. In that childhood story, Ernie found places for all of his objects that technically worked. The problem, as Bert was trying to point out in between popping Xanax, was that he had now started a never-ending chain of disorder--by utilizing a cookie jar as a vase, not only was the original purpose of the objects losing meaning but it was going to make their lives more difficult when they wanted a cookie and had no idea where to find it.

I currently find myself in the minority at my synagogue, where the two designated leaders (male and female) are arguing for women as Rabbis. And boy do I feel it--no room for difference of opinion here. Apparently, I am fifty shades of wrong, backwards, oppressed, you name it. But I will not be bullied into silence. I hope that anyone who reads this will carefully consider my arguments and walk away with a greater understanding of why I and others oppose the ordination of women, rather than demonize me, the RCA, or anyone else.

First off, I've said it before and I'll say it again: equating empowerment with imitating men is a huge mistake. Let's go all the way back to our spiritual ancestors, Abraham and Sarah. Abraham was the first monotheist; G-d spoke to him directly. The man also originated chutzpah by arguing with G-d against destroying immoral cities. And yet, when Abraham hesitates to send away Ishmael, probably wondering if his wife is simply overreacting, as men are wont to do when they don't want to admit that we're right, G-d tells Abraham to hearken to what she says. Tradition tells us that she was even a greater Prophet than her husband. Viewed through the lens of today's argument, how could this be? Shouldn't G-d have spoken directly to her as well? Why should Abraham have that honor and not her? The answer, then and now, is that it simply isn't needed.

We are teachers, whether we have that title or not. And G-d talks to us every day: it's called women's intuition. Unfortunately, we live in a society that likes clear markers of success. We measure a person's worth by financial status, intelligence by education level, and entertainment by ratings. There is even a "Top 25" list of Rabbis, as though a news organization has any place evaluating the spiritual leadership of Jewish communities. It is my strong belief that this cultural influence has permeated the Orthodox world and convinced some women that they need recognition and a title in order to matter.

Our real success is staring us in the face, and it is larger than any title or plaque on the wall could ever be: It is the existence of the Jewish people. From Sarah, that very first Jewish mother who knew what her child needed to be a mensch, the Jewish woman has instilled in her children the values that defined and preserved us even as we wandered in exile. Because we believe that a convert has a Jewish soul, can it be regarded as a coincidence that Moses, the greatest of our teachers, had not one but two Jewish mothers? Both his birth mother and his adoptive one (Batya, who subsequently converted to Judaism and left Egypt with the Israelites) helped to shape him into the humble yet great leader he became--not any Rabbi, a title which would not exist for many centuries. Our position is such that, hypothetically, a man could get his Ph.D. in Religious Studies, graduate from the most prestigious yeshiva with honors, be ordained a Rabbi by the Chief Rabbi of Israel himself, and still not be a Jew, if he was not born of a Jewish woman.

There has been a lot of talk of equality on this subject, as though we have been lagging behind men and allowing us to become Rabbis will finally permit us to catch up. As I see it, this will actually create inequality in status among women: If we follow the current model used by men, only those women who choose to be ordained will be viewed as leaders, and the "system" will ignore the education, natural wisdom, or inherent leadership qualities of other women. Additionally, a woman who utilizes her knowledge of halacha to participate in a male-dominated or egalitarian profession does a disservice to women who would seek her advice on matters in an informal, private environment, but who must now compete for her time with the demands placed on her by her new position.

Speaking of demands, there is no denying that women today are torn in a hundred different directions as we attempt to have it all. Contrary to popular belief, Orthodox women are encouraged to have any career they like, with one vital difference from secular society: if they choose to stay at home with their children, they are appreciated, not devalued for it. (Shout out to Oprah for being the rare high-profile woman who gives full-time moms their props!) As with all moms, even the most fulfilling job is not a safeguard against the feelings of guilt and failure when the demands of motherhood and career collide. Judaism does not ask a woman to choose between being a good Jew and a good mother; it reconciles the two in the most beautiful way. To take care of a child is one of the most spiritual things a person can do, because it emulates G-d Himself. For this very reason, a woman is exempt from praying at specific times, and some Rabbis go so far as to discourage women from praying with specific words, believing that while men need guidance in what to say, a woman's spontaneous prayer will be holy on its own. And therein lies the rub: How can a woman, who is not required to pray formally, be responsible for gathering a minyan of men who are?

Here is the part where I feel I must absolutely be blunt. There is a reason why the RCA referred to sacred continuity of tradition in its response to women attempting to become Rabbis. To disregard the leadership responsibilities given to women in order to step into the (admittedly more prominent) role of Rabbi is to put the goldfish in the vase, the cookies in the baseball cap. It is a disturbance of the order which has kept the Jewish people intact for thousands of years, and a devaluation of the women who lead every day, without a certificate or a spotlight. One of my mother's favorite and oft-cited quotations is John F Kennedy's, "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country." If you can't tell, I'm a bit passionate on this subject, but it is because I think it is a downright shame that women are more concerned with obtaining honorary titles than with using their G-d-given abilities to lead without them. I look through Jewish history and I see such leaders. Judith did not waste time insisting upon the right to become a general; she used her specifically feminine insight to simply get the job done. Today, I am inspired by such women as the ones behind Jew in the City, Fashion-Isha, LadyMama and Out of the Ortho Box. I have no idea as to the extent of their Jewish education, nor do I need to; they are leaders of this generation of Jews regardless. Alison of JITC will often share feedback from readers who are inspired by her site to become more observant. If one needs a measurement of success in the Jewish world, that would be it.

It may not make me very popular or politically correct right now, but I remain convinced that women do not need to be Rabbis to make an impact in the lives of other Jews. Our power comes not from speaking from the bimah, but from our binah, a birthright which has been handed down from Sarah and through every Jewish woman since. Let's please not diminish it by imitating men.

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*Note: I have used the term 'Rabbi' rather than the titles which have been invented for these new roles, because I consider the required study and ordination of women to be a direct imitation of the Rabbinical process.

Not Fair.

Man, I hated being the oldest child in my family. On one hand, I was expected to resist all bad behavior and set a good example for my two younger siblings. On the other, this additional responsibility seemed to come with no extra benefits--ok, unless you count being allowed to watch 90210 in my parents' room every Wednesday night. Whenever I was reminded that more was expected of me because I was the oldest, I was happy to retort that I didn't wanna be the oldest anymore (with extra whining and syllables, natch).

Of course, as I grew older and more mature, I recognized that it was a privilege to have my brother and sister looking up to me, and I tried harder to be a good role model for them. As an adult, I witnessed some of my friends becoming parents and realized that I had been the one to give my Mom and Dad every first experience of parenthood. While I know they loved all of us equally, I was their first love. I was the first one to call them "Mommy" and "Daddy", and I was the first one to learn everything they had to teach me.

I've been coming across a lot of "Not Fair!" sentiments in the Jewish world recently, expressing frustration over the fact that the media loves to zero in on Jews behaving badly, particularly among the more observant. And they're not wrong; it definitely happens. But I guess my question is: Why are we surprised? Shouldn't it be blindingly obvious to us, that as the light unto the nations, this is precisely how it should go down? The Torah describes Israel as G-d's firstborn; like it or not, more is expected of us. We know it, G-d knows it, and on some level, the world knows it, and they will call us out when we fall short.

We can stomp our feet and say we don't want the responsibility anymore, as some Jews do, which is about as futile as me trying to change my birth order. We can cry "Not Fair!" and accuse the media of bias. Or, we can recognize our special status and all of the ways it manifests itself. We are the first who knew G-d as a Parent. We are the first to learn everything He wanted to teach the world, to take on "the work which He created to make." No, we don't get bonus points or an article in the Post when we do good, because as the firstborn, that should be status quo for us. What we do get is the knowledge that every mitzvah, every good deed, is bringing light into this world and bringing us one step closer to the world G-d intended. We get the satisfaction of being role models for others, of demonstrating what a good and fulfilling life looks like. I don't know about you, but I don't want to trade places with anyone else.

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We All Fall Down.

Gwyneth Paltrow is a gadol of the fashion world, if you will. The woman just does no wrong--or rather, did no wrong, because her perfect record took quite the hit last week when she appeared in the above at her Iron Man 3 premiere. The offending dress not only obviously prevented underwear from being an option, but apparently left our dear Gwynnie feeling "humiliated."

Yes, unlike some shameless celebrities who have no qualms about showing too much (and who shall remain unnamed), Gwyneth knows she is better than this dress. It's the feeling we all get when we mess up. That wisest of kings Shlomo HaMelech once said, "The righteous man may fall seven times and yet arise" and the Sages of the Talmud concur. It's not about the mistake itself, it's what you choose to do afterward. Do you defend it, rationalize it, as Gwyneth's stylist did? Or do you, as I hope to G-d Gwyneth is doing, vow to do better next time, and use it as a launching pad into your potential greatness?

Your past mistakes do not define you. Need more style inspiration? Just look at how far Victoria Beckham has come in the last eight years. The same women who rolled their eyes at her front-row presence during Fashion Week several years ago are now on the waiting lists for her It bags. Rest assured that no matter where you are in observance right now, if you want to do better, you can do better. Having the will to improve is half the battle. But don't get too comfortable at any point, because--as our girl Gwyneth now knows--there's definitely always some improvement to be done.

Happy Lag B'Omer!
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Ditching the Double Life.

For a long time, I didn't want to friend my mom and stepdad on Facebook. Although I loved them dearly, it seemed so weird for me to throw them in the mix with all my friends, colleagues, and guys I was dating. I told them about my life, but allowing them full access to the virtual version of it seemed a bit too far. And then one day I realized that there was actually nothing on my page that I wouldn't want them to see, and if there was, what would it say about my life?

I think many people feel that becoming religious, AKA letting G-d into every area of their life, will mean having to become a totally different person. And that perception isn't coming out of a vacuum—I'm aware of the religious communities who do expect you to fit into a tidy little box, trust me. My first Rabbi wanted me to move into his Jewish community within a month of our first meeting (in May) and said that I could be converted by the end of the summer if I was doing well. Going from 0 to 613 in 3 months or less would have been trying on a persona, not actual growth, and I'm quite sure I would have slipped out of it at some point, just as easily as I stepped in.

This is why I stress finding the right community and Rabbi and finding your own golden mean in observance (shout out to the Rambam). Being close to G-d doesn't require you to put on a uniform and act like everyone else. You are a unique creation, with a one-of-a-kind mission. Should you choose to accept it, you have the challenge of figuring out how to sanctify every part of your distinctive life, not discarding it completely. Here's an example: Before I made the decision to convert, a huge part of my life was going out every weekend. There's a saying: "If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything." And it's true—without any other context, I simply went along with the clubbing experience like everyone else. I wore too little, drank too much, took a lot of pictures, and reconvened with friends over brunch the next morning to collectively try to remember what had happened. Real meaningful life, huh?

So, the easy and obvious solution for a lot of religious folks would have been to ditch the clubs completely. There were two reasons I chose not to: First, I had experienced G-d in the club. (He was at a table, natch.) After a month of mitzvot and studying, I knew I wanted to become a Jew, but had no idea where to begin. So I went along with my normal life, and that included attending a friend's birthday in a club, where—long story short—a BT friend of a friend landed in my lap and helped me not only kick off my journey, but became a dear friend who wasn't afraid to challenge me along the way. Suffice it to say I would be nowhere near where I am today without him.

The second reason is that for the first time in my life, I was exposed to the idea that the physical and the spiritual don't have to be at odds with one another. Given the fact that my friends were then all either non-Jewish or non-religious, I wanted to see if I could infuse my social life with G-dliness before I presumed the two were irreconcilable. It took a little time and a lot of explanation—one friend tried his best to argue why a boat party on a Saturday afternoon wasn't work. But now my friends know what I can and cannot drink, that I'll only go out on Saturday nights, and best of all, they know they can ask me all kinds of questions about my Jewish beliefs (and boy do they ever).

And that leads me to why I really love going out now. In line with Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks' argument that religious observance helps us to cultivate our altruistic tendencies over our egoistic ones, a club is no longer a place where I go to feel hot and get my ego stroked. It's just another opportunity to bring light into the world. I understand this may sound crazy to some, but I can't tell you how many times I've met people who poured their heart out to me upon finding out that I'm religious. Sometimes that conversation begins with me declining champagne; others it's from the innocent question, "What did you do today?" I've had the privilege of clarifying common misconceptions about Judaism. You see, most people in those places aren't G-dless hedonists; like me just a few short years ago, they simply haven't had the opportunity to look at life differently. Maybe they think that all religious people are judgmental jerks who would look down at their lifestyle, and perhaps meeting me can change their mind a little.

Above all, my thinking is this: If I feel the need to exclude G-d from certain parts of my life, then what does that say about my life? And if I believe I can only act Jewishly around other religious Jews, then what does that say about my Judaism? Maybe it's time to consider that the places that may seem the darkest, are the ones that need our light most of all.

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Gone But Not Forgotten.

There are many experiences and feelings of the Holocaust which I cannot even imagine; The suffering is just too much to comprehend. But there are thoughts I have, as I try to put myself in the mindset of a person watching as their entire community is extinguished. I think of being barred from certain industries, of losing my job along with countless other Jews. I picture my synagogue and my beloved Milt's with the windows smashed in after a night like Kristallnacht. Where once I donned a Star of David necklace as a badge of pride--I'm Jewish!--now it is forced on me as a marker of something shameful. People I had considered friends or at least friendly no longer look at me or speak to me. Signs go up: No Jews Allowed. Who among us would see what was happening, and who would be in denial? After generations in this country, they would not turn on us now. Would they?

This is how it happened. Remembering the Holocaust is not just about mourning those lost, though we do grieve them. It is about teaching the world how it happened, how Hitler did not invent anti-Semitism but stirred it up, step by hateful step. When we say, "Never Again," we are cognizant that events may never exactly replicate what happened in Europe last century, but that we must be on guard against the kind of rhetoric that preceded them.

The morning after the day I converted to Judaism, I was on my way to work, back to my usual routine despite my elation over finally being a Jew. As the 151 turned onto Lake Shore Drive, I noticed a group of people speaking animatedly in German and pointing toward the view of Lake Michigan. I smiled as they filed past me a few stops later, always grateful for a refreshed perspective on my beautiful city. And then I saw it. The swastika on the younger girl's messenger bag. If I thought that my Jewish existence would be free from persecution, here was a reminder that embers of hatred still existed and could always be stoked again.

I wonder if they thought it was the end. I wonder if they asked if the world knew. I wish I could show them everything: How much we know, how we are working to ensure it won't happen again, how Jewish life has not only continued but flourished, how we made it back home. I want them to see every beautiful Jewish baby that has been born. I want them to know about people like me, who are choosing Judaism even after the Holocaust, how we answer with a resounding "Yes!" from the mikveh when the Rabbi asks if we understand that we may be persecuted as Jews. I want to tell them: You are not my blood relatives, but you are my people. You are not forgotten. We will never forget.

No Going Back.

In Plato's Allegory of the Cave, Socrates imagines a prisoner who breaks free from the cave where he has been held with other unfortunates, where a lack of both light and perspective have created a false reality. Such a man, the philosopher posits, would at first resist the truth once it was revealed to him. Sunlight would be blinding; so much so that his initial instinct would be to return to his former familiar captivity.

Incredulously, we read the kvetching of the Israelites to Moses after the Exodus. Under the Egyptians, they experienced hardships beyond imagining, backbreaking work for no pay, even infanticide. And yet, at the first hint of the unfamiliar, the people are ready to run back to that existence. In spite of witnessing firsthand the miracles that led them to freedom, they find it difficult to trust G-d with the little things.

How much more so for us, who can only dream about the parting of the Red Sea. There's an old saying, "The devil you know..." about our tendency to stay in comfort zones that we know are bad for us, but that are just so comfortable. As a convert, I have felt exactly like the prisoner in Plato's tale; ignorance really was bliss in so many ways. But like that protagonist, and like my spiritual ancestors in the desert, turning back was never really an option. A taste of freedom, whether for the mind, body, or both, only increases over time. The human spirit longs for growth, for challenges to overcome, even when the road ahead is daunting.

Don't just make Pesach about cleaning or shopping or burning out on macaroons. Which deserts did you cross in the last year? Which oppressive habits will you leave behind in the months to come, marching bravely and brazenly into the unknown future?

Onwards and upwards, my fellow Jews. Chag Kosher V'Sameach!
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The Feminist Mistake.

I'm so happy and honored to be back at LadyMama with a new post, this time to discuss my beef with the feminist definition of "empowerment," and how Judaism has shown me what it truly means to be a strong woman. Let me know what you think!

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