Post by Rabbi Neil on Apr 20, 2018 18:07:16 GMT
My teacher and colleague Rabbi Tony Bayfield once was discussing something and referred to it as the elephant in the sanctuary – the creature that’s so obviously there that no-one even bothers to talk about it, until such a time as no-one even realises that it’s there. In this week’s sedrah, there isn’t just an elephant in the sanctuary, it’s more like a mammoth, not just in size but also in its ancient existence.
According to this week’s sidrah, when a woman gives birth to a boy, he is circumcised after eight days and she remains unclean for a total of thirty-three days (Lev. 12:1-4). However, if she gives birth to a girl, she remains unclean for sixty-six days – twice as long. The difference is clear. 33 days for a boy, 66 days for a girl. From birth, then, Torah suggests that we should treat boys and girls, and thus later men and women, differently. The Torah holds by a bipolar gender system and here intimates that there is a substantial difference between the two. Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus... that kind of thing. I totally understand those who hold by such a gendered system – I certainly used to before I learned that it was a social construct, and not a universal physical reality. Rabbinic Judaism concretized that social construct by giving differing roles to men and women, men being obliged to pray, women not. Apologetics formed around that construct that women were more spiritually uplifted and therefore didn’t need to pray as often, or that women are the generals in the war against the evil inclination while men are the soldiers on the front line. We need differing roles so that we can work as a team. Again, I understand that perspective, but over the years I’ve become aware that holding that perspective means ignoring other passages about women in our tradition. In Talmud, we read that “It is well for those whose children are male, but ill for those whose children are female,” or that “All are joyful at the birth of a boy, but all are sad at the birth of a girl,” or that “When a boy comes into the world, peace comes into the world, but when a girl comes into the world, nothing comes,” and those are just sayings about childbirth itself. When the girl grows up, it gets even worse in Talmud. We read that “Even the most virtuous of women is a witch,” that “our teachers have said that four qualities are evident in women – they are greedy with food, eager to gossip, lazy and jealous,” or, if we were in any doubt still, “A woman is a pitcher full of filth with its mouth full of blood, yet all run after her.” So, let’s not kid ourselves about the difference between 33 days and 66 days, this is not some nice division of labour of a divinely ordained teamwork, this is the denigration of women and the elevation of men from the moment of birth.
I don’t like it, but I understand it. I understand the historical context from which it came. I understand that another part of this week’s double Torah reading deals with tzara’at, a physical disease that the Rabbis say manifested itself after a person gossiped, just as Miriam does in the book of Numbers (although, since I mentioned gender disparity, it would be remiss of me to not mention that Aaron also gossips but he isn’t stricken with anything). The Rabbis cleverly said that tzara’at no longer affects us physically, thereby differentiating between their spiritual world and ours. And I believe that differentiating between ancient Judaism and contemporary Judaism is essential. Of course, lessons can sometimes be learned from ancient texts. Of course, some things that we learn are universal and timeless. Just because something is ancient doesn’t mean that it is outdated. At the same time, though, just because something is from our ancient tradition doesn’t mean it speaks appropriately to us in the modern age. And that’s the difficulty of being a Reform Jew – how do we determine what speaks to us of the Divine without basically engaging in pick-and-mix? The answer, I believe, is theological. If we believe that God dictated Torah word for word on Sinai, then of course any kind of selection of the appropriateness of mitzvot is open to the accusation of pick and mix. But if we believe that the content of revelation is simply the fact of revelation, as Franz Rosenzweig did, then it is up to us to determine what it means to live in the presence of God. To Rosenzweig, the biblical passage immediately preceding the giving of the Ten Commandments in Exodus 19 and 20, “He [God] came down [on Sinai]” (19:20) already concludes the revelation; the passage “God spoke...” (20:1) is the beginning of interpretation, and the verse beginning “I am...” (20:2) is totally interpretive. Torah, Rosenzweig explains, is Israel’s classic response to the revelatory encounter, spelling out how Israel understood its relationship with God and how it determined to live in the light of its unique status. These are two totally differing theological positions, among many possible positions. Neither is objectively right or wrong since theology cannot ever be proven, only experienced subjectively as being true for each individual in differing ways.
It’s understandable for people to find elements of this week’s Torah portion as troubling or, at the very least, challenging. I would at least like to suggest an alternate way of looking at it, though. Judaism thrives on diversity. It’s strength is not in uniformity of thought, but in a plurality of differing perspectives on the same thing, whether it be a historical event or a Torah verse. There have always been diverse groups and diverse opinions in Judaism. So, this week we can acknowledge the mammoth in the Sanctuary, the fact that the world-view of Torah and of ancient Rabbis as expressed this week, is for a growing number of people, extraordinarily different to their own world-view. For some, the response to that realization is to say that our world-view is out of synch with the correct view of the world as revealed by God Almighty. For others, the response is to embrace our current perspective and to struggle with how we might uncover today what it means to live in God’s presence. Both perspectives have the potential to view the other as dangerous. The first says that the other perspective is dangerous because it contravenes God’s will and elevate ourselves to the level of gods, the second says that the other perspective is dangerous because it denigrates and oppresses women. And that difference of opinion is what keeps Judaism going. It’s what keeps us revitalised as we move through an ever-changing modernity.
I’m reminded of the Indian parable of the blind men who inspect an elephant by touch. One puts his hand on its trunk and declares it is like a thick snake. Another puts his hand on its ear and says the elephant is like a fan. The blind man who touches its leg says it is like a tree-trunk. The one who touches its side says it is like a wall, the one who touches his tale describes the elephant like a rope, and the one who touches its tusk says that it is like a spear. So it is with us and this ancient mammoth in the Sanctuary. Of course, there is a difference. There are no social expectations, no potential denigration or oppression, in their differing assessments of the elephant, as there might be in differing interpretations of Torah. They are just describing something physical, instead of trying to understand, as Torah asks later, mah adonai elohecha sho’el mei’imach, what does the Eternal your God ask of you? Nonetheless, I think the metaphor is still applicable, at least in part. We are all interpreters. Even those who hold that Torah is verbatim word for word from God still nonetheless interpret. That’s the joy of diverse Torah commentaries. Sometimes, those interpretations even go so far as to render commandments in Torah out of practical existence, as the Rabbis did with the stoning of the rebellious child or the destruction of the idolatrous city. We are all interpreters. That means that we bring our social constructs with us into our interpretation, and need to be aware of how that influences the way we read text. There is no reading without a reader, and every reader is different.
So, may we celebrate our differing perspectives of reading and use a shared discussion to try to discover what it means for us to live in the presence of God, what it means for us to be commanded. May we engage with challenging texts and not just reject them wholesale, but at the very least read them within their own historical and social contexts. May we not be bound to the past merely because it speaks with a voice that declares authenticity for all generations, but let us determine for ourselves what is authentic through honest and rational enquiry. And let us do so humbly, while acknowledging differing voices of differing generations. And let us say, Amen.
According to this week’s sidrah, when a woman gives birth to a boy, he is circumcised after eight days and she remains unclean for a total of thirty-three days (Lev. 12:1-4). However, if she gives birth to a girl, she remains unclean for sixty-six days – twice as long. The difference is clear. 33 days for a boy, 66 days for a girl. From birth, then, Torah suggests that we should treat boys and girls, and thus later men and women, differently. The Torah holds by a bipolar gender system and here intimates that there is a substantial difference between the two. Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus... that kind of thing. I totally understand those who hold by such a gendered system – I certainly used to before I learned that it was a social construct, and not a universal physical reality. Rabbinic Judaism concretized that social construct by giving differing roles to men and women, men being obliged to pray, women not. Apologetics formed around that construct that women were more spiritually uplifted and therefore didn’t need to pray as often, or that women are the generals in the war against the evil inclination while men are the soldiers on the front line. We need differing roles so that we can work as a team. Again, I understand that perspective, but over the years I’ve become aware that holding that perspective means ignoring other passages about women in our tradition. In Talmud, we read that “It is well for those whose children are male, but ill for those whose children are female,” or that “All are joyful at the birth of a boy, but all are sad at the birth of a girl,” or that “When a boy comes into the world, peace comes into the world, but when a girl comes into the world, nothing comes,” and those are just sayings about childbirth itself. When the girl grows up, it gets even worse in Talmud. We read that “Even the most virtuous of women is a witch,” that “our teachers have said that four qualities are evident in women – they are greedy with food, eager to gossip, lazy and jealous,” or, if we were in any doubt still, “A woman is a pitcher full of filth with its mouth full of blood, yet all run after her.” So, let’s not kid ourselves about the difference between 33 days and 66 days, this is not some nice division of labour of a divinely ordained teamwork, this is the denigration of women and the elevation of men from the moment of birth.
I don’t like it, but I understand it. I understand the historical context from which it came. I understand that another part of this week’s double Torah reading deals with tzara’at, a physical disease that the Rabbis say manifested itself after a person gossiped, just as Miriam does in the book of Numbers (although, since I mentioned gender disparity, it would be remiss of me to not mention that Aaron also gossips but he isn’t stricken with anything). The Rabbis cleverly said that tzara’at no longer affects us physically, thereby differentiating between their spiritual world and ours. And I believe that differentiating between ancient Judaism and contemporary Judaism is essential. Of course, lessons can sometimes be learned from ancient texts. Of course, some things that we learn are universal and timeless. Just because something is ancient doesn’t mean that it is outdated. At the same time, though, just because something is from our ancient tradition doesn’t mean it speaks appropriately to us in the modern age. And that’s the difficulty of being a Reform Jew – how do we determine what speaks to us of the Divine without basically engaging in pick-and-mix? The answer, I believe, is theological. If we believe that God dictated Torah word for word on Sinai, then of course any kind of selection of the appropriateness of mitzvot is open to the accusation of pick and mix. But if we believe that the content of revelation is simply the fact of revelation, as Franz Rosenzweig did, then it is up to us to determine what it means to live in the presence of God. To Rosenzweig, the biblical passage immediately preceding the giving of the Ten Commandments in Exodus 19 and 20, “He [God] came down [on Sinai]” (19:20) already concludes the revelation; the passage “God spoke...” (20:1) is the beginning of interpretation, and the verse beginning “I am...” (20:2) is totally interpretive. Torah, Rosenzweig explains, is Israel’s classic response to the revelatory encounter, spelling out how Israel understood its relationship with God and how it determined to live in the light of its unique status. These are two totally differing theological positions, among many possible positions. Neither is objectively right or wrong since theology cannot ever be proven, only experienced subjectively as being true for each individual in differing ways.
It’s understandable for people to find elements of this week’s Torah portion as troubling or, at the very least, challenging. I would at least like to suggest an alternate way of looking at it, though. Judaism thrives on diversity. It’s strength is not in uniformity of thought, but in a plurality of differing perspectives on the same thing, whether it be a historical event or a Torah verse. There have always been diverse groups and diverse opinions in Judaism. So, this week we can acknowledge the mammoth in the Sanctuary, the fact that the world-view of Torah and of ancient Rabbis as expressed this week, is for a growing number of people, extraordinarily different to their own world-view. For some, the response to that realization is to say that our world-view is out of synch with the correct view of the world as revealed by God Almighty. For others, the response is to embrace our current perspective and to struggle with how we might uncover today what it means to live in God’s presence. Both perspectives have the potential to view the other as dangerous. The first says that the other perspective is dangerous because it contravenes God’s will and elevate ourselves to the level of gods, the second says that the other perspective is dangerous because it denigrates and oppresses women. And that difference of opinion is what keeps Judaism going. It’s what keeps us revitalised as we move through an ever-changing modernity.
I’m reminded of the Indian parable of the blind men who inspect an elephant by touch. One puts his hand on its trunk and declares it is like a thick snake. Another puts his hand on its ear and says the elephant is like a fan. The blind man who touches its leg says it is like a tree-trunk. The one who touches its side says it is like a wall, the one who touches his tale describes the elephant like a rope, and the one who touches its tusk says that it is like a spear. So it is with us and this ancient mammoth in the Sanctuary. Of course, there is a difference. There are no social expectations, no potential denigration or oppression, in their differing assessments of the elephant, as there might be in differing interpretations of Torah. They are just describing something physical, instead of trying to understand, as Torah asks later, mah adonai elohecha sho’el mei’imach, what does the Eternal your God ask of you? Nonetheless, I think the metaphor is still applicable, at least in part. We are all interpreters. Even those who hold that Torah is verbatim word for word from God still nonetheless interpret. That’s the joy of diverse Torah commentaries. Sometimes, those interpretations even go so far as to render commandments in Torah out of practical existence, as the Rabbis did with the stoning of the rebellious child or the destruction of the idolatrous city. We are all interpreters. That means that we bring our social constructs with us into our interpretation, and need to be aware of how that influences the way we read text. There is no reading without a reader, and every reader is different.
So, may we celebrate our differing perspectives of reading and use a shared discussion to try to discover what it means for us to live in the presence of God, what it means for us to be commanded. May we engage with challenging texts and not just reject them wholesale, but at the very least read them within their own historical and social contexts. May we not be bound to the past merely because it speaks with a voice that declares authenticity for all generations, but let us determine for ourselves what is authentic through honest and rational enquiry. And let us do so humbly, while acknowledging differing voices of differing generations. And let us say, Amen.