Torah

Women’s rights evolve

Recently, Prime Minster Justin Trudeau visited Winnipeg. CBC reported that his trip involved promoting the federal budget, meeting with students, trade workers, apprentices and the mayor. The visit included celebrating with members of the Jewish community for Passover, as it fell during the holiday. I was at home and jokingly looked around my living room … nope, Trudeau wasn’t visiting our house! After he left the city, there was a photo published from the Simkin Centre, Winnipeg’s Jewish care home, with Trudeau wearing a kippah and shaking hands with residents. If anybody gets the honour of a visit with the prime minster, it should be our elders. I was pleasantly surprised.

However, the most interesting Winnipeg moment appeared on Twitter and in the news. In it, Trudeau speaks to an anti-abortion University of Manitoba student who says he’s a People’s Party of Canada supporter. Any educator trained in the Socratic method could recognize Trudeau’s response. This student engaged the prime minister in discussion while Trudeau was greeting people and shaking hands. Trudeau responded just as a good high school teacher would. He took the student’s comments seriously, carefully voiced them back and asked direct, probing questions to lead the student to the next step. They covered dental care, religious freedom, and then went on to women’s health care. Trudeau’s questions were things like “Do you believe women should have the right to choose what happens to their own bodies?”

The student later responded, “I think if they’re sleeping around they shouldn’t be allowed to abort the baby, personally.” The student conceded, in a few more steps, that he hadn’t quite decided whether a woman who had been raped should have access to abortion. Trudeau then encouraged him “to do a little more thinking – and praying.”

This clip circulated quickly through social media and brought up many issues. The thing that stuck with me was the student’s assumption that if a woman was pregnant and sought an abortion, it was because “they’re sleeping around.” Not something like the pregnancy might be a danger to the mother and, as such, needed to be terminated, or the fetus had grave abnormalities and wouldn’t live. There are viable reasons to need an abortion. While it’s not always simple, Judaism supports the mother’s right to health and well-being above that of a fetus.

Most surprising: the student failed to acknowledge facts he should have gotten in sex education. Facts like it takes two people to make a pregnancy happen. There was no assumption of any male responsibility.

This parallels something I’ve been studying while doing Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud a day) and am now reading about in Tractate Sotah. This tractate explores the Sotah ritual spelled out in the Torah, which identifies a woman accused of adultery by her husband. There’s not a lot of evidence to show this ordeal was ever practised historically, which hopefully it wasn’t. It involved a series of acts, including the priest at the Temple giving a meal-offering, taking down the woman’s hair, making her swear she was faithful, and then writing the oath on a piece of parchment, erasing it in water mixed with dust from the Tabernacle, and making her drink it. These “bitter waters” theoretically would predict a woman’s guilt. If she is guilty, she would be ill and infertile, or possibly die. A woman who was innocent would be fertile and not be harmed.

From a modern perspective, of course, this sounds completely repugnant, particularly when examining the talmudic tractate. The rabbis debate a scenario in which a man warns his wife not to be alone with another man. If she’s in a room alone with this other man for “some length of time” – this time varies but it could be very short, according to some rabbis – she’s potentially guilty of adultery. Again, no assumption at all of any male responsibility.

I feel eerie parallels between modern events and this talmudic exploration. In some U.S. states, increasingly restrictive access to abortion has brought about some convoluted laws to limit women’s ability to control their bodies. A new law in Florida requires a woman to show proof of rape or incest to be allowed access to an abortion if they are more than six weeks pregnant. Proof of rape or incest means “providing a copy of a restraining order, police report, medical record or other court order or documentation proving her victim status.” While the law is being challenged, if doctors violate the law, they can be charged with a felony.

Today, we recognize that a religious ritual forced on a woman accused of adultery, including forced consumption of bitter waters, doesn’t prove anything. Yet, the “legislators” of biblical and talmudic times felt this public shaming and ordeal proved a woman’s guilt or innocence. It was, perhaps, the ancient equivalent of forcing a rape victim to go through the medical examinations, police reports and other documentation. Many accounts indicate that obtaining this “proof” is not easy.

In Winnipeg, there are so few nurses available in the sexual assault unit to administer the rape kit that victims have been asked to go home and return later when a nurse is on duty, but to avoid showering. There are ample police reports where they assume a woman “asked for it,” or that she deserved it because of what she wore, etc. Expecting compassion from a Temple priest or police officer seems unlikely for many.

What to make of these inequities? To a 21st-century feminist, the Sotah ritual is abhorrent, but it’s equally horrendous that a victim must prove her victimhood again and again to get access to necessary health care. It’s compounded by hearing a Manitoba student assume that a woman slept around if she got pregnant, without any recognition of who else participated or what else might have happened. The Jewish historical tradition shows that, like other rigid biblical punishments – such as the ben sorer u’moreh (the rebellious son), who, in the Torah, is supposed to be stoned to death, but, in the Talmud, the rabbis give so many impossible parameters for the situation that it would be impossible to kill a rebellious son – our culture evolved and didn’t continue these harmful actions, but the ramifications linger.

The hopeful thing in regards to some women’s healthcare access is that our situation, at least in Canada, continues to evolve. Money talks: Trudeau’s Liberal government pledged $3.5 million to improve Canadian abortion services. Yet, the prime minister’s questioning of that student gave me more hope. No one could have predicted that conversation in advance. Our elected leader is “walking the walk” when it could have proved awkward. There’s something powerful about being trained in the (ancient) Socratic method. Unlike the ancient Sotah ritual, it works.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Fashion with a long history

“Consecration of Aaron and His Sons,” an illustration from the 1890 Holman Bible, 1890. Aaron’s high priest attire is elaborately described in the Hebrew Bible. (photo from Wikipedia)

Fashion in the Bible? What does that mean? The biblical text actually offers us an idea of what people wore in those times – and even why.

For the majority of us, the most familiar example of biblical fashion is found in Genesis 37:3 in the description of young Joseph’s problematic coat of many colours. This coat, which was gifted by Joseph’s father Jacob, served to anger and increase the jealousy Joseph’s brothers towards him. Consequently, they throw him in a pit to be left to his fate: to die of thirst, to be killed by a wild animal or to be picked up by traveling merchants.

From a chronological point of view, however, the first real example of Old Testament fashion comes at the very beginning of Genesis. In this instance, G-d has decided to exile Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. As we all know, G-d was angered by Adam and Eve’s disobedience in eating from the Tree of Knowledge. While He is upset with them, He obviously still cares enough to provide them with warm coverings, more than the fig leaves they chose for themselves: “the Lord G-d made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them.” (Genesis 3:21)

Moving on in the Book of Genesis, we read that, when Abraham’s servant Eliezer escorts Rebecca (who will become the second Matriarch) back from Aram-Naharaim, she sees Isaac (who will become the second Patriarch) for the first time. She asks Eliezer about Isaac’s identity. After he tells her, she modestly conceals her face: “‘It is my master.’ And she took her veil, and covered herself.” (Genesis 24:65)

Veils are used for a different purpose in the story of the widow Tamar and her widowed father-in-law Judah. In this story, Judah does not fulfil his promise to make his youngest son her husband in accord with the practice of levirate marriage. (Judah thinks that Tamar has basically brought about the death of his first two sons when, in fact, it was G-d’s doing.) Judah also subjects Tamar to widowhood when she should have been free to remarry.

In response, Tamar takes drastic action. She hides her true identity behind a veil. She sits at the side of the road, where, presumably, she could be taken for a harlot or public woman: she “put off … the garments of her widowhood and covered herself with her veil and wrapped herself.” (Genesis 38:14) Without Judah being any the wiser, she allows him to have intercourse with her and, when a pregnant Tamar presents Judah with his staff and seal, he realizes what he has done and acknowledges his wrongdoing. The Bible tells us that she secures her place in the family by having twin sons from this union. The biblical reader doesn’t know more about Tamar, but one knows that Perez, one of her twins, will provide the lineage for King David.

One might think that, after hundreds of years of slavery, the Hebrews would want no reminders of their life in Egypt. But, according to the biblical text, the Hebrews took clothes from the Egyptians: “And the children of Israel did according to the word of Moses; and they borrowed from the Egyptians … clothing.” (Exodus 12:35) Significantly, before the Hebrews hear G-d declare the 10 Commandments, Moses instructs them to prepare themselves by laundering their clothes: “And Moses went down from the mount unto the people and sanctified the people; and they washed their garments.”(Exodus 19:14)

According to Rabbi Simeon – a scholar who was active between 135 CE and 170 CE – at the time of the Exodus from Egypt, the Hebrew weavers did not take their looms. Yet the Hebrews’ clothes never wore out in the 40 years of desert wandering. In Deuteronomy 8:4, it states: “Thy raiment waxed not old upon thee.”

We read that, in keeping with her status as part of the royal family, King David’s daughter Tamar (like Joseph before her) wore a vibrant robe: she “had a garment of many colours upon her; for with such robes were the king’s daughters that were virgins appareled.” (2 Samuel, 13:18) Not befitting royalty, King David’s firstborn son Amnon rapes Tamar, his half-sister, then throws her out.

Both violated and rejected, Tamar tears her robe, going into mourning: “And Tamar put ashes on her head and rent her garment of many colours that was on her; and she laid her hand on her head and went her way, crying aloud as she went.” (2 Samuel, 13:19) Absalom, her full brother, has her stay in his household for the rest of her life. Two years later, Absalom takes revenge by having Amnon killed.

When Queen Esther had to talk with her husband, King Ahasuerus, she put on her royal apparel (Scroll of Esther 5:1). Had Esther been made wary by the fate of her predecessor, Queen Vashti? As we recall, King Ahasuerus ordered Queen Vashti to appear “wearing her royal crown.” (Scroll of Esther 1:11) One rabbinical tradition interprets this to mean that the king’s instructions were to wear only her royal crown; in other words, to appear naked (Babylonian Talmud, Megillah 12b). According to that tradition, Queen Vashti refused because she did not want to be put on display before a bunch of guys who had been drinking for a week straight. Vashti’s refusal apparently resulted in her banishment. Admittedly, she paid a heavy price, but it would appear as if both these queens admirably set the terms for how they would respond to their husband.

Of all the given examples, the most elaborate description is given to the clothes Aaron (Moses’s brother) wore as the high priest. The description is more or less repeated in a few places, but here is the narrative of Moses dressing Aaron: “And he put upon him the tunic, and girded him with the girdle, and clothed him with the robe, and put the ephod upon him, and he girded him with the skilfully woven band of the ephod, and bound it unto him therewith. And he placed the breastplate upon him…. And he set the mitre upon his head; and upon the mitre, in front, did he set the golden plate, the holy crown.” (Leviticus 8:7-9) The clothing, like the text itself, is meant to impress.

The Hebrew Bible has been around a long time; in its present form, most likely since the second century CE. The clothing it describes may truly be termed sustainable fashion.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

How much is your work worth?

Imagine an interview where the interviewer wanders around the office, conducting work while asking intrusive personal questions. The interviewee trails behind. An hour-long appointment stretches into two. Things get further off track. The potential employee, apologizing profusely, gets herself out of the building and into the safety of her car. Cheeks burning, she drives herself home, wondering, “What the heck was that?” Days later, she fields phone calls from the interviewer, asking why she won’t accept an offer that is a dollar or two more than minimum wage. The amount would not likely cover the gas, taxes, work clothes and household/childcare coverage it would take to do the job. Advanced degrees and experience don’t matter, she hears. This is the going rate.

Meanwhile, at home, the same potential employee “works” at the numerous tasks that pop up every day. She self-drafts a clothing pattern, because a kid needs pyjamas of the right size and the pattern she has doesn’t fit. She mends a favourite pair of school pants. She prepares multiple meals in advance, baking bread ahead, too. These tasks are lined up for quick moments to spare amid managing homework and extracurricular activities. She contacts tradespeople to see if they can provide affordable repair quotes, responds to school emails and fits in applying for other jobs or doing her current work as she can. She is sadly behind in keeping up with her friends and family, but doesn’t know when to fit that in.

In between, she walks the dog, meets the kids at the school bus, takes them to medical appointments, or pays bills. She politely tries to get out of volunteer commitments that moms “should” do for the school and community organizations.

This might sound familiar to parents, mostly mothers. It’s all the work that goes unnoticed and is uncompensated in our society. Daring to seek compensation for some of these skills is seen as selfish. After all, these parents (usually mothers) are told, “If you expect to earn anything for your experience or education, you’re mistaken. You ‘chose’ not to stay consistently in the full-time workforce. You chose to have children/get married/study a less-lucrative topic in university….” The list goes on.

Our society functions in many ways because of the unpaid labour. It’s most often women’s physical, emotional, social labour done behind the scenes. It feels new and unfair in every generation, I suspect, even as some things change for women slowly over time.

As I study Ketubot, which is a Babylonian talmudic tractate dedicated, at least in theory, to marriage contracts, I’ve had competing demands on my time. It’s forced me to read aspects of the text differently. When the rabbis debated these issues (1,600 to 2,100 years ago, give or take), women’s roles were more circumscribed. However, some of the basic arguments seem to arise in ways that don’t surprise me.

Some of the takeaway nuggets from this tractate…. When a woman marries, her husband is owed her labour and the fruit from her properties. Even if she brings servants into the marriage, there are certain tasks she must do herself. Her virtue and loyalty are worth a monetary value in the marriage.

There are surprises though. If the husband dies, the woman is owed the price of her marriage contract, or the husband’s heirs must take care of her upkeep. She (or her representatives) may write obligations into the marriage contract that the husband will be required to honour. For instance, if she brings a daughter from a previous marriage with her, she can obligate the new husband to pay for the daughter’s physical support in the contract. (Ketubot 102)

Long story short, smart women can sometimes find ways to protect themselves. This is true even in a rabbinic system that isn’t designed necessarily for them. In these texts, women – and their families – both look out for one another and treat each other unfairly.

What can we draw from all this? I feel less alone when considering that expectations may have changed a bit in 2,000 years, but that many of our sometimes truly overwhelming expectations and commitments remain. Further, clever people have protected themselves whenever they can, throughout the centuries. It’s not new to look out for one’s own interests and avoid being taken advantage of by creating some safe boundaries.

Studying these texts at this point in my life offers me a level of maturity that I didn’t have the first time I went through a bad interview. More than once, I was offered a job that took a lot of skill but offered only a low wage. I remember feeling torn up about these experiences, wondering if I was worth so little. It was also a feeling of desperation. I needed a certain amount to live, and this offer wouldn’t provide it.

One privilege of being older is that women who value themselves aren’t embarrassed to ask for what they’re worth. Earning less than what we need doesn’t do us or our families any favours but, of course, in financial desperation, many women must take those jobs anyway. This is what fuels the cycle of low wage work in the first place.

We aren’t all experts in everything. Drafting a sewing pattern doesn’t make one a professional fashion designer. Finding the right document in a bunch of storage boxes is like finding a needle in a haystack, but it doesn’t make me an archivist or a research librarian. We all have our areas of true expertise. Also, just as the rabbis debated the value of one’s roles and responsibilities in marriage, we do the same. Is our work worth something? Heck, yes.

Tractate Ketubot’s messages about the value of a woman or a wife sometimes seem mercenary, but this, too, is Torah. Sometimes, being mercenary is the way to have our work be seen, valued or compensated appropriately.

The kill fee – and its fallout

I was honoured with the opportunity to chant the first aliyah for the Torah portion Aharei Mot. I’m still new to chanting Torah, so I practise every day. I can read and translate Torah but, for some reason, I didn’t reflect on what I was reading at first. I was chanting that very sensitive set of instructions given from G-d to Moses to pass along to his brother Aaron.

A few weeks ago, we read in Leviticus 10:1-7 that Aaron’s sons Nadav and Abihu offered “strange” or “alien” fire. Their sacrifice was overeager and unusual. They drew “too close” – in some readings of Leviticus 16:1 – to G-d and were struck down. They were killed.

After the death of Aaron’s sons, the instructions Moses passes along to Aaron are crucial. He isn’t to go into the Holy of Holies, behind the curtain, because G-d dwells in a cloud above the cover. Aaron’s sacrifices and his approach to the holiest spaces are scripted, careful and correct. When reading rabbis’ commentaries on this, their thoughts are all over the place, from quoting Sting’s lyrics “Don’t Stand so Close to Me” to talking about vulnerability and the divine. This is a text that has a lot to unpack.

As a freelancer, I do writing and editing jobs with various deadlines. Sometimes, I write a piece months in advance, submit, and hear nothing back until the publication arrives in the mail with payment. With other jobs, I get to revise and review copy edits, the editor says exactly when the piece will run and I’m paid early without prompting. Others require me to submit an invoice or I don’t get paid at all. Every gig is different. I’ve even worked for publications that have gone bankrupt before my article was to appear. So, I did all the work but, in the end, received nothing, not even a publication credit.

In other situations, I write or edit something with a short deadline. These can be very satisfying jobs that happen quickly. Sometimes, it’s a political analysis piece that runs in the newspaper. Other times, it’s a healthcare editing job that might improve the lives of breastfeeding moms. There’s a thrill to a tight deadline where I manage to get it done, and perhaps make a difference.

Before Passover, I submitted some queries (ideas) to a publication with which I’d worked before. I got a very fast response. The editor said she’d been about to write on one of these topics. Would I cover it instead? I said sure, asking for her outline and any other details she wanted included. Instead, she suggested I write it on my own, without her outline. I did this as fast as I could, as I also faced the hard deadline of cleaning and cooking for the holiday. I asked for quick feedback, since my time was limited, but I didn’t receive any.

Almost a week later, the editor asked me for revisions, asking why I didn’t include several items, which were on her mental checklist, unbeknown to me. I didn’t feel prepared to do it, but I researched and did one more rewrite before Pesach.

During the middle of the Passover, the copy edits arrived. I’d never seen so many before! Much of it seemed to ask me to prove mundane things with academic sources. Many copy editors have provided me with corrections and solutions over the years, and it’s usually just an “approve” track changes or a comment or two to move ahead. Responding to these comments took nearly three hours. I felt as though perhaps I’d written something wrong, although I’d been researching, writing and teaching on the topic for years.

The next day, I received a note from the editor. It would take too long for us to come to agreement over the edits. I was sent a “kill fee.” A kill fee is usually a quarter to a third of the amount agreed to for the whole project, if the project cannot go forward. This was a bit of a relief. I had more time for the holiday. I could be done with a hassle that already had earned me less than minimum wage.

Moments after I accepted the kill fee, the editor was on social media, writing glib jokes about the article topic and how she had to write the article herself. So, not only had I lost the gig, but there was some shame now, too. This was public “punishment.” Somehow, I’d been incapable of writing on this supposedly easy topic. With the holiday’s end and Shabbat approaching, I had ample time to reflect on the crummy experience.

For context … in the book Little Women, published more than 150 years ago, the character of Jo March is offered a $100 US prize payment for a story she wrote. I was offered $150 Cdn to write this story and paid a kill fee $50 Cdn.

When I thought back on Aaron’s painful loss of Nadav and Abihu, and how they’d been warned not to do things the wrong way, I wondered what lessons I could find there. I don’t make sacrifices at an altar. I never want to lose my children in such an awful way. However, on a much smaller scale, I pushed myself too hard to meet an elusive last-minute work goal. It cut me close when I failed, and then to be shamed via social media for it. I had my work “killed” – perhaps because my writing failed to come close enough to the editor’s ideas, or maybe because it was a little too detailed or uncomfortable and they questioned it. Who knows? Just as we will never know what Nadav and Abihu were thinking, I couldn’t be inside this editor’s thoughts either.

Unlike Aaron, I don’t have to work with this editor/client again. Aaron serves G-d, and cannot make the same mistakes his sons did. He is in a painful place where he must learn to do better. I, too, am in a place where I need to reconsider how I work and what I will work towards.

Luckily, I didn’t lose anything so precious as did Aaron. I can still explore how to make things better – it’s important to find a work/life balance that works, because that article was not worth the hassle. As the TV advertisement goes, some (important) things, like our family and holiday celebrations, are priceless.

New lessons in everything

All over social media, we’re reminded to “Learn something new each day!” Even before the internet, I remember similar aphorisms – and then “Heck, if you’re lucky, learn two!” Attached to these reminders was the message that each experience and, yes, especially the awful ones, offered us learning opportunities.

While encountering this social media push for self-improvement, I happened to study, from the Babylonian Talmud, Chagigah 3a&b. This page of Talmud points out something that never occurred to me before. This message about lifelong learning is both a Jewish and ancient one. In the second century CE, in Peki’in, Rabbi Yohanan ben Beroka and Rabbi Elazar ben Hisma went to greet Rabbi Yohoshua. Rabbi Yehoshua asked them what new thing they’d learned that day in the study hall. They suggested they were his students and learned directly from him – how could they present him with something new?

Rabbi Yehoshua responded there couldn’t be a study hall without “novelty.” He went on to ask them who had lectured that week. Upon learning that Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya had taught them, he coaxed them for information. Then, he learned something new from the students.

This sounded just like when we greet our kids as they get off the school bus, or ask students (of any age) what they are learning from other teachers. Inevitably, there is something to learn. This bit of wisdom goes further. The Gemara (later commentators) add that the Torah is like a goad. It pushes us on to learn more. Like a sharp nail or cattle prod, it forces us to keep moving onward and learning from new and different circumstances. Torah, the rabbis conclude, doesn’t just have a single, immovable or simple answer for us.

OK then, I thought, what are some of the lessons we’re able to draw from the pandemic and the political upheaval around us? Many feel as though the pandemic is over, just because we’re tired of it but, practically, this virus will “be over” only when it’s ready to be. In an effort to get past this world-weary reaction, I thought about some of what we’ve learned so far.

1) Since Omicron’s arrival, we’ve realized, more than ever, that we must do our own cautious self-management of health. For awhile, in our North American culture, we expected a doctor to diagnose every illness; our workplaces required a doctor’s note. However, when the level of sickness around us is overwhelming, we’re required to examine and diagnose ourselves. This actually returns us to the world of the rabbis in some sense, where bloodletting, herbs and other cures were advised. Much like Ivermectin, some of these did more harm than good.

2) We should stay home when sick. We’ve all felt forced by the culture around us to work through illness even when it would be best to stay home. Yet, highly contagious illnesses mean we need to protect others to keep sickness from spreading. Again, we’ve lived in a “modern” bubble here for awhile. We’ve had fewer contagions and better vaccines and medical care that allowed us to circulate even when we were probably sick. For centuries, people have fought terrible illness by isolating. A quick example would be that of leprosy – we learn from the Torah and the Talmud that those afflicted must stay outside “the camp” and away from others. Self-isolating is the modern equivalent.

3) With the requirement to stay home came widespread acknowledgement of inequity. Many low-income people can’t afford to stay home. Their jobs don’t allow for it. Without paid sick leave, people can’t rest at home. Jewish tradition suggests we should visit or bring food for the sick. We should care for those less fortunate in our communities, such as widows and orphans. While our political advocacy may involve supporting food banks or homeless shelters, does our contemporary Jewish community focus on fixing inequity? We no longer have a Shmita year that forgives debt and evens the playing field. Is the Canadian answer something like universal basic income or the $10-a-day childcare plan?

4) Change isn’t always bad. Career changes, whether forced or chosen, can be positive. Our educational systems shifted enormously to deliver remote learning and accommodate COVID protocols. Our elder-care facilities are in dire need of improvement. Our hospitals need more capacity and redundancy, in both staff and space, so that even pandemics can be managed.

5) Scientists predicted that with climate change, pandemics may become more frequent. Planning to alleviate some of the effects of climate change has been a rocky path. So many governments get swept up in politics and make no policy adjustments. Our current COVID situation is a reminder that climate change, long predicted, is now here. Leaders must arm themselves with science rather than politics to save lives. Saving lives and caring for the earth are Jewish imperatives. This pandemic has been a frightening wake up call.

We can learn from every situation. The rabbis in the talmudic tractate of Chagigah at first assumed their mentors and leaders knew everything. This offered me a lesson too. Good leaders pursue lifelong learning because they are humble enough to know they will never know it all. Facing challenging experiences and learning from them can goad us so that we grow to be better people. The huge number of deaths, chronic illness and hospitalizations from COVID is devastating. If we try hard, we can find lessons here for a better future.

Wolf & lamb find peace

In her new book, Rabbi Dr. Laura Duhan Kaplan explores lessons for humans from the animal world.

Good things come in small packages. A thin volume by Vancouver rabbi, philosopher and academic Laura Duhan Kaplan packs ancient and modern wisdom into a delightful parcel.

Duhan Kaplan is director of inter-religious studies and professor of Jewish studies at Vancouver School of Theology, professor emerita of philosophy at University of North Carolina at Charlotte and rabbi emerita of Vancouver’s Or Shalom Synagogue. Her book Mouth of the Donkey: Re-imagining Biblical Animals was released this year. To her resumé, you might add a sort of Dr. Doolittle role, as she returns frequently to her ability to “talk” to the animals.

“I did a little research into communication,” she writes. “Observe a creature’s form of life, discern its form of communication.… I didn’t look specifically for sound, gesture or expressions of feeling. Instead, I just watched animals interact. And, bit by bit, I began to learn their languages. Since then, I’ve conversed with cats by looking at things and then back at the cat. I’ve given information to wasps and hornets by making gestures. Spoken to crows with vocal clicks and clacks arranged in sentences. (Since I have a limited crow vocabulary, it’s a string of nonsense words, but they give me credit for trying.) And, oddest of all, I’ve befriended flies through telepathy. After all, sight, sound, thought and movement are all wavelengths on which communication happens. Different creatures favour different wavelengths. A good neighbour pays attention and meets others halfway.”

(Disclosure: In the book’s acknowledgements, Duhan Kaplan notes that I critiqued some of the earliest iterations of a couple of chapters.)

In the book, Duhan Kaplan explains that she uses four kabbalistic levels of analysis: peshat, plain literal meaning; derash, exposition of recurring ethical themes; remez, hints to allegorical meanings; and sod, secret allusions to God’s true nature.

She considers both the depictions of humans as sheep in God’s “flock,” and the intertwining of the lives of the ancient Israelites with their own flocks – “Take your sheep and cattle and go!” God tells the Israelites in Exodus.

She contemplates the multiple times where the ancient literature depicts a donkey as a spiritual guide. She weaves in personal stories, such as visit to a donkey refuge here in British Columbia.

“Equines communicate well through touch. So, with my hand scratching his neck, we had a wordless conversation.” This segues into the Bible’s “most famous donkey,” that of Balaam, whose interaction with an angel sends Balaam on, so to speak, a different path.

Biblical writers, both Jewish and Christian, she writes, associate donkeys with “hope, divine guidance and messianic time.”

The blurry line between humans and other animals is a recurring theme, as is the transfiguration of one sort of creature into another. In the Book of Numbers, when Moses sends 12 scouts to tour the land of Canaan, they come back with stories of wonder and terror. Vineyards produce clusters of grapes so large that two people are needed to carry them but the farmers are gigantic – “Next to them, we feel like grasshoppers.” But, as the story unfolds, a short 40 years later, the Canaanites come to see the Israelites not as grasshoppers but as a powerful plague of locusts: “They will lick up everything around us!” declares the king.

Isaiah’s oracle about the wolf and the lamb living in peace is seen by many as a fable of human coexistence. Lambs, on the other hand, can represent defeated nations. But Duhan Kaplan flips power dynamics, noting that, in Isaiah’s oracle, the lambs control the land and exhibit a model for coexistence: “The lambs are peaceful; they govern without a policy of revenge. Graciously and with mercy, they allow the wolves to sojourn as guests.”

The book takes a surprising turn to the immediate present with a discussion of Indigenous-settler peace and friendship treaties and how they may apply to the reconciliation process our country is currently undergoing.

“The treaties are an expression, I might say, of people committed to an ethic like the one Isaiah describes,” writes Duhan Kaplan. “Like the wolf and the lamb, they resist conquest and revenge. They welcome one another as fellow residents. Like the lion and the ox, who share a food source, they rise to the opportunity for peace. And, like the bear and the cow, they understand that the relationship must be renewed in every generation.”

Learning to accept changes

Whew, we’re dealing with so much these days. The pandemic seemed all-consuming, until the serious weather events started. It’s a lot.

Lately, I’ve thought about a Jewish folk tale, often retold in children’s books. Usually, it’s a man who goes to his rabbi because his small house, full of relatives, is too loud. The rabbi suggests he brings his chickens inside. Then maybe a dog, or a cat, goats, a horse and a cow. Then, the man is beside himself with all the noise and mess! He goes back to the rabbi, who suggests he return those animals to the barnyard. Suddenly, his house seems big and quiet. The rabbi’s lesson, of course, is to be grateful for what we’ve got. We have to realize (over and over) that whatever we have, even if it’s small or loud, maybe wasn’t so bad in the first place. Through this sort of change and gratitude practice, we may come to realize that there are good aspects to many situations that perhaps previously seemed dire.

Last week, I felt so lucky. I managed to “score” my twins (age 10) COVID vaccine appointments in a medical clinic about two blocks from our home. We were absolutely thrilled. I’d gotten us on a list at this clinic just in case they should gain access to the pediatric vaccine. We were expecting and willing to wait awhile because we didn’t want to go to a supersite. To our surprise, the clinic got the vaccines in quickly. They called us at 11 in the morning, I picked the kids up from school early, a little after 1 p.m., and the vaccines were in their arms by 1:45.

I’d promised the twins gelati afterwards, but the windchill had been -30 that morning, and our neighbourhood gelato shop is not doing dine-in. Even Winnipeggers have their winter limits. We celebrated by eating pastries from a local bakery instead. Then we watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on the couch together. It was, coincidentally, American Thanksgiving. We had a lot to be thankful about.

All this luck evened out when, a couple days later, one of my twins developed what seemed like a full-blown head cold. We all went off to get tested because maybe we have new allergies, maybe it was a head cold or maybe it was COVID. The good news is that we all tested negative. Whew.

Bad news is that the kid still had a cold and he had to stay home from school with his twin while we waited for the test results. The good part is that, while at home, we had time to go through the kids’ bookshelf, removing all the easy readers and things we no longer needed. (It was then that I encountered multiple versions of that noisy house story I described above.)

I mention all this because, like me, you may be surrounded by those who are yearning for things to get better. Of course, this isn’t a bad hope. Sometimes, when things change, it’s seriously awful news, or it’s not a huge improvement in our lives. So, we maybe have to be grateful for what we’ve got, and learn to accept the change and work with it. It’s working with what’s in front of us, whether it’s climate change weather events or pandemic challenges.

I considered thoughts about change while doing my daily page of Talmud and studying the talmudic tractate of Taanit. In Taanit, on page 17, there’s a discussion about whether those who were high priests in the Temple can drink alcohol. In Rabbi Elliot Goldberg’s introduction from the My Jewish Learning website, he explains this situation. When the Temple stood in Jerusalem, the priests weren’t allowed to drink when they were on duty. Yet, when the rabbis are debating this in the Talmud, it’s been a long time, more than a century, since the Temple was standing. At first, their conclusion is that all priests must stand by, forever, completely sober. After all, they must be ready to be on duty, if the Temple should be rebuilt.

However, according to Rashi’s explanation, Rabbi Judah HaNasi’s decision becomes law. He says that, since it’s unlikely the Temple will be rebuilt any time soon, priests are allowed to drink alcohol every now and again. Rabbi Judah HaNasi is willing to accept that a big change has happened. He finds something good in a hard situation, which might bring somebody a little enjoyment.

Change happens, whether we like it or not. Maybe, like the loss of the Temple, or the destruction of homes due to climate change or people who die from the pandemic, it’s a horrible loss. There’s no denying some losses are life-changing.

Yet, there is also just change. At the beginning of the pandemic, I was working flat out to schedule my kids into a series of summer camps. In March 2020, I was desperate to find the next best experience. Long story short, in Manitoba, many camps were canceled in 2020. We had to learn a whole new way of keeping our kids busy all summer long. We were oddly prepared when, in summer 2021, our preliminary summer plans again hit a snag.

Oddly, for both me and my kids, those unstructured summer days were a gift. I would never have changed our lives that substantially if the pandemic hadn’t hit. Now, faced with twins at home for a day in December due to a head cold, I was happy to let them wile away the unexpected time. There was a lot of creative play. There were books to read and activities to do, the dog to feed and dinner to make. The day passed. My kids were upset at missing school but, like Judah HaNasi, we can try to find the bright side. Roughly 2,000 years ago, it meant high priests could have an alcoholic beverage if they wanted. It goes without saying that this doesn’t make up for the loss of the Temple, but it’s not a bad side benefit, either.

May the changes that come be easy to cope with and good ones for you. At the very least, let’s hope some of the changes have an unexpected benefit!

Finding the goddess in the Torah

(photo by Yochi Rappeport)

Rabbi Gila Caine of Edmonton’s Temple Beth Ora was the lead-off speaker in November for Kolot Mayim’s six-part 2021/22 series Building Bridges: Celebrating Diversity in Jewish Life. Her talk, Toratah / Her Torah: Women Rabbis Revealing the Goddess in Torah, looked at the Tanakh (Hebrew Bible) from a less patriarchal perspective.

“It’s not new to have women involved in Jewish life. Women have always been involved in Jewish life in the home and in the family,” Caine began. “The new thing about recent generations is that women are publicly active. That’s a big difference.”

For the last few decades, she said, scholars have gone back into the text and started digging to find hints and remains of ancient goddesses. By goddess, Caine means the “sacred feminine.” The scholars search the texts to see if they can unveil clues, much like archeology, which will allow them to tell different stories than the ones that have already been told.

“It’s not that the researchers find the old stories useless; rather, they see it as just one part of the whole. To expand the story, the researchers pose questions, such as what did women believe in, how did they worship, and what were their lives like and what did God look like to them at that time?” Caine explained. The text is reinterpreted, and turned into commentaries and midrashim. As an example, she introduced the audience to two recent books: Dabri Torah: Israeli Women Interpret the Torah (published this year, in Hebrew) and Torah: A Women’s Commentary (WRJ Press, 2008).

Throughout her talk, Caine wove connections of Asherah, the mother goddess in ancient Semitic religions, to the heroines of the Torah, such as Sarah and Eve (Chava). Asherah is perceived as hiding within the texts. (Asherah, too, was connected to the Tree of Life, which, in images shown during Caine’s presentation, resembled a menorah.)

One midrash highlighted in the talk related to the Binding of Isaac. In it, Sarah goes and spends the night with King Abimelech. She does not sleep with him but still comes back pregnant, leaving Abraham furious. He hears voices telling him he must kill his son. As he raises his hand to slaughter Isaac, suddenly he sees a deer in the bushes.

This is interpreted as the moment of transition into patriarchy. The deer represents the mother goddess who wants to save her son. “As Sarah dies right after the Akedah, she perhaps does so to save her son,” Caine said.

On the subject of Eve, Caine quoted Rabbi Rachel Adler: “the world of patriarchy cries out for mending. A mending world would commit itself to equality and power sharing, to working collectively to fulfil needs and solve problems. Reunited again with the rest of Creation, men and women could learn again to be loving friends as the traditional rabbinic wedding blessing portrays them.”

Caine pointed out that Adler – through her rereading of the text and reinterpreting what a Jewish relationship is about – restructured the Jewish wedding ceremony. She took the Jewish language of covenant into the ceremony and not kinyan, which implies taking ownership, and created a brit avuhim, or lovers’ covenant. (See ritualwell.org/ritual/brit-ahuvim-lovers-covenant.)

Lastly, Caine spoke about a project, led by Israeli-American artist Yael Kanarek, to rewrite and regender the Torah, i.e., a male in the traditional text is now referred to as female and vice versa. Though the story remains the same, there would now be, for example, a female Jacob with 12 daughters and four husbands. “Suddenly, we have a mirror image of Torah,” said Caine. “It’s very interesting to read it and the immense midrash that it creates for Torah, as well as for our own understanding of who is telling the story and who is part of the story.”

When looked at this way, Caine said, new things come up and are discovered in Torah. By finding the sacred feminine in the texts, she said she is able to understand how she relates and could be part of the process of studying Torah.

“It’s part of a larger question of how do we heal our tradition and take a Judaism that seems at times very disconnected from the earth. By being able to access the language of goddess, it has enabled me to reimagine and to rethink how I do ritual and Judaism, and how I do everyday life – that aims not at the goddess at all – and create a Judaism that speaks to us now in our lives today.”

Born and raised in Jerusalem, Caine graduated the Hebrew University with a master’s in contemporary Judaism and received her rabbinic ordination at the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion’s Israeli program in 2011. Her rabbinic thesis explored liturgical, spiritual and ceremonial aspects of birth in Jewish tradition and contemporary practice. Stemming from that, as well as her years as volunteer at a rape crisis centre, she is one of the founders of the Israeli rabbinic women’s group B’not Dinah, creating a female and feminist rabbinic tradition of healing after sexual trauma.

For more information about Beit Toratah visit beittoratah.org. To register for the next Building Bridges lecture, go to kolotmayimreformtemple.com.

Sam Margolis has written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.

Diverse learning series

Rabbi Gila Caine (photo from Kolot Mayim)

Kolot Mayim Reform Temple in Victoria welcomes back Rabbi Gila Caine, spiritual leader of Temple Beth Ora in Edmonton, to speak on the topic Toratah/Her Torah: Women Rabbis Revealing the Goddess in Torah.

The Nov. 7, 11 a.m., lecture on Zoom kicks off a six-part series of talks called Building Bridges: Celebrating Diversity in Jewish Life. The community is invited to listen and learn from Indigenous, Black, Asian, feminist and differently-gendered and differently-abled advocates who are working to make our world a better place.

As a people who have experienced the devastating impact of antisemitism and hatred, Judaism commits us to the responsibility of tikkun olam (repairing our world). In that spirit, Kolot Mayim’s series of speakers will lead attendees on a journey to deepen their understanding of these contemporary issues and how they can support those who do not feel included.

Kolot Mayim’s Rabbi Lynn Greenough describes the series as “an opportunity to build bridges – bridges that enable us to link to what is and what can be, to step beyond our own particular experiences.” The Hebrew word for bridge is gesher, she explained, pointing to the song, “Kol Ha’Olam Kulo,” “the whole world is a very narrow bridge; the important thing is not to be afraid.”

In the series opener, Caine will explore how, throughout the millennia, rabbinic tradition, and especially written tradition, was composed from within a man-focused and -experienced perspective. Now, after around half a century of ordaining women, there is a growing corpus of documented writing flowing from within woman’s experiences and interpretations of Torah and life. In her talk, Caine will read a few Torah commentaries written by (women) rabbis from North America and Israel, as examples of weaving together rabbinic and women’s experience into something new.

Born and raised in Jerusalem, Caine graduated Hebrew University with a master’s in contemporary Judaism and received her rabbinic ordination at the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion’s Israeli program in 2011. Her rabbinic thesis explored liturgical, spiritual and ceremonial aspects of birth in Jewish tradition and contemporary practice.

Stemming from that, as well as her years as a volunteer at a rape crisis centre, Caine is one of the founders of the Israeli rabbinic women’s group B’not Dinah, creating a female and feminist rabbinic tradition of healing after sexual trauma. She now serves as rabbi at Temple Beth Ora and her Building Bridges talk is co-sponsored with her shul.

Other speakers in the 2021/22 series are:

Carmel Tanaka, founder and executive director of JQT Vancouver (Jewish Queer and Trans Vancouver) on A Day in the Life of a Queer, Neurodivergent, Jewpanese Millennial (Dec. 5);
Rivka Campbell, executive director of Jews of Colour Canada, on Harmony in a Divided Identity: A Minority Within a Minority (Jan. 9);
Joy Ladin, poet, author and first openly transgender professor at a Jewish institution, on Jonah, God and Other Strangers: Reading the Torah from a Trans Perspective (Feb. 6);
Reverend Hazan Daniel Benlolo, director of the Shira Choir, Spanish & Portuguese Synagogue, Montreal, on The Power of Music: In Honour of Jewish Disability Awareness and Inclusion Month (Feb. 13); and
Patricia June Vickers, Indigenous artist and independent consultant, and Rabbi Adam Cutler, senior rabbi of Adath Israel Congregation in Toronto, on An Indigenous and Jewish Dialogue on Truth and Reconciliation (March 20).

Kolot Mayim has been active for 20 years and this is the fourth year that the synagogue is offering this speaker series. Talks are free and held on the scheduled Sundays from 11 a.m. to 12:15 p.m. PST. To register, visit kolotmayimreformtemple.com.

– Courtesy Kolot Mayim

A time for diversity training

We’re in the month of Heshvan on the Jewish calendar. Some people call it Mar-Heshvan or Marcheshvan. (Since this is transliteration, it can be spelled either “ch” or “h.”) It’s called mar, or bitter, because, aside from Shabbat, there are no Jewish holidays during this month.

Of course, as Canadians, we had Thanksgiving in there. However, after a long stretch of Jewish holidays, many Jewish people, myself included, quite like the idea of a month off from them. Finally, I have time to start another big project. A relatively quiet Jewish month leaves more time to do “regular” work, learning and making changes.

As a kid, I was very active in my Reform congregation. I learned to lead services and read Torah and Haftarah, and did it without hesitation after becoming a bat mitzvah. Unfortunately, though, at that time, we didn’t chant in my parents’ congregation, so I never learned how to do it. I married into a family with slightly more traditional practice among some of its members and, therefore, have been attending services with chanting now for more than 20 years.

Yet, learning to chant is a tricky business as an adult. On one occasion, I asked a rabbi if I might learn and he said of course, the congregation ran a special group class for adult b’not mitzvah. (Mostly it was women who never were able to participate in a bat mitzvah service as a child.) I said no, I’d been there and done that – complete with leading the service, a reception with custom-made omelettes, and a special dress. I just wanted to learn to chant. He had no space in his imagination for someone who just wanted to learn this skill without the lifecycle event.

I also learned that there are different kinds of trope. Chanting comes along with symbols in the text of the Torah, Haftarah, Eicha and Megillat Esther. The symbols were introduced by the rabbis as a way to mark and understand the text better. It’s like punctuation. However, as an oral tradition, chanting melodies differ according to where one lives and one’s background. There are actually many different styles of chanting trope, including smaller regional differences, as well.

The trope I’ve begun learning is an Ashkenazi one, which is perhaps appropriate to my family background. (I haven’t done a DNA test, though, so I’m going by family lore.) However, parts of my family are Western European and others have been in the United States for a long time. It’s even possible that I’m learning the “wrong” trope for my background. I’ve found that several Sephardi and Mizrahi chanting styles sound clearer and make more sense to me, perhaps because I’ve learned Modern Hebrew and I lived in Israel as a teenager. It’s actually not as simple as “Learn trope!” “Chant Torah!” although it seems this way if you’ve only lived in one specific Jewish ethnic community with unified customs and traditions.

The more you know, the more complicated things seem. The best metaphor I’ve come up with springs from an odd social media interaction I had. Someone I know only online described her harvest supper menu as including “Jewish-style brisket.” I jokingly responded, “WHAT?! There’s only one kind? What about the many varieties I’ve had over the years? Could it be that I’ve never eaten the only ‘official’ Jewish brisket recipe?”

I said maybe this was an Eastern European/Ashkenazi recipe, or her family recipe. After all, brisket is a relatively cheap cut of meat, cooked low and slow, which is perfect to make on Shabbat, when some families do not adjust oven temperatures or turn the oven on or off.

The person insisted that this was indeed the Jewish-style brisket her family made, mostly, and that, if you Google it, this exact recipe pops up. (Hint, lots of things pop up online that don’t hold up under scrutiny.) Eventually, I suggested that perhaps this was best called a family recipe or a specific geographic recipe, and wished her bon appétit.

Geography matters in cooking meat – for instance, in a Southern barbeque recipe. That is, brisket in Texas doesn’t taste like brisket made in eastern Carolina. Nothing could be more different! The same is true for Jewish trope or chanting. They don’t sound the same because, although Jews originated, long ago, in what is now called Israel, we’re now a diverse people, from all over the world. Just as Jews don’t all look the same, we all don’t eat the same foods on holidays, or sing the same melodies for Lecha Dodi, Adon Olam or myriad other prayers.

So, I begin, with baby steps, to learn one chanting/trope tradition while acknowledging there are many others out there. Like the many brisket recipes and holiday traditions out there, knowing about diversity and traveling deepens our appreciation for what we know and enjoy, and for learning more.

In the meanwhile, I joked with a non-Jewish friend I know in “real life” that, if there is really only one Jewish-style brisket recipe, we might be in trouble. “Oh no!” she replied. “I have to figure out ‘the’ Christian brisket recipe! How have I missed it after all this time?!” We snorted together with laughter. Next, I might call a Muslim friend to ask if there just one Muslim meatball – after all, the kibbe and kofte I’ve shared over many years might not be the official kind?

The best learning for Heshvan? There might not be a single “official” version of anything. That, in itself, is a lesson in diversity that might be worth learning like trope … over and over.