As Jews, we are heirs to a rich and sacred tradition of commentary, and this deeply troubling passage is no exception. There is a strong tendency to spiritualize this passage; the physical disabilities listed are read allegorically such that they apply to all people. In what way is our service of G-d impacted by our own hang-ups? There is also the tendency to contextualize it as a passage emblematic of its time. Thirdly, there is a strong tendency in some circles to engage in disability apologetics. Those with disabilities, according to some strains of thought, are possessed with higher souls, and though they suffer in this world and are barred from sacred sacrificial service, G-d will richly reward them in the world to come.

Although I can certainly empathize with the need to recast this list by framing it in such a way as to sound more appealing to those of us who find these regulations irredeemably alienating, by allegorizing or rereading this passage, unintentional though this may be, those with disabilities and our lived experiences are once again written out of the text.

I am grateful to be a link in the chain of a tradition in which vigorous critique and questioning is not only encouraged but is lauded. With the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem by the Romans in the year 70 of the Common Era, the sacrificial service ceased, and Kohanim today do not enjoy the privileges they once did. The rabbinic tradition, of which we are all heirs, gives us a much richer and more expansive definition of leadership—indeed, there were several Talmudic rabbis who were blind, including Rav Sheshet and Rav Yosi, both of whom contribute immensely and on an equal footing with their sighted colleagues and students. The rabbinic tradition emphasizes sacred study and prayer as a substitute for sacrifice, and such an emphasis continues to this day. Indeed, I personally find the act of study to be an incredibly intellectually as well as spiritually stimulating endeavor.

This shift notwithstanding, we are left to figure out what, exactly, to make of this passage. We live in a society today which is utterly obsessed with physical perfection and physical beauty. This obsession permeates all aspects of our culture—from movies and television, to the latest fad diet or fitness guru giving us the quick and painless way to lose weight and achieve the ideal form. So many of us struggle immensely with this pressure and, in our attempt to fit the norm, often look at those who do not unkindly, be it through fat shaming or other means. Those of us who inhabit bodies which, due to disability do not meet this norm are often faced with incredible pressure to do all that we can to “pass” as normal. Add to this the fact that, as we go out into the world, we are filled with the knowledge that, even if we cannot see it, as is my case, we are aware that others are judging us implicitly and explicitly for how we move and otherwise accommodate ourselves to a world that was not designed for us. This implicit knowledge can be quite grating, and we try to do all that we can to present the best impression of ourselves. This notion is referred to as the burden of representation, and is experienced by minority groups of all kinds.

Let’s face it; human beings of all stripes, including those of us who have disabilities, are intrigued by and curious by difference. If we see or hear something that is different from what we are aware of, our interest is piqued, and though we know better than to stare or judge, we do so anyway. Too often, we do not realize how our implicit and explicit judgment impacts the individual being judged.

Just as Leviticus proscribes groups of Kohanim who are not permitted to perform the sacrificial service due to blemishes, we, too, often determine the best leaders by how they look. Celebrity worship is alive and well, and worship of the perfect physical form alongside it.

As religious people, I believe it is our task to take full responsibility for how we read and apply our texts. I believe it essential that we grapple with this passage and with its implications not only within its Biblical context, but also the implications which are implicit and explicit for us today. Who are we leaving on the margins of our communities because their appearance is nonstandard, hence leaving their leadership potential untapped? How do our institutions hold up in this regard? Are we, too, choosing our leaders based on their ability to adhere to the notion of normal which is all-pervasive?

The Torah presents us with a deeply uncomfortable passage but one which I believe compels us to look within at our own preconceived notions and prejudices. May we be mindful and intentional with how these subconscious attitudes impact us and others, and try mightily not to allow them to do so. May we soon live in a world in which normal is not an ideal and in which the irreplaceable uniqueness of each and every person is cherished.

When the Torah commands us to refrain from placing a stumbling block before a blind person, what, in fact, is the Torah commanding? Are we commanded to refrain from purposely placing an obstacle in the way of a blind person? Somehow, I do not think that the Torah was commanding such a simple reading.

Stumbling blocks exist in numerous forms—structural, societal, attitudinal and economic—which make it exceedingly difficult for people with disabilities to be fully integrated into the larger community. I wish to argue that one of the most substantial of these is society’s subconscious view of disability, which is imbedded into our language and the way in which we view the world around us.

Jewish tradition teaches that all human beings are created B’tzelem Elokim—in the image of G-d, and henceforth, we all have inherent worth and dignity merely by being human, irrespective of a disability. Every life is inherently deserving of respect, every human life is precious, and every human being belongs in our communities. We truly need a societal paradigm shift. Instead of looking at people with disabilities as expensive, burdensome, difficult, or the last people we should think about because they are marginal, we need to look at every person as equally deserving of acceptance. Disability accommodation ought not be an afterthought, and in far too many spaces and in far too many instances, it has been.

It is my personal belief that the way to change attitudes is to get to know people for who they are and allow them to speak about and for themselves. I know in my own life, encountering people from communities I had only heard about or perceived to be marginal has allowed me to educate myself and expand my perspective. Just because I am blind does not mean that I am well educated about other disability groups, nor does my blindness exempt me from ableist prejudice. It is very difficult to truly look within at our own preconceived notions about other people and work to combat them, and I am trying mightily to work on combating those within myself. We are all human, we all make mistakes, and that is ok--the important thing is to try to be mindful of how we carry ourselves in the world and how we speak about and with others.

When we actively accept disability, we are affirming the total worth of every individual, not implicitly or explicitly asking people with disabilities and members of other marginalized groups to fit into society’s conception of what normal is. There tends to be a binary view of disability--either one deals with the tyranny of low expectations or feels as though one must be a super crip. Instead of these, we can embrace people with disabilities' right to be themselves and not hold on to a one-size-fits-all model of disability which often does a great deal of damage.

In my view, barriers in the way of full integration of blind folks are the lack of accessible texts, and the barriers that are often erected in the way of achieving equality in this regard. Accessible formats include large print, Braille, electronic and audio materials. Although I generally prefer Braille, every blind or visually impaired person has their own preference for what works for them. There's no one right way to access text, just as there are no single set of needed accommodations. People may also be unsure of how to ask a blind person if they need help for fear of doing the wrong thing, a fear I understand. Establishing productive dialogue in this regard is so important. If you see a blind person at an event, I would encourage you to come up to the person, welcome them to your community and let them know you are available if they need anything, but let them do the asking. Because totally blind people cannot establish eye contact, it is harder for us to join conversations happening around us, unless we recognize the participants. As a result, we can often be left feeling unintentionally excluded. Many people fear asking for help either because they don’t want to be seen as a burden or because they are embarrassed and are fearful of how their request will be perceived.

We live in a time in which the needs of people with disabilities and their gifts and talents are being better understood, but we have a long road ahead of us. We have made significant progress. As the Talmudic adage states: "We may not finish the task, but we are not free to desist from it" (Ethics of the Fathers 2:16).

I must admit—I was skeptical. We’ve seen a number of memoirs of this sort—the author takes on a seemingly impossible project for a predetermined length of time and at the conclusion of the project writes a book chronicling their experience and the newfound insights they gained which, frankly, may not have been so revelatory to their readers, particularly if said reader came to the book with a wealth of knowledge about the topic at hand. It was with this skepticism that I approached this book. I had also heard Andrew Bowen’s segments for Interfaith Voices in which he was interviewed about the spiritual tradition he was adopting for the month and I often thought to myself that the project, though laudable, lacked depth. What I deeply appreciated about this memoir, then, was the fact that it was so raw and uncensored.

We see through the pages of Andrew’s memoir the difficult toll that Project Conversion took on his family and particularly on his wife, Heather. The fact that Andrew put himself in such a vulnerable place for all to see was deeply moving and took incredible courage. Too often, we jump to judge someone when they allow themselves to be vulnerable in that way with another and that fear of judgment inhibits our ability to form truly trusting relationships with one another. By opening himself up in this way, Andrew aptly demonstrates his deeply felt sincerity regarding this project, and isn’t ashamed to state quite plainly that as a man living in this world and living as part of a family unit, frankly, sometimes, he could not take on all of the practices he wished to or attend all of the religiously significant events he would have liked to. I found that candor quite refreshing.

We learn from the outset that Project Conversion was an intervention of sorts. Having spent time as an evangelical Christian in high school, the horrific events of September 11, 2011 kindled within Andrew a seemingly unquenchable hatred for all Muslims and anything and everything having to do with Islam. After going through a period of disillusionment which so many of us moderns do with our childhood faith, Andrew’s rage at Muslims shifts to a generalized anger towards all things religious. Indeed, he finds it nearly intolerable that his wife, Heather, takes great solace in her Christian faith in the aftermath of a truly devastating familial loss.

We are afforded a rich and raw glimpse into the toll that Andrew’s anger was taking on his marriage. In an act of seeming desperation, Andrew resolves to root out his anger by throwing himself headlong into the world of religion. And thus begins Project Conversion.

As someone who has a decent background in comparative religion, one of the frustrating parts of this memoir was the lack of nuance in some of the chapters. My interest was particularly piqued by the Judaism chapter as this is my tradition. I would have loved to see more of a counterweight to the Orthodox rabbi’s characterization of the heterodox streams of American Judaism and to have been given a better sense of which stream Andrew was practicing. This having been said, however, Andrew’s memoir taught me a great deal about the Dharmic traditions in particular, and my curiosity was kindled by his descriptions of intrafaith tension which exists in numerous communities and how this tension plays itself out in the life of the adherent.

I also deeply appreciated Andrew’s realization from the very beginning that his geographic location would present logistical and practical difficulties, a stark and much needed reminder for me that there are many areas of the United States in which the religious diversity which I take as a given just doesn’t exist.

For those who are interested in the life of the spiritual seeker, or for those who are interested in getting a glimpse into faith traditions not their own, I could not recommend this book enough. For those of us who have gone on our own spiritual and conversionary journeys, there is much that we can take from this book.

I received an electronic copy of this book from the author for this review. Project Conversion is available for purchase on Amazon here.

I am deeply grateful that Jewish Disability Awareness Month is increasing its reach and for the many opportunities afforded to Jews with disabilities and our allies to speak out on issues of particular concern. However, I must admit that I also approach this month every year with a bit of trepidation and fear that, all of the wonderful intentions notwithstanding, we are not being as transformative through this month as perhaps we ought or should be.

I write from an incredibly privileged position. As a Jew who happens to have a visual impairment, I enjoy access not only to Jewish religious life but to social life as well in ways which far too few folks with disabilities do. Most important for me, however, is the fact that my extensive organizational Jewish involvement does not center at all on my disability and I truly believe that this ought to be the ultimate end goal. In the many and varied Jewish communal spaces in which I find myself, I am treated and perceived as an equal in the community, who has unique talents and knowledge that can be used by the broader community for the enrichment of all. I frequently lead services and teach shiurim (classes). I am as passionate about the place of women in the Jewish community, for example, or the importance of ritual, as I am about disability concerns.

This is not at all to imply explicitly or implicitly that inclusion committees do not have their place—indeed, they are necessities for our congregations and communal spaces and allow our professional and lay leaders the ability to learn from congregants and communal members with disabilities, as well as allowing them to exchange best practices. I fear that, however, inclusion committees may have the unintended consequence of pigeon-holing someone into a role that does not enable them to bring their whole selves to our communities. People with disabilities have many gifts to contribute and many are seeking out ways to do so that do not explicitly focus on their impairment.

Inclusion has become a much talked about notion in many communities, faith-based and otherwise. I wish to challenge all of us to reexamine the notion of inclusion. When we speak or think about inclusion, are we thinking purely on the practical level (e.g. how can I get the physical things that will enable physical access: Braille and large print prayer books, ensuring that our facilities are ADA-compliant, ensuring that Sign Language interpretation is made available)? Or are we focusing our minds and hearts on those things that are less tangible but, at least for myself, are most important? It is an oft-repeated notion that it is the attitudinal and not the structural barriers that are the most difficult to overcome. It is my firmly held belief that in order to remove this latter barrier, people with disabilities and others must work together for the betterment of their community for all of its members. As an example, while a person with a disability may need a given accommodation, that individual also has the ability to assist someone else in the community who has a need and this reciprocal relationship should be encouraged, just as those without disabilities in the community assist one another in times of trial and in times of joy.

As a practical means of moving forward with the notion that I am proposing, I urge all of us, clergy and lay leaders alike, to be intentional about how we can bring all of our community members into the rich tapestry of our communities however they wish. Do we have someone who is blind who is a wonderful service leader and has always wanted to lead? Someone who uses a wheelchair or other mobility aid who we know to be a phenomenal public speaker and whom we’d like to invite to give the drash (sermon) one Shabbat morning? Do you have someone with a disability who is excellent at coordinating Google spreadsheets who can be the point person for meal sign-ups for new parents?

I must also be deeply mindful of the fact that the needs of the disability community are as diverse as the number of folks with disabilities. The nature of the disability has a profound impact upon the experiences that person will have and the accommodations necessary. Often, it has been my experience that the spectrum of disability is so vast and varied that it is nearly impossible to address all needs with a catch-all disability awareness Shabbat or through a single program. This is why it is critical, in my view, that we not look at folks with disabilities as comprising one large community but that we instead look at individuals and individual needs. The needs that I have, as someone with a visual impairment, are unique to me—someone else with a visual impairment may have different needs.

I believe that due to the fact that 'disability' is such a broad category and that there is frankly no way any of us—myself included—can be aware of issues that all of the varying constituent parts face, it is easier to focus our energies on one disability or another with which we are personally familiar. I think that this is a wonderful start, but I’d love to see a shift away from a singular focus to a broader and admittedly much more complex focus on the individual.

It is my personal recommendation and deep-seated belief that if you or someone you know is ever in a situation where you have a community member with a disability and aren’t sure how to approach them, go ahead and ask them directly how you can be most helpful or welcoming. Open and honest dialogue is critical. It is also so important that we not brush under the rug those difficult or embarrassing questions that we all have about how a disability or impairment will impact a given situation or activity. All of us, regardless of whether or not we are personally impacted by disability, have those questions. Too often, we fear that we might offend or say the wrong thing—and you know what? We just might. But we must feel comfortable enough to take that risk, that leap of faith, because most of the time, we haven’t caused offense and that one time where we may have done so inadvertently gives us and the other party a chance for dialogue and the ability to come to a mutual understanding.

On March 1, as we’re finishing up those remaining hamantaschen and begin to rid our homes of chametz, let us put the lofty goals of Jewish Disability Awareness Month into action. Let’s focus on integration as much as we focus on inclusion. Let’s walk that walk.

On Shabbat Shira, we read Parashat Beshalach (Exodus/Shemot 13:17-17:16) which includes Shirat HaYam—the Song at the Sea. The Haftorah for this Shabbat includes Shirat Devorah—the Prophetess Devorah’s song (Judges/Shoftim 4:4-5:31). Shabbat Shira has become a time for communities across the spectrum of observance to focus especially on song, either by increasing singing during services or in some other way.

Music has always played an important role in Jewish religious and spiritual expression, and there has been a renaissance of new musical forms and modes of expression in recent decades. As someone who connects most deeply to spirituality through music, I find this all very exciting. The nigun or wordless melody which came into existence as a result of the advent of the Hasidic Movement in the 18th Century C.E. is one of the most popular in my experience. The term nigun, which comes from the Hebrew shoresh nun gimel nun is also shared by the word "manginah" or melody. It has long been noted that music has the power to move people and to unleash emotions in a way that other forms of expression cannot. Listening to nigunim, as well as participating in the singing of one can be an incredibly beautiful and powerful spiritual experience and I find this indeed to be true for me. Singing a nigun is also a very powerful communal bonding experience. Nigunim have also been referred to as a spiritual or mystical language that transcends words.

Although nigunim are most often without words, they may also be comprised of simple phrases usually taken from Jewish liturgy. Although most commonly sung a cappella, nigunim may be accompanied by instruments. People sing nigunim while sitting around the Shabbat table, as a way of beginning and ending a meditation sit, as part of prayers in the synagogue, or at a tish. A tish, which comes from the Yiddish for table involves people coming together to learn words of Torah, sing and partake in the occasional l’chayim.

The founder of Hasidism, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov (literally master of the good name) taught that music is an incredibly powerful form of spiritual expression, indeed more powerful than traditional Jewish prayer and a path to G-d that transcends the limitations of human language. This notion is still resonant for many today, both within the Hasidic community and outside of it. The Baal Shem Tov composed many nigunim or had many attributed to him which still survive to the present day, as do those of many other Hasidic masters.

The origins of the many melodies used for nigunim are incredibly diverse. While the composer of many are known for certain, others were adapted from Eastern European folksongs, dances and even the occasional drinking song. There are also many contemporary composers of nigunim, including Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach Z.L. and Joey Weisenberg, who is an incredibly popular figure amongst the independent minyanim that exist across the United States, in the UK, Israel and beyond. These communities are not affiliated with any established Jewish denomination.

Nigunim are sung throughout the Jewish world and have been enormously influential. The Jewish Renewal Movement, which began in the 1960's and 1970's has done a great deal to popularize them for liberal Jews, turning them into an integral part of the prayer experience. Music can play such a pivotal role in one’s personal and communal spirituality, and the singing of a nigun is one path of many for doing so, lifting up what can be, for many of us, a prayer experience that is done on autopilot, purely by wrote into something truly transcendent and difficult to adequately express through the medium of the written word.

The article cites the economy as the overarching factor driving these decisions, but also notes that for these synagogues and others who are taking or considering taking this path, the depth of the rabbi’s learning is not as important to them as it perhaps once may have been.

As a lay person, albeit one who has contemplated entering the rabbinate, I find this to be quite troubling. Although I wholeheartedly support expanding the access to traditional smichah for individuals who are unable to relocate to attend rabbinical school, coupled with hands-on training in synagogue administration, pastoral skills and the like, I am unsettled by the seeming ease with which these shuls are hiring rabbis whose credentials are questionable at best. Indeed, the article explicitly notes that the heads of these “quick-route seminaries” state that their graduates are not necessarily prepared to engage in pulpit work.

I believe that the underlying economic issues that the article addresses are of critical import and ought to be explored more deeply. However, I am more troubled by the seeming nonchalance with which the rabbi’s depth of knowledge of the Mesorah (tradition) is viewed. As someone who enjoys and is deeply committed to Jewish learning, I want and very much value rabbis with whom I can learn Talmud, or delve into the weekly Torah portion beyond the pshat or simple level, or even learn some Jewish mystical or Chasidic works.

Further, it is important to me to know that there is someone I can turn to in my community when I have questions regarding Jewish law or practice. Having the ability to learn Torah with rabbis and others is a tremendous privilege and blessing and enables me to feel a greater sense of ownership and responsibility for my Judaism. Saying that we just don’t have Talmud questions, in my view, removes the possibility or even the ability for people to engage with the foundational texts of our tradition if they have no resource to begin doing so.

We are heirs to a tremendously rich tradition of text, and at the heart of this, I believe, is the question of the relevance of our tradition in our modern lives. I believe that our tradition is intensely relevant, and that it is our great responsibility and privilege to grapple with our texts, lay people and rabbis alike. In a time in which opportunities for Jewish learning and spiritual growth are proliferating, I want to see more and more Jews feel empowered enough to truly take hold of Torah.

If we begin devaluing learning in our rabbis in favor of less costly candidates, where will that leave us as a community? We should be empowering individuals to create communities of learning and practice, whatever that means for any given community.

The learning and personal preparation that goes into ordination is immense. As someone who has had the privilege of studying with and befriending numerous rabbis and rabbinical students, as well as cantors and cantorial students, I got a much better and broader perspective on this issue. Many do not realize that beyond mastering the Mesorah, rabbis and cantors have to have mastery of numerous other practical skills in the areas of educational pedagogy, pastoral care, officiating lifecycle events and many more.

How can we properly deduce that a given candidate has this grounding if the requirements for ordination do not match those of traditional seminaries? Just as we thoroughly vet our doctors, lawyers, and others, we should be ensuring standards for our clergy, which, as the article notes, was one of the impetuses behind founding the major rabbinical schools in the United States.

It is very important to note that there are rabbis and cantors who receive ordination privately from respected teachers and institutions, and I think that the ability for people to do this is a very good thing and is not in the same category as what is discussed in this piece.

I am curious to know whether or not this is an issue in other faith communities? In the age of I-everything, in an age in which one can find online congregations which attempt to be full-service, are clergy who are ordained online just an extension of this, or is this something that we really need to think through more intentionally?

Dinah was the only daughter of Jacob and Leah, and the only daughter born to Jacob. There are two extant Midrashic traditions regarding her birth. One states that when Rachel saw that Leah was about to bear her seventh child, she prayed that the child not be another son; and thus, Dinah’s gender was changed on account of her plea.

According to a second Midrash, Leah prayed not to have a seventh son. Seeing that both Bilha and Zilpa had borne two sons and she six, she did not want Rachel to be Jacob’s sole wife without a son, showing a remarkable amount of sensitivity, particularly because Rachel was the favored wife.

Every year as I read this parsha, I am struck by Dinah’s total silence. The narrative surrounding her rape by Shechem is told strictly through the perspective of her father and brothers, Shimon and Levi who, upon receiving word of Dinah’s rape, exact violent revenge against all of the male inhabitants of the city.

The text tells us that Shechem falls in love with Dinah and asks to marry her. It is important to note here that Shechem and Hamor’s larger goal with this marital union is to become one people with Jacob’s family, allowing for the marriages of more of the locals with Jacob’s children in the future. They also hope to benefit economically.

Her brothers consent to the marriage only if all of the men agree to become circumcised, a tall order but nonetheless a condition which Shechem readily agrees to. Shechem wastes no time in ensuring that the whole of the male population complies with Shimon and Levi’s conditions. On the third day following the circumcision, when the men were still recovering, Shimon and Levi ransack the city, killing all of the male inhabitants.

I believe it is critical to note here that Jacob does chastise Shimon and Levi for their violence because it has brought tremendous hardship upon him, as his men are few in number, but nowhere do we see Jacob’s explicit anguish over his daughter’s violation—instead, he keeps silent until his sons return from the field. Was his silence a form of tormented anguish? Perhaps. Or, was Jacob’s silence more apathetic? Dinah then is removed from the city and we hear nothing further from her.

Dinah’s complete absence and lack of human agency in this narrative I find deeply troubling. Far too frequently, women and their experiences are rendered completely invisible in our sacred texts. We hear of Shimon and Levi’s violent anguish, but what of Dinah’s?

We read that Shechem fell in love with Dinah and spoke tenderly to her (Gen. 34:3) but what is meant by this? Did Dinah in fact have a romantic relationship with Shechem and, due to their complete disapproval of such a union, Shimon and Levi depicted it as a wholly non-consensual sexual encounter for their own reasons?

In her wildly successful novel, The Red Tent, Anita Diamant suggests just that. Many have seen her novel as a modern Midrash, seeking to give Dinah a voice and life all her own, while placing her within a long tradition of sacred women’s spirituality. Indeed, the opening verse of the thirty-fourth chapter of Genesis tells us that Dinah went out to visit the daughters of the land, but we do not learn why (Gen. 34:1).

Putting these admittedly speculative notions aside, what I find all the more troubling is the fact that if Dinah was indeed raped, as the pshat--or simple meaning of the text clearly conveys, her experience is invisible, and the only thing that seems to matter here is her familial honor. Feminist Biblical commentary has done much to give the voiceless women in our sacred texts a hearing. Although we can never know how Dinah felt, we can, through feminist hermeneutics and Midrash, seek to uncover and recover that lost strand in our tradition, making Torah all the richer.

(Imaged used with permission from WikiCommons.)

Shanah tovah. Yom Kippur is often characterized as being a day of great solemnity but also great joy. The Seder Avodah, which we will be reciting momentarily, speaks to both of these themes. Avodah is, for so many of us, the most perplexing and confusing part of the Yom Kippur liturgy, but for the rabbis of the Talmud and beyond, it was and is still seen as the most important part of the Yom Kippur davening.

When the Temple still stood, the Kohein Gadol, through his proper performance of Avodah, was able to effect atonement for all of Israel, as would be made apparent by the bit of ribbon--ribbon that had been tied to the cliff off of which the goat designated for Azazel--turning white. Traditionally, our recitation of Avodah has been seen as not only allowing us to maintain our connection to The Temple, but it was also meant to instill within us the solemnity, and indeed the fear, trepidation, and dare I say terror, that our ancestors must have felt, as so many of them stood in the Temple courtyard on Yom Kippur and prostrated when they heard the Kohein Gadol pronounce the ineffable Name of G-d.

For them, everything hung in the balance. If the Kohein Gadol did not emerge from The Temple, or emerged harmed, Israel was not forgiven. I found it incredibly striking that part of the elaborate preparations for Avodah was the tying of a bit of rope to the foot of the Kohein Gadol, just in case he did not make it out alive and needed to be dragged out.

The Avodah was incredibly complicated, involving numerous changes of clothes, multiple washing of hands and feet, several immersions in the mikvah, and the proper performance of animal and incense sacrifices. Prior to Yom Kippur itself, the Kohein Gadol spent the previous week in seclusion, studying Seder Avodah with the elders of Israel. This period of seclusion enabled him to physically, emotionally and spiritually prepare for the momentous task that lie ahead of him.

At the conclusion of the Avodah, the Kohein Gadol would pray that Israel have a good and prosperous year. "Ma’areh Kohein," the piyyut which we will be singing at the conclusion of the Avodah, is an expression of our boundless joy that with the emergence of the Kohein from the Holy of Holies, without injury, we have all been forgiven and made it through another year, with hopes for another good year ahead.

Although the Avodah is doubtless for so many of us the most difficult part of our davening to connect to, I feel that there are many lessons that we can take from this ancient rite and apply to our lives today.

During the Ten Days of Repentance, we ask G-d to write us in the Book of Life in the daily Amidah. We are reminded so often in the liturgy of the High Holidays that we are guaranteed nothing in this world, that each and every day that we are granted on this Earth is a precious, irreplaceable gift from G-d and that we should use every day to our fullest. We are far too often not cognizant of this, and at this time of year we are reminded of the precariousness of life.

Just as our ancestors felt that everything hung in the balance on Yom Kippur as the Kohein Gadol was performing the Avodah, so, too do we, as we think back on the past year and look to the next with all of its newness and fresh possibilities.

Although we no longer have a ribbon which turns white as a surefire sign that G-d has forgiven us, our tradition teaches us that through sincere teshuvah and kapera, we, too, are forgiven. We have faith, just as our ancestors did, that though Yom Kippur is a very solemn, introspective day, we will make it through another Yom Kippur, able to begin anew. The vehicles are quite different, but the desire is the same.

This is indeed what I find so powerful about our liturgy. Although we no longer perform the Avodah in the Temple, we are all still feeling, to some degree or another, the precariousness of life on this holiest of days, and just as our ancestors knew joy without bounds when the Kohein Gadol emerged and that ribbon turned white, so, too, do we. Tzom kal, and may you have a meaningful Yom Kippur.

Image via Wikimedia Commons.

There is an oft-repeated notion during Elul that G-d is in the field, and that we are urged to go out and meet G-d. Although G-d is always there, always accessible, the presence of G-d is more keenly felt during this time. I have always found this image of G-d very compelling.

We begin to prepare ourselves for the High Holidays daily when we hear the cry of the shofar, or ram’s horn, after morning services in the synagogue, and we add Psalm 27 to our morning and evening prayers. Sephardic Jews begin saying Selichot, piyyutim, or poems of forgiveness, every morning, while Ashkenazim begin doing so on the Saturday evening before Rosh Hashanah, or, as is true for this year, the Saturday evening before that, owing to the fact that Rosh Hashanah falls out on a Monday and Tuesday.

We are also urged during this period to ask forgiveness from those whom we have wronged during the course of the previous year, reconciling ourselves with friends, family members, and even those from whom we have been estranged. Although this part of High Holidays preparation is often times the most difficult and taxing, it is incredibly freeing. Once we have done the hard work of asking for forgiveness from others, we may begin our year anew, with a clean slate.

During this penitential period, we are also urged to do a heshbon hanefesh—soul accounting, to see in which areas we may have fallen short and need to improve in the year to come. Journaling is a very popular vehicle for doing this. Not only does this process allow us to take a frank and often hard look at ourselves and our failings, it also allows us to embark upon a path of self-discovery, to see in which direction we are heading and to discern where we hope to go.

There are many images associated with Rosh Hashanah that I find to be very universally compelling. Rosh Hashanah is traditionally seen as being the day on which the entire world is judged, as well as the anniversary of the world’s creation. This summer has seen far too much polarization and tragedy in our world, including the senseless and heart-wrenching shootings in Colorado and Wisconsin, as well as the vitriol that we far too often see from our politicians, pundits and others. If we were to take these two associations with Rosh Hashanah seriously, how might our world be different? Were we to embark upon a national or even global accounting of the soul, in what areas might we find that we are succeeding and in which need we work harder?

Tikkun Olam—repairing the world—is a very popular and universally applicable Jewish idea. We are to make this world a dwelling place for G-d, a world in which all of us can feel the presence of G-d, not simply when we are engaging in our spiritual disciplines or practices of choice, but in our daily interactions with others and attitudes towards our planet from which we receive so much.

This summer’s tragedies and polarizing comments have underscored for me the need for genuine bridge building between Americans and others of different faith traditions and political persuasions. We are each created in the image of G-d, each with inherent, irreplaceable value and worth. We are all partners with G-d in creation. Rosh Hashanah, the anniversary of G-d’s creation of the world, is an apt time for all of us to step back and reflect upon how we are doing, as G-d’s partners in this endeavor. It is too easy, in this increasingly divided world to stick with our own, so-to-speak. How might we all reach out and build bridges with those whom we seemingly have little in common?

Photo by Mirah Curzer and published with permission of author.

The daughters of Zelophehad’s request comes after a census has once again been taken of the Jewish males, tribe by tribe. Zelophehad, of the tribe of Manasseh, died and had no male heir. As a result, the laws of inheritance as they then stood meant that as his daughters could not take possession of his share of land, it would be lost forever. Recognizing that this state of affairs was untenable, the five sisters come before Moses, the tribal chieftains and the entire assembly at the entrance of the Tabernacle and plead their case. They make note of the fact that Zelophehad did not die as a result of Korach’s rebellion but died simply of his own sin, and seeing that he did not have a son, his hereditary portion would be lost completely. The sisters petition Moses to allow them to inherit their father’s rightful share, so that his name would not be lost to the Jewish people. Moses immediately refers the sisters’ case to G-d who emphatically sides with them. From this point forward, the laws of inheritance are changed so that in the case that a man dies and does not have a son, his land is rightfully passed to his daughters. The law would be later amended such that a woman who inherits her father’s share must marry a man within the tribe to which she belongs so that the land can remain within that tribe. In other words, if a woman marries outside her tribe, her land does not accompany her.

The daughters of Zelophehad are unique in many ways and their request is quite revolutionary. From the very beginning of their narrative, it is clear that these women aren’t afraid to assert themselves and demand what is rightfully theirs within a social structure in which such bold claims by women were incredibly rare. Furthermore, they come before Moses at the entrance to the Tabernacle, the place of greatest sanctity and authority within the camp and petition Moses directly and in unison. Indeed, they have fleshed out their argument so brilliantly that Moses is unable to rule directly but must refer their petition to G-d who rules in their favor. Although Zelophehad’s daughters only appear a couple of times in the Torah, they are unique in that they are each named. Numerous incidents exist when women in the Torah specifically and Tanach generally are not named, and the rabbinic literature often fills in this void. The fact that the women are here individually named is an unequivocal indication of their immense significance.

Throughout rabbinic literature, the daughters of Zelophehad are mentioned numerous times. The rabbis note that each woman was meritorious in her own right and that they were incredibly wise and learned women, as evidenced by their familiarity and comfort with matters of Jewish law. One tradition holds that none of the daughters married before the age of forty, as each waited until an appropriate match was found for them and although they married at a more advanced age than their contemporaries, they each had children, owing to their righteousness.

One particularly poignant Midrash, which can be found in Sifre, the classic Halakhic Midrash on the Book of Numbers imagines a conversation amongst the daughters of Zelophehad as the implications of the laws of inheritance become apparent to them. They note that it is man’s nature to have compassion for men over women but G-d has compassion upon all of His creations, men and women equally, and therefore there was no reason that they shouldn’t fight for their rightful claim, as G-d would have compassion upon them.

The daughters of Zelophehad have served as a tremendously important and empowering example for women across the denominational spectrum as women’s ritual and communal participation has increased dramatically over the past several decades, whether that be women’s ability to become rabbis in the Conservative, Reform and Reconstructionist movements or the increased ritual participation for women within Orthodox Judaism. Women have access to Jewish learning on levels previously unavailable, and Orthodoxy in particular has, as of late, seen a huge influx in institutions dedicated to advanced Torah and Talmud study for women. Some Orthodox women are also beginning to form womens prayer groups. Zelophehad’s daughters, though their appearance in our Torah is brief, powerfully demonstrate the tremendous impact upon a community that people can have when they stand up and claim what is theirs. May we all learn from their example.

This photo was used, with permission, from Mirah Curzer Photography.