The Gender Question

“Do big girls have bikes without training wheels?” my daughter Hannah asked me, as she rode her tricycle. Hannah knew that her brother’s bike didn’t have training wheels, but she wasn’t sure why. Hannah is three, and her brother Jeremy is six. She knows that she can’t do some of the activities he can, but she’s often unsure whether to attribute these differences to age or gender. So, she’s asking a lot of questions lately about boys and girls.

This week’s Torah portion also deals with sisters asking about gender. In the parasha, five sisters — Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirsah, the daughters of Zelophechad — approach Moses with a poignant concern about gender and inheritance. According to biblical law, sons inherit after the death of their father, but Zelophechad died without sons. Therefore, his daughters asked if they could inherit his land. Moses consulted with God, who agreed to their claim and explained that in all future similar cases, daughters should inherit the land. How remarkable that God changed the law in response to the sisters’ request — toward greater justice for women.

We normally think of feminism as beginning in nineteenth century with a second wave in the 1970’s, but this text demonstrates agitation for greater equality even in biblical times. The success of the sisters was limited; the law still only allowed women to inherit if they had no brothers. Nevertheless, the daughters of Zelophechad left us with the legacy of their courage and with divine recognition of the justness of their cause.

More broadly, the text challenges us to face the question of what legacy we leave our children. What does the next generation inherit from us — not just in terms of material goods but spiritual inheritance as well. This question has been particularly poignant for me recently. My mother passed away a year ago, and I’ve had to sort through the complicated legacy she left me. At her funeral, I said I was grateful that my mother taught me to dream big and that one’s dreams need not be limited by gender. This gift was perhaps the greatest one she gave me.

This weekend marks the July 4th holiday where we celebrate and reflect on our American values. Among the greatest benefits of living in the U.S. is the place of women relative to many parts of the world. How fitting that this week’s Torah portion corresponds to the confirmation hearings for Elana Kagan, who would be the second Jewish woman on the U.S. Supreme Court.

I feel blessed to live in a democracy where laws can and do change towards greater fairness. Like the daughters of Zelophechad, each generation must continue to work where the last generation left off.

“Yes, you can have a bike without training wheels when you get bigger,” I replied to Hannah. “Actually, when you’re six, you could have Jeremy’s bike if you’d like,” I suggested.

“No, Mom. I want a girl bike without training wheels,” Hannah explained.

“Sure, sweetie,” I said. “That sounds great.”

Looking Into Our Own Tents

Last weekend, I was at a gathering mostly of families with small children. When a young couple (who’ve only been married a couple years) came, one of the dads pointed to a child and joked: “Who said you could come to the party without one of these?!” The next day I was at a different party with the same couple and heard an acquaintance ask them: ‘So are you thinking of having kids soon?’ The couple desperately wants children but for a series of very good reasons, they’ve decided to wait one more year before trying. Until then, they have to deal with such questions on a regular basis.

I wish I could say that such questions end when you have kids, but they don’t. I was once with a friend who has three young kids, when she was asked by an acquaintance whether or not they plan on a fourth!

Likewise, a friend of mine recently decided to leave a job that she’d been at for several years. For good reason, she doesn’t yet know what her next professional move will be and will need some time to research options and decide. In the meantime, she has to respond to students and colleagues asking each day about her plans and admit that she’s not sure.

These incidents reminded me of a story from this week’s Torah portion and made me think about it in a new way. This week’s Torah portion is named for Balak, the King of Moab who asked a great sorcerer named Balaam to curse Israel. Balaam followed Balak to a mountain overlooking Israel’s campsite. However, when Balaam saw the people from above he was suddenly inspired to bless them instead. He exclaimed: “How good are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel.” These words are the source of the Mah Tovu blessing which is recited when entering a synagogue.

The rabbis of the Talmud rightly asked: What did Balaam see that changed his mind and prompted him to bless the people? He didn’t get to know the people, so what could he have possibly seen from above which changed his opinion? They answered that “he saw that the doors of their tents did not exactly face one another and said: ‘these people are worthy that God’s presence should rest upon them.’” Since they had arranged their entrances so no one could see inside their neighbor’s tent, Balak was impressed by how the community protected each family’s privacy.

This teaching not only pertains to how to arrange our homes but our words as well. Often when we ask questions, we inadvertently seek to peer into our acquaintances’ tents, so to speak. We want to know their plans and to get a better glimpse into their family life. Yet, this Talmudic teaching encourages us to focus on our own tent instead.

When making personal life decisions — about jobs, kids and relationships — we need to examine our own home and heart to determine what is best for our family. We need to summon the strength to ignore others’ comments and questions to find our own path.

With the rise of reality television and social media, our society seems ever more eager to reveal the details of each other’s personal lives. In such an atmosphere, this teaching is an important corrective.

By declaring a moratorium on pressuring questions, by looking into our own homes rather than each other’s, we too can become worthy of the blessing: “How good are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel.”

Recharging Our Batteries

“I’m fine,” I lied to my friend on the phone, but the truth is I’m burned out. I was seriously ill a few weeks ago. Thankfully my symptoms are gone now, but I have yet to recover the spring in my steps. My three-year-old daughter (who recently transitioned from a crib to a bed) woke me up at 3:30 each morning for the pas few — which doesn’t help. I’m nearing the end of one leg of a professional project I’ve been working on for a long time, and I feel like a marathon runner who collapses five feet shy of the finish line. I turn to this week’s Torah portion looking for guidance — for anything to uplift my spirit.

There, I discover a bizarre ritual — that of the red heifer. The portion is called Hukkat (which means law), and it begins with an unusual statute. God commands Moses and Aaron to instruct the people to give the priest a red cow “that is unblemished which has no defect and on which no yoke has been laid” to sacrifice. The heifer’s ashes would purify anyone who had become impure from contact with a corpse.

This rite is so remote from our experience today. What could I possibly take away from this text?

Firstly, this ritual is honest. It admits that loss creates spiritual unease which lingers long after the crisis has passed. The red heifer ritual acknowledges human vulnerability — rather than pretending everything is okay. The ritual also recognizes something must be done to address spiritual malaise. You can’t just wish it away but have to take steps to remove it.

The remedy the Torah proposes to that vulnerability (purification via the heifer’s ashes), however, is very odd. What are we to make of it today when we no longer can (nor would we want to) enact this ritual?

The commentators have given many explanations for this ritual over the centuries, and some — including even the wise King Solomon — have been unable to offer any explanation at all. Instead, they’ve understood this law as one of life’s great mysteries. Yet some modern commentators have noted that by killing an unblemished cow, the ritual asserts that perfection simply doesn’t belong in the world.

None of us are without defects or flaws; all of us carry great burdens in life. The red heifer ritual symbolizes relinquishing the dream of perfection. Only by recognizing our limitations can the process of healing begin. This idea is as true now as it was then — cows or no cows.

Tomorrow, in honor of my birthday, I am going to a day spa for some R&R. I hope this outing will work as well as the ritual of the red heifer!

The Korah Within

Last Friday, my son’s class put on a show to celebrate their completion of kindergarten. The kids sang songs recalling all they had learned in school this year – complete with choreography and props. The evening was just wonderful! My husband and I and both sets of grandparents watched eagerly, kvelling with pride at Jeremy’s enthusiasm. Afterwards of course, we all told Jeremy how proud we were of him and what a great job he had done. One of the relatives told Jeremy, “I think you did the best in your class.”

The comment was well-intentioned, but I wondered: why introduce competition into a situation where it’s not inherently present? Why isn’t it enough to have done a great job? Why do we feel the need to be “the best”? That same night, we also celebrated another accomplishment. I had just received an acceptance from a publisher for a book I’ve written on spirituality and parenthood. My father opened a bottle of champagne and made a toast, saying “May this be the first book of many.” His toast expressed his pride in me. But again I wondered: why isn’t one book enough to celebrate, without the expectation of many to come? Why is it so hard to enjoy an accomplishment without thinking of what’s next?

This week’s Torah portion speaks to these questions. In the parasha, a Levite named Korah instigates a rebellion against the leadership of Aaron and Moses. Korah challenged Moses and Aaron’s authority by asserting the holiness of the congregation and asking: “Why do you raise yourselves above God’s congregation?”

Moses realized that Korah’s real problem was his inability to be content with his responsibilities as a Levite which fueled his impulse to challenge Moses and Aaron for more. Seeing through Korah’s question, Moses responded: “Is it not enough for you that God has set you apart from the community of Israel to bring you close to God to serve in God’s tabernacle and to stand before the congregation to serve them?”

After an elaborate series of confrontations, Korah and his followers are killed (when the earth swallows them up), but later in Numbers we read that “the sons of Korah didn’t die” (Numbers 26:11). Korah’s discontent exists in each generation — indeed perhaps in each one of us. Pirkei Avot (The Chapters of the Ancestors) contains Ben Zoma’s famous dictum: “Who is wealthy? The one who is content with his portion.” He makes it sounds so simple, but finding contentment is one the hardest spiritual challenge in life.

Indeed, Moses’ question haunts me. Why is it so difficult to be content with one’s portion and not always be looking for more? For example, I always wanted two children — a boy and a girl. Now that I have them both, I wonder should I have more? Will I regret it later if I don’t have more children? Whatever I accomplish either professionally or personally, I’m always wondering what’s next. The Korah within is ever eager to load more expectations on me and to compare myself unfavorably with others.

Friday night, as I tucked my son into bed, I told him again how much we enjoyed the celebration. “You did a great job and all your friends did wonderfully too. I am so proud of you and your whole class.” He smiled and gave me a hug. The evening reminded me to stay vigilant against the Korahs within and without.

In Sickness and In Health

For the past 10 days, I’ve been sick. After two trips to urgent care, one to the ER, two visits with the regular doctor and even a brain scan, they think I have Viral Meningitis (but aren’t yet sure). Whatever the name of this illness, it’s not fun. With daily fevers and excruciating headaches, I’ve been completely incapacitated. My folks and in-laws are taking turns watching the kids when my husband’s at work because I’m out of commission.

This week’s Torah portion couldn’t be more apropos to my current condition. The parsha recounts how Miriam became ill with Tzara’at, a mysterious disease which turned her skin “white as snow,” during the people’s desert trek towards the Promised Land. Her brother Moses prayed on her behalf a short, poignant prayer: “El na refa na la” (“God please heal her.”) The text recounts that the whole community stopped their journey and waited for seven days for Miriam to recover before traveling again.

Reading this passage while being sick, I wonder whether Miriam was changed by these events. The name of the portion is Beha’alot’kha — it means “when you raise up” (and refers to lighting the candles of the menorah.) When Miriam finally arose from her illness and recovered, I wonder whether her life got back to normal or was different somehow — having faced her vulnerability and endured.

Unfortunately, the Torah doesn’t say. The text simply states that the people subsequently resumed their journey. The next time Miriam is mentioned is when she dies (eight chapters later). The Torah’s silence invites speculation. Miriam’s illness was immediately preceded by her and Aaron speaking about Moses and his “Cushite wife.” Perhaps her subsequent silence demonstrates that she had a new appreciation for the power of words. I imagine that Miriam must have been moved by the community waiting for her and by her brother’s prayer. When you’re sick, acts of kindness mean so much. I was so grateful this week for my step-mother’s chicken soup, my mother in law’s chicken and for the phone calls from family and friends.

What surprised me is how being sick immediately and completely changes your outlook. Thankfully, I’ve been healthy most of my life and I didn’t realize how much I take my health for granted. But when health is taken away, you realize it’s all that matters. Suddenly my other worries, plans and goals slipped away, and my sole desire is to be healthy enough to care for my family and be with my loved ones.

In the grand scheme of things, my condition is relatively minor. At the ER, I saw a women sobbing uncontrollably because her daughter had been shot. I saw a man with a metal neck-brace which seemed only tentatively holding his head on to his body. There’s nothing like a trip to the ER to snap life back into focus and make you stop “sweating the small stuff”!

I honestly don’t know how Miriam was affected by her illness. As for me, I hope that this virus leaves my body as soon as possible — and I hope that the appreciation it’s given me stays a lifetime.

The 614th Commandment

My friend Orley took my daughter Hannah to the park. Hannah showed her the two ways to climb up to the slide — one which only has a few steps and one that has monkey-bars. Hannah explained that she goes up the few steps and isn’t big enough to climb the monkey-bars. “I’m just a little bit big.” She said, “I’m three. I don’t want to get bigger. I like being three.” Orley was impressed by Hannah’s peacefulness with the stage that she is in.

I wish I could say the same. I’ve been sick this week, and I’d love to fast forward until I feel well again. I’m in the middle of a couple professional projects that I wish were done already. I can’t make the moment of completion come any sooner than it will, but in the meantime I have an abiding sense of frustration.

In this week’s Torah portion, the people finally conclude a project that they’ve been working on for a long time — the tabernacle, the portable sanctuary for use on their desert journey. When Moses completed the final preparations for use of the tabernacle, the chiefs of each tribe presented gifts for the tabernacle — one per day. The gifts by each of the chiefs were identical and incredibly specific; the weight and worth of each donated item is elaborated. Therefore the same paragraph describing this gift repeats twelve times. (This week was my bat mitzvah portion, and I practiced that paragraph so many times I could recite it in my sleep!)

I wonder why the Torah which is usually extremely concise repeats the same paragraph 12 time. Instead the paragraph could have just been written once with a sentence stipulating that the same offering was given by each of the chiefs on the subsequent 11 days. Or better yet, all the gifts could have been given on the same day!

Perhaps, by specifying the offering for each day, the Torah subtly makes the point that each gift is equally worthwhile. Each tribe had its own special moment. Rather than grouping the days together, the Torah notes that each day has its own blessings.

The same point is made by the counting of the Omer — the seven weeks leading up to the holiday of Shavuot (which we celebrated this week). These weeks were a period of intense anticipation for farmers. On Shavuot (which is also called Hag-Ha-katzir, the holiday of the harvest), the wheat would finally ripen, and the farmers would know how well their crops had done. The natural inclination would be to count down until the day of the harvest. Instead, the Torah stipulates that we should count up the days. This reversal implies that each day is valuable.

As we celebrate the giving the Torah with its 613 commandments, I would add just one more commandment: “Thou Shalt Not Miss Thy Life.” John Lennon understood this when he wrote that “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” This newest made up commandment reminds me not to miss the trees for the forest. Each day’s gifts should be appreciated on their own terms, not merely as a prelude to a future hope.

In this week’s ordination ceremony for the Ziegler school’s newest rabbis, Reb Mimi Feigelson noted that the Hebrew words hamtanah (the waiting) and hamatanah (the gift) are spelled the same. Even waiting can be a gift.

I hope to learn from Hannah to be content in my present stage. There will always be more ladders to climb in the future, but in the meantime, we can enjoy the gift of today.