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Category Archives: Jewish Festival

Pesach Sheni: How Access and Experience Shape Us

25 Sunday Apr 2021

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access, belonging, exclusion, inclusion, Passover, Pesach, ritual

Our Pesach Seder is largely focused on the Haggadah. In the time of the Beit HaMikdash however, the key ritual was the Korban Pesach (Paschal Lamb). Ritual purity was required of every individual in order to partake in the sacrificial lamb. Anyone finding themselves unable to return to a state of ritual purity before the fourteenth of Nissan would be unable to take part in the Korban Pesach and be in fact exempt from this mitzvah.
When Moshe gives instruction on how Pesach should be observed and commemorated after the Exodus, a number of individuals, finding themselves ritually impure on erev Pesach, approach Moshe in protest:


‘We are impure through contact with a dead body’-
they say- ‘Why should we be diminished and not bring the
offering of the LORD in its appointed season among
the Children of Israel?’ (Numbers 9:7)


The words ‘why should we be diminished?’ speak of an attitude towards religious ritual that sees it as something beyond the obligation to adhere to a set of laws and traditions. While the individuals in question are technically ‘exempt’ from taking part, they are sorely aware that they nonetheless are missing out on an experience fundamental to their core identity. Through the Korban Pesach one enters an inner circle of belonging, as each individual is required to be counted in a specific group who will gather to consume the Paschal lamb at the Seder.


In the aftermath of the pandemic the frustrating experience of missing out on key celebrations is all too relatable. Over the last year we had to abstain from many family gatherings and cancel communal celebrations. As the world reopens and we re enter our circles of belonging, Pesach Sheni invites us to pause and consider how inclusion and experience shape us as individuals, and to reframe the concepts of purity and impurity as access or exclusion.


Like those who challenged Moshe, we now are in a position to better appreciate how taking part in a key communal event shapes our overall experience, and how diminishing exclusion can feel.
The frustration of those who lack access to the Korban Pesach is heard by God, Who, in response, establishes a new festival on the fourteenth of Iyar, a month after Pesach, known as Pesach Sheni, literally a second chance Pesach. Granted, this alternative celebration cannot replace the original entirely, but it does convey the importance of creating alternative opportunities to access and
experience.

Barefoot Faith: A New Shavuot Revelation

28 Thursday May 2020

Posted by dinabrawer in Important Moments, Jewish Festival

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faith, religion, Spiritual Growth, Torah

IMG_2454

In Judaism, shoes, or more specifically their removal, frame key moments.

We approach the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur, by removing our leather shoes. Pilgrims would remove their sandals on approaching Har haBayit, Temple Mount. Moshe’s very first Divine encounter at the burning bush …read full article .

 

Sanctity in Civics: Reframing our purpose when we leave our caves

11 Monday May 2020

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civic obligations, stories, Torah

Screen Shot 2020-05-11 at 4.30.27 PM

Lag Ba’omer, the 33rd day of the Omer, marks the death of the talmudic sage Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, also known by his acronym Rashbi. On this day, it is customary to tell his story (TB Shabbat 33b). This year, as we find ourselves isolated ‘in our caves’, his story feel particularly relevant.

Rashbi’s casual critique of the benefits of Roman rule in Judea is reported to the authorities, and he is condemned to death. Rashbi goes into hiding with his son, first taking shelter in a Beit Midrash. He then realizes he is putting his wife at risk of being tortured by the soldiers in order to disclose his hiding place, and so he finds shelter in a cave. Over the next 12 years, he maintains an ascetic lifestyle, immersed in prayer and study with his son, nourished by a carob tree and a brook just at the cave’s entrance. 

There’s a postscript to this story that is less well known (TB Shabbat 33b/34a):

(Rabbi Shimon) said: Since a miracle happened for me, I will go and repair something (for the sake of others) as it is written: “And Jacob came in peace…” (Genesis 33:18). 

Rav said: Whole in his body, whole in his money, whole in his Torah. 

“And he graced the countenance of the city”; 

Rav said: He established a currency for them. 

And Shmuel said: He established marketplaces for them. 

And Rabbi Yoḥanan said: He established bathhouses for them. 

He said: Is there something that needs repair? 

They said to him: There is a place where there is uncertainty with regard to ritual impurity and the priests are inconvenienced to circumvent it.

He said: Is there a person who knows that there was a presumption of ritual purity here? 

An elder said to him: Here ben Zakkai planted and cut the teruma of lupines. He also did so. Everywhere that (the ground) was hard, he pronounced it ritually pure, and every place that (the ground) was soft, he marked it (as impure).  

After twelve years isolated in a cave, Rashbi emerges with a renewed appreciation for his dependence on society’s infrastructure. He sets out to repay his debt and offer his contribution. He sees this as a sacred duty, anchored in the midrashic interpretation of the verse describing Jacob as arriving ‘shalem’, in peace and intact, from his journey home away from Laban, and ‘he graced the countenance of the city’.

The rabbis interpret Jacob’s ‘grace’ as civic contributions; he establishes a currency, marketplaces, and bathhouses. It is striking that these three features are precisely the infrastructure brought by the Romans to Judea that Rashbi initially criticized:  

Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai responded and said: Everything that they established, they established only for their own purposes. 

They established marketplaces, to place prostitutes in them; 

bathhouses, to pamper themselves; 

bridges, to collect taxes from (all who pass over) them.

It appears that Rashbi’s period in isolation enabled him to come full circle. He is now able to appreciate not only the value of civic duty, but is ready to take up civic obligations himself. 

His own contribution is to remove an inconvenience for  a small group in a particular locality. Now the Kohanim, who until that point needed to take a long detour to avoid becoming impure due to some unmarked graves, can go about directly and confidently. 

As we contemplate our own transition from quarantine and social isolation, Rashbi’s own story may hold wisdom that will be key to emerge shalem, wholesome and in peace, from our experience of isolation. We may be critical of society and individuals. The key is to be less cynical and undertake to fix something, ameliorate the lives of others, both  as a sacred duty and as the sense of purpose that enables us to emerge shalem, at peace and intact. 

 

In Search of Seders Past

05 Sunday Apr 2020

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faith, family, memory, Passover, religion, stories

Mah Nishtanah? Why is this night different…?

This year, this question doesn’t feel staged. It rings true and urgent.

This year, despite the variations in Passover customs across families, we are united in experiencing the seder through social isolation. 

Our reference points for what a seder is, are shaped by our memories of seders past, which dictate what a real seder feels like. 

So yes, this year it will be very different. 

But will it even be a real seder? 

Can we imagine a seder that feels authentic, without our extended family, friends or guests ? 

But is there such a thing as the authentic seder, the real thing?

The mishnah (Pesachim 10:5) sums up the goal of the seder as:

In every generation a person is obliged to regard themselves as though they personally have been redeemed from Egypt.

The seder is a process of reenactment of the original story, largely focused on the haggadah, the moment in which we recall and retell our most important story. 

But the haggadah isn’t just the retelling of our people’s journey from slavery to freedom, it is also an exercise in telling the stories of seders past. 

We’re invited to do so by the haggadah itself, as it opens by narrating: 

‘We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, and the Lord our God brought us out’, but rather than continuing that story, it detours to reminisce of another seder: 

‘R’ Eliezer, R’ Yehoshua, R’ Elazar ben Azaria, R’ Akiva, and R’ Tarfon were reclining in Bnei Brak…’

IMG_4617

A story within a story: In this 1929 Vienna Haggadah, the artist recreates the Seder in Bnei Brak by imagining a gathering the five most prominent rabbis of that time: R’ Yosef Karo (Beit Yosef), R’ Jacob ben Asher (Ba’al haTurim), R’ Shlomo Yitzhaki (Rashi), and R’ Issac Elfasi (Rif).

The haggadah continues to weave stories and memories of other rabbis performing their seders; R’ Yehudah abbreviating the ten plagues into three sets of acronyms, R’ Gamliel capturing the essence of the seder by pointing to three symbolic foods.  

And so, as we  immerse ourselves in the haggadah’s narrative, we don’t find a linear, original story, but stories embedded with stories. 

What the haggadah is doing is akin to frame story, a literary technique that enables us to access and connect to the main narrative through multiple side stories, or stories within stories, like a Russian doll.

The truth is that memories are themselves built in the process of retrieval. And while we may set out to retrieve the original exodus story, we can only achieve this by recalling our own stories and in so doing creating memories.

And so when we contemplate this year’s seder, rather than obsessing about how different and strange it feels compared to seders past, we can celebrate it in the knowledge that we are weaving another seder story into the rich stream of Jewish memory. 

This year’s seder is certainly unprecedented, but in years to come, the memory of it, with its particular references, questions and symbols, will become an important chapter of the continually unfolding haggadah story. 

Let’s write this chapter with all the joy and creativity we can summon.

Future generations will retell it with reverence.

 

Tashlich: Baggage Check

04 Friday Oct 2019

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Screen Shot 2019-10-04 at 11.06.29

If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler is a 1979  postmodernist novel by the Italian writer Italo Calvino.  In its opening chapter, a traveler arrives at an old-fashioned train station at a non-descript time, which is neither day or night, burdened by a suitcase that is not his, yet that he cannot get rid of.  

I often find myself drawn to re-read this chapter in the lead-up to the High Holidays, a time traditionally set aside for reviewing one’s life journey. Calvino’s writing brilliantly conveys the traveler’s own sense of disorientation and irrevocable loss, together with his awareness of being adrift and his urgency in seeking to get back on track to continue his journey: 

“Something must have gone wrong for me: some misinformation, a delay, a missed connection; perhaps on arriving I should have found a contact, probably linked with this suitcase that seems to worry me so much, though whether because I am afraid of losing it or because I can’t wait to be rid of it is not clear.  What seems certain is that it isn’t just ordinary baggage, something I can check or pretend to forget in the waiting room.“                                                                              (Italo Calvino, If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler, p 13)

Like Calvino’s traveler, we can find our journeys burdened by baggage.  How we perceive ourselves and what motives we attribute to others, the connections we make and those we miss — all color our interactions and shape that suitcase we find ourselves carrying. It can be difficult to pinpoint where and when exactly we picked it up, what precise event lead us to take up the suitcase. Aware of its burden, its shape, and its weight, we seek some resolution. 

The traveler admits that he is unsure whether his apprehension about the suitcase is “because I am afraid of losing it or because I can’t wait to be rid of it”. This is a significant insight into the process of change and Teshuvah.

Becoming aware of the burden we carry and how it encumbers our journey does not lead us automatically to get rid of it. Sometimes, as our hand rests on the handle of a wheeled suitcase, rather than us wheeling it, the suitcase becomes our rudder and we glide through the world following alongside it.  We often hang on to the baggage because it contributes to our identity. It shapes who we are. Even though burdensome, it informs our self-view.

While change is a process fraught with pitfalls, the language of Teshuvah suggests return to an initial condition, prior to the events, actions, and consequences that led us to the present situation. The ritual of Tashlich, the symbolic casting off of one’s sins into a body of water, can play a role in facilitating this process if we approach it as a framework for change and not as a prayer to ‘magic away’ our sins.

There are two aspects to Tashlich that have transformative potential — the setting and the stance. 

The Setting

Tashlich takes place as we stand on the edge of a flowing body of water. There is something compelling and evocative about flowing water, well captured by John F. Kennedy’s remarks:

“I really don’t know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it’s because … we all came from the sea […] And when we go back to the sea – whether it is to sail or to watch it – we are going back from whence we came.” (John F. Kennedy, Remarks at the Dinner for the America’s Cup Crews, September 14 1962)

The setting for Tashlich is an invitation to consider where we come from — to seek our starting point,  before we acquired that unwanted suitcase. This is the first step in enabling a return to who we are at our core, to retrieve our true identity in its purest form.

The Stance 

There are two gestures associated with Tashlich in the mystical tradition: symbolically emptying out our pockets, and shaking out the corners of our garments, inspired by the verse: ‘And I shook out the bosom of my garment and said, So may God shake out...’ (Nehemia 5:13). 

Both gestures invite a stance of ‘letting go’,  enabling inner change. The items in our pocket were placed there deliberately, for safe-keeping or to have them with us at all times. The crumbs and dirt that cling to our garment were inadvertently picked up along the way, in a casual or negligent brushing past. 

Tashlich invites us to deliberately empty what is in our pockets, giving up the baggage we are intentionally holding on to, as well as to gain awareness of what has inadvertently clung to us and needs to be brushed off. 

The setting and the stance of Tashlich complement and reinforce each other, enabling the process of Teshuvah.

“Getting rid of the suitcase was to be the first condition for re-establishing the previous situation: previous to everything that happened afterward.“                                                        (Italo Calvino,  If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler, p 15)

This year, let us experience Tashlich as a sophisticated ritual, finding release in its gestures, and in its setting an intuition of our true selves. 

(adapted from material previously published)

Borrowed White Dresses: Reframing Tu B’Av

16 Friday Aug 2019

Posted by dinabrawer in Jewish Festival

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bridging differences, Freud, Hassidut, narcissism of small differences, talmud, Tisha B'Av, Tu B'Av, unity, Valentine's Day, Yom Kippur

 Pastorale by Leonid AfremovIn recent years the fifteenth of Av, known as Tu B’Av, has had a renaissance with the emergence of White Parties, a sort of Jewish Valentine’s singles event.

Tu B’Av is described in the mishnah as a summer mating festival in which girls would go out dancing in the vineyards: ‘There were no days as good (yamim tovim) for the Jewish people as the fifteenth of Av and Yom Kippur, as on these days the daughters of Jerusalem would go out in borrowed white garments, so as not to shame one who did not have her own’. (Taanit 4:8)

What is particularly striking, is the mishnah’s equation of Tu B’Av to Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year. The talmud questions this comparison: ‘Granted that Yom Kippur is a good day, because it is a day of pardon and forgiveness and the day on which the second Tablets of the Covenant were given. But what is special about the fifteenth of Av? (Bava Batra 121a, Taanit 30a).

The talmud segues with a number of disparate reasons for the significance of Tu B’Av, none of which appear to be connected to each other or provide a convincing reason for its comparison to Yom Kippur. 

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichov (1740–1809), in his work Kedushat Levi, draws on two of the reasons offered in the talmud and through a mystical lens offers a compelling reading of the Tu B’Av ritual, setting its significance en par with Yom Kippur. 

Yom Kippur is all about our renewed connection to God. Likewise, the name of Tu B’Av itself points to our unity with God: ‘Tu’, the letters tet and vav (whose numerical value adds up to fifteen), are a stand-in for the letters yud (ten) and hay (five) which spell God’s name. The word Av means father. The task of Tu B’Av is therefore that of reconnecting to God as our Father or parent. In this context, the mating ritual described in the mishnah seems even more out of place. 

The talmud suggests that the restriction on intermarriage among the twelve tribes was lifted on Tu B’Av. The Kedushat Levi notes that each tribe had a unique trait, represented by the color of a stone in the choshen (the High Priest’s breastplate). Their intermarrying on Tu B’Av points to their ability, through a deep awareness that they are all children of one Av, one heavenly parent, to set aside all differences and distinctions, achieving unity.  This process is in turn enabled by another feature of Tu B’Av, as the day that marked the waning of the sun’s brightness. The Kedushat Levi reads this dimming light as a useful ‘darkness’, one that blurs distinctions and mutes colors, again enabling a coming together in unity.  

The concept of unity through a blurring of distinctions is also reflected in the mating ritual of Tu B’Av. The daughters of Jerusalem represent the souls of the Jewish people, and the mating symbolizes the coming together of the Jewish people and God. Unity among the Jewish people, a prerequisite to their unity with God, is enabled by wearing white. White is no color, yet it encompasses all colors. When spinning a disc divided into segments of various colors, the entire disc will appear white.  

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak’s read of Tu B’Av as facilitating unity among people and with God satisfies the comparison to Yom Kippur. It also frames Tu B’Av as the process for healing the rupture between God and people on Tisha B’Av, which is caused by hate and fracture among the Jewish people. 

We live in times of deep schism and widespread alienation. Unbridgeable differences fuel bloody conflicts in many parts of the world. Hatred for those of different religions, ethnicity or orientations has been expressed in mass shootings most recently in El Paso, Texas and Dayton, Ohio. 

We often encounter suspicion and diffidence across the political divide, and perhaps most unexpectedly among those who should be united by common goals or affiliations. This phenomenon was labelled by Freud ‘the narcissism of small differences’:

It is precisely the minor differences in people who are otherwise alike that form the basis of feelings of strangeness and hostility between them.                                                                (The Taboo of Virginity, 1918)

Elaborating on this concept, organizational psychologist Adam Grant points out that the smallest nuances and variations in views can at times be more divisive than major ones. He cites a study in which vegans showed nearly three times as much prejudice toward vegetarians as vegetarians did toward vegans. While to omnivores the difference between the two groups may be negligible, vegans viewed vegetarians as ‘wannabes’ and somehow not fully committed to the cause. In another of Grant’s examples (that we may more readily recognize) Orthodox Jews evaluated non practicing Jews more favorably than Conservative Jews. While there’s a wider gap in practice between fully ritually observant and those who are not at all, the smaller differences in values of those who observe differently to you can be more threatening and divisive. 

All this explains the ease with which we settle into factions and splinter, and find ourselves in the ruptured state of Tisha B’Av. Tu B’Av proposes an antidote. It suggests that at times it is useful to dim the lights, to close our eyes to the distinctions that divide us, or to enrobe ourselves in white, encompassing multitudinous colors, in order to discover what unites us. 

But that is not an easy task. Two strange details of the Tu B’Av ritual may shed light on how we achieve this. 

The girls have to borrow the dresses and they dance. The Kedushat Levi points out that a borrowed dress is something received without much effort. Dancing in its purest form is an involuntary reaction of our body to the rhythm of music. Both of these features suggest that the healing of Tu B’Av is something that cannot be achieved through our own independent effort – what hasidut terms hit’aruta d’letata, but only through gifted inspiration from above – hit’aruta d’leilah.

Just like a borrowed white dress that is not your own, or like breaking out in a jiig to the sound of another’s irrepressible music. 

 

Copenhagen windows and drawing the Hanukkah lights into the year

10 Monday Dec 2018

Posted by dinabrawer in Jewish Festival

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Copenhagen, family, Hanukkah, hygge, lights, religion

Walking around a residential neighborhood on a winter’s night can be lonely experience. The streets are dark and desolate. Passers-by become anonymous and the sound of their footsteps intimidating. I usually walk at a fast pace, every fiber of my being intent on escaping the gloom.

On a recent visit to Copenhagen, I found myself cutting through a residential neighborhood, on foot, at night, on my way to the buzzier Nyhavn district. As I was walking, I noticed my pace was unusually relaxed. I felt a sense of warmth and coziness, which the locals call hygge. From every house and building on the street, large windows cast a golden glow. I was out on a dark street, but my gaze was drawn into luminous homes, where I could see individuals at work, children at play and families gathering to eat.

I found the windows of Copenhagen unusual, because as a Londoner, I am used to seeing homes with all curtains drawn, barely a blade of light escaping from the edge of a blind. Keeping their windows unscreened, the Danes projected a friendly warmth into the street, uncloaking the heavy darkness, and offsetting the loneliness of my journey.

Copenhagen windows

Hanukkah is a time for pulling back the curtains and setting lights at the window specifically dedicated to illuminating the outside. Now, in the final hours of Hanukkah, having watched all eight flames burn brightly at my window, I am considering how the Hanukkah lights can continue to transform the blackness outside, beyond the eight day. When stepping into the warmth and light of our own homes, we can quickly forget about the darkness and loneliness experienced by many. We draw the curtains and keep it out of sight, out of mind.

But what if, at the end of Hanukkah we hold off on drawing back the curtains?

Let our home shed light and warmth and transform the gloominess of our streets. Enjoying the coziness of our home, let’s keep a window clear and unshuttered, as a reminder to look out for those experiencing loneliness and isolation through transition, anxiety and uncertainty. The talmudic formulation of the mitzvah of Hanukkah as נר איש וביתו  ‘a candle for each person and their home’ (Shabbat 21b) suggests the home as a particular anchor for our capacity to brighten the outside and light up the lives of others. So, as Hanukkah draws to a close, let’s take inspiration from the windows of Copenhagen. Let’s radiate light through our homes, practicing our own form of hygge, spreading  warmth, comfort, and encouragement.

Copenhagen

 

Will you take your rightful place?

11 Wednesday Oct 2017

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dancing, religion, ritual, sefer torah, Torah, women

simchat torah.png

Simchat Torah.

Will you step forward to dance with the Torah?

Will you remain content watching from the side-lines?  

Will you self-consciously say  ‘thank you I’m ok’ when invited you  to join the dance circle or hold the Torah?

The Torah reading for Simchat Torah begins with Vezot ha-Bracha followed by Bereshit.

Rabbi Yehudah Aryeh Leib of Gur (1847–1905) notes that the letterbet of Bereshit symbolizes Bracha, blessing, and so the Torah begins with blessing and concludes with blessing in Vezoht ha- Bracha, pointing to its essence: blessing.

God bestows the blessing as the ‘noten hatorah’ and the Jewish people in turn are a vessel to hold the blessing. This is what happens on Simchat Torah.

On a personal level, by putting our arms around the Torah, we turn ourselves into a container that holds it, both physically and spiritually.  

On a communal level, as we join hands to form a dance circle, we unite create a larger container of love around the Torah.

In this way we turn the mystical words of The Zohar into reality:

Kudsha Beri-hu, veOrayta veYisrael chad

The Holy One, the Torah and the People of Israel are one.

Simchat Torah is an urgent invitation to enact this unity.

Will you take your rightful place?

 

 

Who Is Judging Whom?

20 Wednesday Sep 2017

Posted by dinabrawer in Jewish Festival

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judgement, new year, self-compassion, self-scrutiny

Apple and honey, traditional food of jewish New Year - Rosh Hashana. Copy space background

On Rosh Hashanah, the Day of Judgement, we appeal to God, the ultimate Judge, not to be too precise and exacting:

‘O faithful God, as You prepare to pass judgement,

Were you to press  the letter of the law in judgement,

Who would ever be found righteous before You and acquitted by such judgement?

(from the Musaf repetition)

While there’s a particular focus on the theme of Divine Judgement, God is not the only one we are scrutinised by. We are all subject to self-judgement. And while internal criticism can be healthy in moderation, in excess it can be detrimental to personal development. Untempered self-judgement, the little internal voice that says ‘you are not good enough’ can leave one feeling inadequate and incapable of achieving anything of value.

As we read the Rosh Hashanah liturgy this year, it may be useful to bear in mind, that if we are asking God to temper judgement with compassion, we should apply the same balance to ourselves. By softening our harsh internal criticism and practicing self acceptance we can go on to make the positive changes we need to enjoy a blessed year ahead.

Torah: Seize Your Share

30 Tuesday May 2017

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Feminism, religion, Torah, women

FullSizeRender (1)

The expressions Matan Torah and Kabbalat Torah suggest both a giving and a receiving of Torah. However, a riveting midrash (Tanhuma, Ekev 11) depicts a very different picture. It describes the tablets measuring six handbreadths in height and imagines God holding the upper third, Moshe holding the lower third with the middle third remaining in between the divine giver and the human recipient. Moshe then reached out and grasped the middle third, overpowering God as it were, drawing the tablets entirely into the human domain.

Inspired by this midrash, Rabbi Yerucham Leibovitz (1873-1936) who served as spiritual head of the famous Mir Yeshivah in Poland, suggests that the assumption that God simply gifts Torah to us is mistaken. We are meant to be more than passive recipients. We are encouraged to actively reach, if not overreach, for the Torah so that we can possess it.

I think this message is particularly relevant to women who too often assume a passive stance when it comes to Torah. They wait patiently to receive what others deem acceptable for them to receive, even when it is blatantly inadequate. The midrash indicates otherwise. When it comes to Torah there is no shame in demanding and grasping for more. On the contrary, it is through this hunger for greater access to Torah that Torah is truly honored.

This iconic image of Belda Lindenbaum z’’l holding the Torah aloft for hagba’ah encapsulates this message. Belda boldly staked her claim and pushed all barriers to bring Torah into women’s domain. 

This Shavuot, let us all seize our share of Torah.

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