I suppose I would describe myself as an Orthodox feminist “fellow traveler;” one who sympathizes with the goals of Orthodox Jewish feminism, but for whom the feminist effort is not at the core of his religious life. By upbringing and intuition, my attitudes are abidingly traditional and, despite the deep inspiration and great personal satisfaction that I get from davening at Shira Hadasha, I continue to feel comfortable and “at home” davening in a “regular” Orthodox synagogue. I believe that absolute, unique truth is the singular attribute of the Holy One (Blessed be He), and I hold most of my opinions tentatively and as subject to review. Yet, in June 2001, I published an article in the Edah Journal advocating that women be included in the Torah reading portion of the synagogue service.1 What could drive a person such as me to publish an article that I knew could radically alter the face of the Orthodox synagogue?
Together with my traditionalism, I hold a cluster of other attitudes that, from time to time, manage to overturn my traditionalist equilibrium. First, I seem to be possessed by a strong inclusive impulse. In my paper, I argue that halakha in many cases expresses an “inclusive bias” that widens the circle of those included in the observance of mitzvot. But beyond the formal case that can be made for this “inclusive bias,” I find that it is a principle that has a strong hold on me personally. I recall decades ago saying casually at the end of a meal with a male friend and another woman that we would not say birkhat hamazon with a zimmun because there were not three “people” at the table. Even after I recovered from the immediate social blunder, the incident weighed on my mind as I wondered what could I have been thinking, or from what perspective I was acting, when I made such a thoughtless remark. I recall as well feeling excluded the first time we had a women’s zimmun at our shabbat table and at a bat mitzvah celebration when I, along with other male attendees, was asked to leave for the kri’at hatorah portion of the Shabbat minhah service that the girl was to read.
Others may have reacted differently to these experiences, but for me not to be counted or recognized makes me feel excluded. Of course, no one has the right to be every place at every time. There are any of a number of halakhic and other generally recognized exclusionary principles—the right to privacy and tzniut, just to name a few. However, as someone who deals with women professionally and socially on an easy and equal basis, and who takes his own participation in halakhic observance as a matter of natural right, these particular incidents made me uncomfortable, and I do not want to make others feel that way. “What is hateful to you, do not do to your friend: that is the whole Torah” (Shabbat 31a). Thus, when I was approached with the suggestion that my daughter read the torah and the haftarah at her bat mitzvah just as her brothers did at their bar mitzvah celebrations, I felt impelled to consider the issue with the utmost seriousness.
I am also committed to pluralism generally and halakhic pluralism in particular. Pluralism is a naughty word in some Orthodox circles and, if it is construed as cultural relativism or as an “I’m OK you’re OK” or laissezfaire attitude towards observance, I too join in the objections. To me, halakhic observance, in addition to being a way to exercise social discipline and uniformity, is the main religious avenue for personal avodat hashem, or service of God. This means that different people and communities will bring distinct nuances, meanings and forms of self-expression to their observance. The Talmud (Yomah 69b) recounts how the Men of the Great Assembly restored the “divine crown to its ancient completeness” by reinterpreting the prayer so that the words “the great, the mighty and the awful God” could be restored to the amidah after they had been deleted by the prophets Jeremiah and Daniel after witnessing the suffering of the destruction. At the end of this remarkable passage, the Talmud wonders: By what right did Jeremiah and Daniel abrogate the form of prayer established by Moses? The answer: “Since [Jeremiah and Daniel] knew that the Holy One, blessed be He, insists on truth, they would not ascribe false things to Him.” Full halakhic observance demands adherence to imposed, formal systems and, at the same time, loyalty to one’s own existential truth. This is a sure fire formula for (hopefully creative) tension and turmoil, but it is not easy being a Jew.
All in all, I think the Orthodox community is true to this religious model (including the tension and turmoil aspects). We encounter examples of it all the time. Some say Hallel on Yom Ha’atzma’ut while others refuse to do so. Some forbid secular studies; others require it. Some prohibit mixed seating at social functions, while others permit it. One could go on and on. Each side supports its position with classical, traditional lamdanut (scholarship). Cynics would say that this shows that halakha is just politics or social engineering by another means. Others will insist that halakha is indeed the result of necessary conclusions that are derived from irrefutable sources and that these differences are either uncharacteristic of the system, or the result of genuine differences of textual interpretation detached from the underlying worldview or social mores of the various groups. To me, these examples show that the Orthodox community has, at least de facto, recognized a principle of halakhic selfdetermination. I am uncomfortable being separated from my wife at a wedding; others would feel uncomfortable if the seating were mixed. Each of us is entitled to be comfortable in his or her halakhic skin and, to support our points of view, we each engage in a classical halakhic process that respects both our common received texts and our distinct existential attitudes.
From this point of view, my article on women and Torah reading can be seen as a proposal that Orthodox Jewish feminists enjoy the same measure of halakhic self-determination enjoyed by other groups in the Orthodox community. It is too early to tell whether, or to what extent, this proposal will be accepted. Much depends on how well the halakhic argument is pressed and the existential needs articulated. There has, however, been an encouraging start.
Finally, my drive to have my paper published reflects my view that everyone has the right to bring his or her Torah or halakhic opinions to the communal Beit Midrash for debate and discussion. Of course, no one can demand that his or her view be accepted and, given the often strident and testy nature of Orthodox discourse, one should be prepared for the reception that unconventional views can receive. I accept as well that, as in any other discipline, the opinion of those regarded as experts will naturally carry great weight. Nonetheless, in trying to get my paper published I was disturbed by the degree of censorship (including self-censorship) to which halakhic discussion is subject in the Orthodox community, almost as if Torah was an esoteric subject that can be understood only by the initiated, and that in judging the validity of a halakhic argument the merits should be among the last things to consider. “Moses commanded us a Torah, the inheritance of the Congregation of Jacob” (Deuteronomy 33:4). The Torah is the inheritance of all of us, and we should each do what we can to claim it.