As a young girl aged five or six, I accompanied my father to shul in New York every Shabbat – in the evening, morning, and afternoon. Whether I was sitting in shul learning to daven with my father or playing bottle caps in the hallway while the men ate se’udah shlishit, I was never treated any differently from my three brothers. Whatever was expected of them regarding shul attendance was expected of me. My mother was not a big shul attendee so my early years were spent in the men’s section of the sanctuary. These were good times for me.
I remember distinctly when my experience began to change. One Motzei Shabbat when the shammas of the shul was pouring grape juice for all the children for havdalah, he looked at me and said, “You can’t have any.” When I asked him why, he told me that girls are not allowed to drink the havdalah wine. I was somewhat shocked, and being inquisitive, I was frustrated when neither he nor my father could provide me with an explanation for this “rule.” I think that this may have been the first time that I was told that girls have a different role in the Jewish religion than boys. For my father, that distinction did not exist.
My frustration continued as I got older. I can remember being called the “rebbetzin” by my friends when I was about nine years old, because I was the only one among them who was expected to be in shul for certain parts of davening while they sat on the steps outside shmoozing. As a teenager, I was the first girl to show up in shul, usually within the first 15 minutes of the service. Moving to the women’s section after my Bat Mitzvah was somewhat difficult. Shul became a lonely experience as I could no longer daven with my father and brothers. Besides having very few friends who came to shul on time or even at all, almost no other women arrived until later in the tefilla and then they usually came to talk. Nonetheless I persisted in coming to shul weekly. What bothered me most were the comments that my father’s friends would make about what a “tzadeket” I was because I came to shul so early. The men and boys who showed up on time were not called tzadikkim, so why was I singled out?
Despite all the challenges, I continued my pursuit of a full religious life both in shul and through textual study while more or less ignoring all the negative comments. I made aliyah at age 20, and eventually found a shul in Jerusalem where it was evident that the women came to daven and where they were treated with respect. I grew to understand that women can have a meaningful Shabbat experience in shul within the confines of traditional Orthodoxy by davening, hearing the Torah reading, and having a side-by-side mehitza through which the women have access to the nexus of the proceedings and are able to speak, or listen as other women speak, from the pulpit. At the same time, I found meaning and equality in pursuing the study of Jewish texts and finding opportunities to study Gemara in a Bet Midrash setting. I studied at Midreshet Lindenbaum for five years, where my experience was not so different from my male friends who were studying for semikha.
As a young woman, I came to learn that, despite being exempt from time-bound mitzvot, a woman could have a meaningful religious life similar to that of a man. The Shulhan Arukh states that a woman who learns Torah receives a reward for her learning, but not as great a reward as a man because she is not commanded to learn (Yoreh De’ah 246:6). The Rema comments:
ומכל מקום אם עוזרת לבנה או לבעלה
שיעסקו בתורה, חוקלת שכר בהדייהו
(in any case, if she helps her son or husband so that they can learn Torah, she shares the reward with them.)
When I came across this statement in the Rema, I found it very disconcerting. Why should a woman’s reward stem from allowing others to learn? Why should a woman’s existence revolve around helping her husband and children?
I subsequently married a pulpit rabbi, and as we started a family (we now have five children aged two to nine – a boy and four girls), I faced many new challenges. Gradually my shul experience became characterized by frustration. I would bring my son to shul on Shabbat, but would spend most of the time trying to keep him from disturbing others. Soon I came to realize that, notwithstanding the medieval Ashkenazi practice of bringing young children to shul (Tosafot Hagiga 3a s.v. hsf), I was unable to find value in it.
As the years went by, I continued to attend shul on Shabbat, but spent less and less time inside the sanctuary. I would often daven Shaharit at home (at the same time, if this is even possible, as I was attending to my children’s needs) with the hope of davening Musaf in shul. I felt jealous of my husband who departed on time for shul, usually by himself, while I was left to deal with the children. Given his responsibilities in the shul, there did not seem to be an alternative. I accepted my fate, but was disappointed at being deprived of a meaningful shul experience.
We have since moved to Ra’anana and together started a shul of our own. In many respects, Kehillat Netivot is our joint project, and as my formal responsibilities have increased, I have redefined the significance of shul in my life. I attend every Shabbat, but I continue to daven at home and come to shul mainly to be present. Both as co-founder of Kehillat Netivot and the rabbi’s wife, I often need to attend to shul-related issues after I arrive. Sometimes I sit with my younger daughters in the children’s service. My most recent challenge is that my eight-year old daughter complains about having to leave for shul early with her father; I cannot help but feel that things might be different if she had a mother who could come to shul early with her every week and daven next to her.
However, in the last few years I have, for the most part, stopped feeling frustrated, jealous, or disappointed. I have begun to understand that my roles as a mother with young children and as the wife of a rabbi can provide me with a different kind of religious satisfaction. I feel that my immersion in my own personal religious experience in my earlier years has brought me to the point where I can now help others. Earlier, I was focused on my individual experience. At this stage, my focus has become external – on my husband, my children, and my community.
Today, when I reread the passage of the Rema about a woman sharing the reward of her children and husband, I understand it in a different way and can even relate to it. It is clear to me that my role has shifted. I now see myself as an educated woman who can share her knowledge with her family and community and be a source of halakhic and spiritual growth for others. To this extent, my responsibilities may sometimes come at the expense of my own spiritual development; however, these responsibilities provide my life with a new meaning. The special moments of Shabbat for me are now singing Kabbalat Shabbat at home with my children, sitting alongside my children at a children’s prayer service, chatting with members of my community outside of the sanctuary, and inviting guests over for Shabbat meals. My role has evolved into something unique that includes not only myself but also all those around me. In the Rema’s language – “she shares the reward with them” – my religious life has become a shared experience.
This year, as usual, on both mornings of Rosh Hashanah I went to an early minyan in the neighborhood to daven Shaharit (before my husband needed to be in our shul), free of interruptions from my children and free of communal responsibilities. It was my time to just be on my own. But for some reason, this year in particular, I didn’t find my davening as satisfying as it usually is. I felt somewhat lonely and out of place without the members of our community around me, without my children by my side, and without my husband on the other side of the mehitza. This feeling made me realize that my religious experience of prayer is now defined not exclusively by saying the words of the liturgy and thinking of their meaning but by being near those for whom I am davening. Even on a regular Shabbat, when I am surrounded by family and congregants and I sometimes find it difficult to concentrate on what I am saying, I nevertheless think that those prayers and that experience are more meaningful to me.
I look forward to the next phase of my shul journey, with my four teenage daughters davening next to me every Shabbat in the community that we have built – something I have dreamed of since the day I left my father’s and brothers’ side and went to sit by myself on the women’s side of the mehitza.