Working on Yom Tov

I never did it. When I was going through my major crisis of faith a few years ago, I (ironically?) worked for a Jewish company which gave off for all the Yom Tovim.

After that, I moved across the country and was not working for just under a year.

This year, I took off for Pesach, Shavuot, and Rosh Hashanah. But when it came to Sukkot, I found that I didn't have enough vacation days and would have to either take days unpaid (something not necessarily smiled upon by the management of my company) or work.

I chose the latter. And I'll say this: it did not feel good.

I was a little bit overemotional maybe, yes, but the whole way to work on the first day, I felt like crying.

Maybe it's because Sukkot is, hands-down, my favorite holiday (of all holidays, not only Jewish ones). But it just felt so empty... and I kept thinking of my parents' sukkah in their backyard and the way all of our neighbors would be outside at the same time eating... and how I had made a series of choices that led away from that.

I started this blog in my late 20s (28, I think?). I am 31 now. In between that time, I became less and then more and then a lot less Orthodox (or Orthoprax, or whatever you want to call it).

But I'm starting to feel like I went too far again. My instinct is to gravitate back toward Orthodoxy again, but I'm not sure that's the right move. After all, there are concrete and good reasons why I left it. Comments on my last post suggested that I should try to become part of a non-Orthodox community and maybe that really is the way to go. I'm not sure why I have such resistance to it in my brain...

What I do know is that these pulls away from and toward Orthodoxy/Judaism/traditionalism seem to be a pattern in my life.

I'm not sure there's ever a point at which anyone "grows up" in the way that I understood that concept as a child. I always thought that at some point in my life, everything would just kind of congeal and I'd be that way (whatever it was) for The Rest of My Life. But if, at 31, I'm still having these major fluctuations in the way I feel and the things that seem most right for me, I'm guessing that this may just be something that doesn't really ever end.

Non-Traditional Yom Kippur: The Run Down

I wish I could say that everything turned out the way I planned it to.
But then (to wax philosophical) nothing ever really turns out the way people plan, does it?

In any case, for logistical reasons that I won't go into here, the camping part of my Yom Kippur plan didn't happen. The night of Yom Kippur, I stayed home, read a book (nothing particularly earth shattering), and yes, I ate a little bit.

But early on the morning of Yom Kippur, I got in a car, and drove about 2 hours to go hiking in a beautiful mountain/forest area.

The hike itself was incredible, especially because I hadn't been hiking in so long. The leaves were already changing colors and the sky was completely clear and my mind was able to do that contemplative, almost meditative thing that I had anticipated it would.

I kept in mind during the hike that it was Yom Kippur that day and it did alter the experience to feel more like self-growth and to keep my mind somewhat focused on the year behind me and the year ahead of me. I will say that on a personal level, it was much more meaningful than anything I've ever experienced on Yom Kippur in shul (or, more likely, lying on the couch, feeling weak, and counting the hours until I could eat again).

That said, I did find myself feeling guilty at times. Not on the hike itself, but while on the way there (i.e., while driving), in the morning while getting ready to leave, and even a little bit on the way back.

I wish this wouldn't have been the case, but it was. Somewhere in my brain, there was this little voice that kept saying, "But it's Yom Kippur!" At these times, I felt more guilty than I ever had while sneaking snacks at my parents' house on Yom Kippur. Or maybe I really just felt weird about it? I'm not sure...

I think, if I'm completely honest with myself, there's a not-so-small part of me that lives somewhere in my conscience that is still Orthodox, has an Orthodox mentality, and judges myself based on those standards that I once learned. This is the part of me that was not okay with my non-traditional Yom Kippur. It's also the part of me that every once in a while looks at my life despairingly because I haven't kept Shabbos in so long.

But if Yom Kippur is a time of self-realization, then I suppose it's useful to at least acknowledge this part of who I am. How long it will continue to exist, I'm not sure. But I do know that it's as real a part of me as the woman who decided that a non-traditional Yom Kippur was more relevant to her life and experienced that sense of peace while hiking.

A Different Kind of Yom Kippur

This year, for the first time in my non-Orthodox life, I will not be spending Yom Kippur at my parents' house. Every other year, if I decided not to fast, it meant sneaking a little bit of granola here or there, sipping some water when no one was looking, but otherwise going to shul or at least sleeping and reading.

When I thought about what I wanted to do for Yom Kippur, the answer wasn't immediately obvious. I did take off for Rosh Hashana this year and had a semi-traditional celebration of it -- went to (an Orthodox!) shul, heard the shofar, ate apples/challah and honey.

But I love Rosh Hashana and somehow that kind of celebration felt appropriate, like my autumn would feel empty without it.

Yom Kippur, on the other hand, I do not love. In my head, the words "Yom Kippur" conjure up the image of sitting in a sea of white, my stomach growling, flipping through the pages and counting to see how many we had left. It also elicits the image of lying on the couch, nauseous and dizzy, crying, to weak to even stand; and (frequently) actually vomiting.

A (non Jewish) friend of mine invited me to a party - a barbecue! - on Saturday. When I realized that it was Yom Kippur, I struggled for a little bit with whether or not to accept. Why not? I kept thinking, I want to go! It sounds like fun! But something kept holding me back. A party?! A barbecue on Yom Kippur? It felt wrong. I'm still not sure why I'd have a conscience about these things, but apparently I do.

So I said no. Or rather, I said I'd come after the fast was over.

But I still didn't know what I'd do with the day. Sit around and watch videos? Read books? It all sounded so uninteresting.

And then I came up with an idea. It may seem equally as wrong as going to a party to some people. But to me it feels right. I am going to go camping and hiking.

Why these? I thought about what Yom Kippur is supposed to mean, from my understanding of it and I came up with this -- it's a holiday about becoming purified, becoming closer to God, and ultimately, self-growth.

I don't know what God is anymore, whether or not God even exists, but I do know that the closest to "spiritual" I feel is when I am out in nature, stripped of all the excess technologies that have come to signify life these days. This is intrinsically linked to how I see myself at my most pure - in the quiet of nature, away from my everyday life, thinking about what it means to live and what it means to be me.

It will also be a significant step in a direction of literal healing for me, as a few months ago, I was pretty badly injured, and this will be my first hike since then.

And yes, I will certainly be eating and drinking. But the eating and drinking will be a hiking version of eating and drinking, which is to say that it will be functional, not recreational. Somehow to me that's still an important distinction.

I will report back in a week or so on what it felt like.

Casualties of the System

I'll start this with a disclaimer. There are casualties in every system; this I know. There are casualties of democracy, casualties of liberalism, casualties of capitalism. Systems are never and can never be one size fits all, even if each system's proponents persistently characterize them as that way.

And so maybe it's just that I was brought up an Orthodox Jew (modern), that most of the people I know are still Orthodox, that makes it seem like Orthodox Judaism has a relatively high casualty rate. I'm willing to accept that as a very good possibility.

That said, it makes it no less heartbreaking to witness these casualties.

Recently, I found out about a girl with whom I grew up. She's 30, has 6kids, and her husband walked out on her because he no longer wants to be religious.

I think of this girl - really intelligent, the kind of girl who was always top of her class in school, and always very much the "straight-and-narrow" kind of girl. You know those people I'm talking about? They're brilliant, but they're not ones to question or bend the system. So this girl who attended schools and seminaries that told her that her purpose in life was to get married young, have children and be supportive of her husband's learning enterprises did just those things.

Book smart and great at school though she was, this girl did not move on toward any larger higher education goals. And because she started to have children so young, she did not cultivate any kind of career.

Now she is alone to take care of 6 children without what is supposed to be the cornerstone of her life - her husband. I hope that he will pay his alimony, but as those acquainted with the system know, that's rarely enough to support a family, especially when yeshiva tuition and Orthodox needs come into the picture.

Mind you, it seems to me that the husband is a casualty of the system, too. He was so miserable that he made this drastic decision, why? Likely because he too was pushed to get married far too young, before he was able to make proper, independent evaluations of how he wanted to live his life.

The whole thing just makes me so upset. As do so many other "casualty" situations - friend of mine that are still single and writhing in loneliness/sexual frustration in their 30s; divorcees still waiting for their gets; children whose (otherwise amazing) parents prioritize Judaism over what their kids really need; I could go on and on.

There's nothing much to say about this, except that it makes me alternately sad and angry, depending on the day and the incident.

The Things that We Can't Leave Behind

By pretty much any definition, I am no longer an Orthodox Jew. I use electricity on Shabbos and I don't eat only kosher food. Growing up, these were the two things that to my mind were the "make or break" of whether or not someone was Orthodox. You could wear un-tzius clothing, not even know what shomer negiah meant, and never go to shul, but as long as you wouldn't dream of turning on the lights on a Saturday or ordering something to eat in a non-kosher restaurant, you were good.*

*(There were some exceptions to this. Many of the people I knew who I considered Orthodox would eat at non-kosher restaurants but only dairy/only vegetarian. I don't know if this still goes in the Orthodox world, though.)

It's been quite a while since I haven't fit that definition. But oddly enough, I can't just let go of it. What I mean by that: there are certain rituals I hang on to even though they make absolutely no sense at all with the rest of my life. Top of the list? Most certainly, the kosher kitchen.

Now I can give it logical reasons it all I want by saying that it allows me to have kosher-keeping guests over. But here's the thing: that's not entirely true. Because even if I was never to have kosher-keeping guests over, there's a part of me that feels wrong and uncomfortable not having a kosher kitchen regardless. (And let's be fair, many kosher-keeping people won't eat at my house anyway since I'm not Shomer Shabbat.)

And let me be frank. It's really inconvenient to keep a kosher kitchen for me. Most of my friends where I live now do not keep kosher (are not even Jewish) and are always trying to give me food to bring home and/or asking if they can bring something over when invited. It's frustrating and annoying to always have to say no. And since I don't live in an area with a large Orthodox population, it's also annoying to have to drive 40 minutes to buy kosher meat (and way more expensive!).

But I can't let go of it. And it's not just me.

I know lots of people like me who have "gone off the derech" and so many of us seem to have our "thing." For some, it's as minimal as putting mezuzahs up in their houses (I do that too), for some as extreme as putting on tefillin every day. Whatever it is, those of us who do such things just can't let go of them, even though they make life more inconvenient, uncomfortable, etc.

So what is it? What's makes it so that there's some things that we just can't leave behind?

I think, for me, because I was raised with such a strong definition of Right and Wrong ("Right" being Orthodox, in this instance), that there's some deeply embedded part of my psyche that cannot accept myself as non-Orthodox, that is deeply disappointed in myself, even as I don't believe in it anymore. And that part of me somehow defines the kosher kitchen as the final frontier.

There's a level of grief involved in not growing up to be who you thought you would be. Even if who you thought you would be is someone you would never, ever want to be anymore. And the kosher kitchen somehow keeps that grief at bay, at least for the most part.

What about Devorah?!

On the comments for Frum Satire's post that I discussed in my previous post, on the issue of female leadership being against Halacha more generally, one person asks, "What about Devorah?"

So what about Devorah?

How does her presence in Tanach not present a huge problem for poskim who say women can't be in leadership positions, women can't be rabbis, women can't be witnesses (and certainly not judges!)?

Devorah's position as a shofet (i.e., a judge) made her responsible for applying (and thus interpreting, because the former really necessitates the latter) the laws of the Torah to specific cases in Israel. This is certainly a position of leadership.

With this as a precedent, how can anyone said its halachically forbidden?

Female Presidents at MO Shuls?

This post on Frum Satire's blog really intrigued me. He says:

Dov Bear has a post about a shul in Syracuse (I know the rabbis kids from yeshiva, and have davened there many times) that is being kicked out of the NCYI National Council of Young Israel, because it has a woman president. I always thought that Young Israel was supposed to be “modern” orthodox, yet they have such a rule on the books. Can anyone really say it’s wrong to have a woman as shul president? It just sounds like another rule to prevent women from being leaders in orthodoxy. Although I doubt having the ability to get up at shul and announce the times for mincha that week would be justified as being a leader.

Anyone know if this is true? And why on earth it would be inappropriate to have a woman as a president of an MO (or even an O) shul?

I never even really thought about this as an issue. I just never even considered it. But while I would expect the hoopla over a female rabbi (I didn't even think I'd see such a daring move in my lifetime), this type of reaction over a female president doesn't make sense to me at all.

The "President" position of a shul is certainly a secular invention.... so what's the big deal? And then, when I think about the larger Orthodox organizations, it seems that none of them have women in leadership positions unless its a woman's organization (Am I right about this? I might not be).

Sexism within religion is more justifiable, I guess (I don't really think so, but all I'm saying is that people can claim that this is how "God" or "the rabbis" wanted it...and it's hard to disagree with a God who doesn't [seem to?] communicate back or with people who are long dead), but I don't see how sexism within the secular aspect of the culture can be justified. Especially when there are so many highly educated, highly accomplished women.