Tazria: On Behalf of Seeding Life

We are smack dab in the middle of the Torah. Tazria, “she seeded,” marks the exact halfway point of our fifty-four parshiot.

And it is the kind of parsha that makes readers wish it had no place in Torah at all.

It’s easy to see why. This is the parsha which reads like a medical textbook. We learn in nearly sickening detail how inflammations of the bodies may present: scaly, yellow, white, and otherwise. We read about the various ways skin may appear after a burn. The presence and color of any hair growing out of inflammations or burns are considered and described.

Those whom the priest declares “impure” must remain outside the camp and call out “impure, impure.”

We can do all sorts of things to make Tazria easier for us to read. We can note that words like “impurity” and “purity,” “cleanliness” or “uncleanliness” may appear to encourage judgment and rejection but weren’t actually used that way by Ancient Israelites.

Ancient Israelites didn’t use these terms to describe individuals as inherently evil or sinful. They are using them to describe conditions, not moral states. Being pregnant or giving birth is a state of being. Being intimate with someone else is, too. A skin inflammation alters one’s condition, as does menstruation. Yes, people are being quarantined or kept from the Temple precincts if they aren’t in the appropriate state. But no one is being judged for presumed ethical failings or violations of law.

We can note, as academics long have, that each of the conditions described in this section of Leviticus deals directly with two alternate states of being: life and death. If you have a wound and bleed, you are not considered “impure.” If you are a menstruating woman, you are. A menstruating woman’s blood loss is the loss of potential life.

As for all those eruptions and inflammations? Skin diseases that look like wasting diseases naturally reminded ancient peoples of something most of us have never seen: the way a decomposing corpse appears.

Still, we cringe reading this parsha, and not only because the descriptions of some of these states elicits a visceral reaction. “This is gross,” one student once told me. And I could understand that reaction; I’ve felt it myself.

I don’t want to pretend that I am not disturbed by the idea that any person has to call out to warn others that he or she is in some altered state. This year, as I read the parsha, I wanted to imagine, with the rabbis, that the whole purpose of calling out is to ask for sympathy and compassion from others.

But it wasn’t good enough. I wanted another way to see the text and I couldn’t find it – not even by relying on my own stock in trade: the historian’s lens. It’s a convenient method of course, since a historian can insist on judging texts solely as products of their own time.

And then I found something that did work for me. I imagined the scene: afflicted person and priest, together.

What does the priest do in this parsha?

He diagnoses the effect of altered states. He must examine and explore and analyze and understand. He will have to get very close to whoever has the skin eruption or burn or inflammation. He does not treat the condition. He observes and figures out what is needed – either by noting that nothing warrants any action at all or that the individual should spend time outside the camp.

The priest doesn’t do this once, but regularly. After seven days, he is once again with the person in question. If the situation has changed, the burn or inflammation subsided, changed color, he can change the situation. The person can come into the camp again.

It’s a position and a responsibility that is rife with possible misuses of power, of course. It is also potentially a place of tenderness and care. This priest is up close and personal; he has to observe, examine, touch the person whose condition he is assessing.

Tazria is a creation word. To bear seed, to create seed – this is a way to offer life to the world. I wonder and I hope: Perhaps priests of old understood every examination of every burn or inflammation to be holy service in returning people to life.

So I will imagine them: Looking closely and carefully for signs of healing. Hoping, always, for the latter. Announcing it with joy. In their own way, seeding life.


Art, History, and Jews: Parsha Vayakhel

“Judaism,” writes Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, “in sharp contrast to ancient Greece, did not cherish the visual arts. The reason is clear. The biblical prohibition against graven images associates them with idolatry. Historically, images, fetishes, icons and statues were linked in the ancient world with pagan religious practices. The idea that one might worship ‘the work of men’s hands’ was anathema to biblical faith.”

This is what we are told, over and over again – and the narrative comes from some of the most literate, erudite rabbis in the world, a description which most certainly applies to Rabbi Sacks.

We can anticipate what will come next; it is predictable. Tanakh, they will say, demonstrates that our ancient forebears loved beauty. But all such beauty was in the service of God. All such creation supersedes anything the secular artist can create. This week’s parsha, Vayakhel, is a prime example.

In it, we read of Betzalel, designer and craftsman, jeweler, woodcarver, even embroiderer. He is entrusted, together with Oholiab and all other gifted artists and artisans the Israelites can find, to create beauty for the service of God. Under his direction, the Tabernacle would be gorgeous and lush, filled with objects that shone, that glittered, that glowed.

One has to image the scenes – scores, hundreds, maybe thousands of Israelites cutting, sewing, embroidering, carving, forming. Gold and silver, melted and poured into forms, cloth dyed in brilliant hues, the creation of artistry is everywhere. And indeed, this is work with one goal: to make a beautiful residence for the Holy One.

But otherwise, we are told, our forbears eschewed artistry because it could distract from God, rather than serve God.

I want to take those good rabbis on a tour. I want to show them the mosaics of ancient temples with leaping animals and biblical figures. I want to show them the walls of Dura-Europos Synagogue of 244 CE. — walls filled with brilliantly painted scenes from Tanakh, with human beings so alive to their story that one feels the artist telling us everything we could read in the scroll.

Fresco from the Dura Europos Synagogue

I want us to walk by a gallery of spice boxes from the centuries – in the form of castle towers, yes, but also in the shape of almost anything imaginable, from flowers to fish.

I want those rabbis to look at embroidered and painted wimpels, Torah binders made from the cloth used to diaper baby boys at their circumcisions. Medieval women of Ashkenaz let their imagination run riot in their work, producing a plethora of creatures wiggling out of Hebrew letters near scenes of wedding couples, Torah scrolls, symbols of tribal inheritance and affiliation. Look for the flowers, the birds, the priestly hands and the Levite’s jug. Look for folktale characters embroidered across the cloth – if you look late enough, you’ll even find Micky Mouse adorning the cloth.

Detail from an embroidered wimpel of Ashkenaz.

No, the Birds’ Head Haggadah is by no means an exception to a world in which care has been lavished on so much that is so beautiful. In the last thirty years, academic research into Jewish art has demonstrated that fact – in colorful, brilliant reality.

Open the pages of Skies of Parchment, Seas of Ink: Jewish Illuminated Manuscripts and you will find illuminated versions of machzorim, haggadot, and the Tanakh. But you will also discover art enhancing the Mishneh Torah, rabbinic commentaries, collections of teshuvot, and even a woodcut mapping the world with Jerusalem at the center. Mythological beasts (like the unicorn) and grotesque animals show up in medieval Jewish texts as does God, strangely enough, emerging from a cloud.

Pharaoh's Daughter pulls Moses from the waters.
Illuminated Mishneh Torah

Chagall is not the exception we imagine.

Centuries of Jewish love for beauty has indeed often found its way into our ritual objects. Judaism is a religious culture that relies on objects, on things of beauty to be distributed in our homes as well as our sanctuaries. Who does not possess a favorite hanukkiah, a Passover seder plate, a mezuzah that was bought in significant part because it was beautiful?

Rabbi Sacks notes all this loveliness is the product of hiddur mitzvah, “beautifying the commandment.” We are supposed to fulfill each commandment, each mitzvah, in the most beautiful way we can.

But he insists, like so many rabbis, on making a distinction between this kind of art and secular art. Art for its own sake, he suggests, cannot point to anything beyond itself. Art in the service of God, however, is the kind we find in Vayakhel — the kind that is worth valuing.

I suspect that our forebears loved creating, from the time of the Tabernacle onward. And I wonder: When God creates, we call that holy. When we create, we do so as beings formed betzelem Elohim, in the image of God.

Whatever we create, may it be holy. And may it be beautiful, too.


I Promise: An Ethical Will for My Students

Two times a week, I meet with a class of exactly ten students in a small conference room at UNC Charlotte. Those ten students are dealing with the most difficult history I teach – the history of European antisemitism.

It is challenging work because the readings assigned are among the most sophisticated I teach. It is challenging work because my students are almost always unfamiliar with this history, and it is a painful one.

It is likely that my students will be Christian. Some will be devout. These are students who usually came into my world via courses I teach on Hebrew Bible. We forge, in such courses, deep connections around biblical literature. Our learning may include rabbinic midrash as well as academic commentaries. The exposure to ways Jews have read biblical texts sometimes leads them to question what they might have believed about the Jewish relationship with bible. That can lead them to this course.

I am – and this is hardly unusual – the only Jew in the room. I know, from long experience, how much courage my students are bringing to our course of study. After we covered the way John’s Jesus vilifies Jews as children of the father of lies, as offspring of Satan (John 8:44), a student said: “I’ve read this before. Somehow, I passed over the text. It was just a story. I can’t believe I did that, now.”

Sometimes, as we gather, we trade small news. Recently, I told my students about my new glass whiteboard. It’s huge – it takes up a good part of the wall next to my desk at home. There are columns for each realm I work in – one for the course I am currently teaching for ALEPH Ordination Programs, another to cover administrative work in that realm, another for my work as the director of graduate studies for UNCC’s department of Religious Studies, one for the courses I teach for the department, another for the work I do as a spiritual leader of a small havurah, another for the little Etsy business I have making kippot and tallitot. There is a little corner for “personal.”

My students laughed and asked what was put in that corner.

“The first thing on it,” I said, “is ‘ethical will for Serafina.’”

My students know the name of my son and my daughter-in-law. So they knew who I was talking about – but not what I was talking about.

Ethical will,” one asked. “What is that?”

I explained. “You know how you have a will for your assets, and what you want done with them after you die? An ethical will is a Jewish tradition. It’s a document that might include pragmatic information, like how you want your funeral to go and that sort of thing. But the main thing is writing down what you want to leave your children in the way of wisdom or learning. It’s a way of summing up what you hope your children will take from you that is truly important or good.”

I had long since written such a text for my son, Erik, and I explained that I periodically updated it for him. But it was now over two years since he had married Serafina, and I felt it was time for me to write her one, too.

For Sera has brought a perfect completion to our little family. I can no longer imagine us without her. She and I had become friends, and as much as I was learning from her, I hoped that there would be some learning I could give back to her. When I died, I would want her to have that from me.

“Well,” one of the students said, “we would miss you, too. What about an ethical will for us?”

The other students agreed, though one was afraid that given everything else on the board, adding something might not be the best thing for me.

“I think it’s a good idea,” I said. “I like it.”

I have been teaching for almost four decades. My students have given me life and hope. They sustain me and they teach me. I rely on their generosity, their kindness, the wisdom they bring into every classroom. I do not overstate: My students also complete my life and make it perfect.

I went home late that day and after I took off my coat and put my backpack in the corner of my office, I picked up a marker and drew a line from “Ethical will for Sera” to the word “students.”

And I will write both.

This post is dedicated both to Serafina, on her birthday. If I hadn’t thought about what I want to write to her I wouldn’t have ever been asked whether I would write to my students….


Na’aseh v’nishma: We will do and we will get it!

We have spent half the year with dysfunctional families, tyrannical rulers, great escapes, and dramatic treks through the wilderness. We have learned lessons from tales of sibling rivalry, marital relationships, and conversations with talking animals. Genesis and the first part of Exodus provide no end of learning opportunities.

This week, v’ayleh hamishpatim: These are the rules. Admittedly, some of the verses we read in Mishpatim are challenging. And yet, many resonate and inspire us, offering opportunities to expand our sense of justice and responsibility for the world we live in.

Some examples?

We are responsible. If someone owns an animal who is known to be violent, for example, and the animal kills someone, the owner must make restitution. Where I live, stories of children and adults who are mauled to death by dogs are not so rare as I would wish. Our ancient forbears knew about the problems that afflict human society – and they weren’t so very different from those that afflict us today. How do we make sure animals are protected and safe? How do we make sure humans are, too?

We are responsible. Do not carry false rumors. Our Torah not only warns us against uttering sheker, falsehoods and lies, but also lashon hara, slander. Say negative things about someone to those who have no practical reason to know of a person’s weakness, and you violate Torah. Even r’khilut, truths about a person that are not defamatory but communicated for no good reason constitute gossip. So much communication that goes wrong can go right when we are mindful, careful, open and generous. Why not try to be all those things?

We are responsible. For widows. For orphans. For the poor.  These laws remind us that justice must be meted out equally to poor and rich alike, that we are obligated to care for those in need – weren’t we once slaves in Egypt, Torah asks? “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of a stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt” (Ex. 23: 9).

If we fear the homeless instead of housing them, if we ignore the growing disparity between poor and rich, if we ourselves never imagine what it is to lose our jobs and our sense of worth, to be desperate, to go hungry, then we can hardly understand what we need to do to build a just society. It’s not that hard to ignore real pain and feed apathy, self-indulgence, and disinterest.

When given the chance to take on the law – before they knew every last requirement, every last mitzvot, the Israelites all answered, the Torah says, with one voice: “We will do!” (Ex. 24.7).

Na’aseh v’nishma.

“We will do,” they said. “We will do and then hear, then understand.”

It is in the doing that we understand how to become the holy people God longs for. By noticing in our conversations when we can redirect complaints and concerns so that those who are hurt can benefit from an opportunity to understand – directly – when and why something has gone wrong, from making sure that all we do and all we own – from cars to dogs – are held and used responsibly, by doing the tikkun olam projects waiting for our active affirmation, by saying “we will do” each morning when we wake up and act upon our commitment each day – this is what will lead to our learning to be the kind of people that is, in fact, a holy one.

When our works exceed our wisdom, our wisdom endures.

Naaseh v’nishma.


Va’era–An Amphibian’s Song

The Second Plague (Frogs)

The Torah will not admit one answer – not for anything.  Every part of the biblical scripture before us is filled with questions, metaphors, double meanings.  The name Yitzhak means laughter in one verb form.  But it can suggest mocking in an intensified form.  When Sarah looks out and sees Ishmael and Yitzhak playing in Genesis 21:9, she calls it just as she sees it, overlapping and punning on her own son’s name.  Ishmael, Sarah says, is “Isaacing.”  He is not only mocking my son, she says, he is impersonating him, he is usurping his place.

A generation later, just after Ya’akov has stolen his twin brother’s blessing, Esav queries his father, resentment and rage permeating his every word: Did you know that Ya’akov was going to grow up to be a trickster and a deceiver?  Is that why you named him Yaakov, sneak thief?  Esav is punning, albeit bitterly.  For indeed, the etymology of Ya’akov’s name can suggest that the boy is what his name seems to suggest: A trickster and a deceiver.

What hidden meanings are found in Va’era?  Among them, one is the matter of the frogs.

Why frogs in the first place?

The writer is assuming we are familiar with the mythologies of neighboring cultures – after all, the ancient Israelites were.  They would have known that the Egyptian pantheon included the frog-headed goddess Hepat, who was believed to assist women at childbirth. 

Let’s take a moment to recall the opening of Shemot, of Exodus?  Pharaoh, appalled at Israelites’ prolific birthrate, summoned the midwives to him.  Then he decreed that those whose business it is to help children come into the world assist not in the creation of life but in its very opposite: Pharaoh demands that the midwives kill male Israelite babies at birth. 

Is the appearance of the frogs designed to make Pharaoh face what he himself has tried to do to the forces of creativity and life?  Frogs, for Egyptians, symbolize fertility and birth.  Here the scripture tells us, they become the frightening specter of death and destruction.  No wonder some rabbis say the frogs were the worst plague.  The world has been turned upside down.  Lightness is darkness, love is hate, birth is death.

More conundrums.  God threatens a plague of frogs.  They shall sharatz, teem and swarm over the country, God says.  Frogs will swarm in the bedchambers, in the ovens and in the kneading bowls.  But when Aharon raises his arm, scripture announces the arrival of one: both noun and verb are singular.  God threatens a plague of frogs.  But only one stands on the banks of the Nile; only one covers the land.

The sages explain, of course.  Rabbi Eleazar says that this one frog bred prolifically and filled the land. The original frog called upon its brethren to join him (Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 67b.)

Are there other explanations?  Let’s reconsider: One frog, one representative of what was, for the Egyptians, the symbol of fertility, the symbol of birth.  This one frog arrives, symbolizing the opposite, the destructive potential.

When we represent the positive, we are unified, joined together in common purpose.  When we become resentful and destructive, we split apart.  The land teems and swarms with hatred, ill-feeling is everywhere.  Our multiplying resentments crowd us at night, sit down with us at our meals, give us neither rest nor relief.  The creature representing hope becomes the spreading specter of terror.

Scientists tell us that this little creature is the very sign of the survival of ecosystems – if frogs disappear, beware.

Interestingly enough, our ancient commentaries and legends suggest that even the sages knew that the frog was a very particular gift from God.  Indeed, the “beautiful singing” of the frog silenced the psalmist, King David himself.  The story goes that when King David finished the book of Psalms, he became boastful, saying to The Holy One: Master of the universe, is there any other creature You created in Your world that utters more songs and paeans of praise than I?  In that instant, so the tale tells us, a frog happened upon the king: “David,” the frog said, “don’t be so boastful.  I utter far more songs and praises than you.”

According to Perek Shira, an ancient text which lists eighty-four elements of the natural world, the song of that selfsame frog was then revealed to David.  What song does the frog sing?  Baruch Shem K’vod Malchuto L’Olam Va’ed.   Blessed is the glorious Name of God, God’s is forever.  This line appears between the first sentence of Sh’ma, which declares the unity of God, and the first paragraph which reminds us to love God with all one’s heart, soul, and resources. 

The frog, we know, sings twice daily, morning and night.  It knows just when to begin its chant, and it sings that which we whisper during our recitation of God’s oneness, God’s is-ness.  The frog knows creation and knows to praise it. 

The frog makes each sound deep in its throat.  The Hebrew word nefesh, the word so often translated as soul, life force, means, originally: throat.  Our is-ness comes from our throat.  In the first cry of each child born into the world we hear the raw sound of life.

One last mystery; one last possibility.  In verse eight, the text reads that Moses cried out “in the matter of the fogs”.  But the text reads vayitzak Moshe el Adonai al d’var hatzfard’im.  Read this literally, and you will read these words: Moses cried out to the Lord upon the word of the frogs.  The frogs spoke, says Exodus Rabbah 25:27.

What did they say?

With one voice, they reminded us: Blessed is God.  God is forever.  Sing with purpose, with one voice, with the hopeful force that leads you to create life, not destroy it.

Keyn y’hi ratzon.


Update: The State of the War on Christmas

“You know,” I said to my husband, Ralf, “the war against Christmas is not going well.”

After all, where I live, Christmas ornaments and decorations fill the stores after Halloween. Christmas music sounds from every store speaker after Thanksgiving. Even a few days before the New Year, folks at stores are still so attached to the past that they invariably ask me how my Christmas went.

Obviously, I tell myself, these are folks who don’t know I am Jewish.

I suppose any one of them could say, with some justice, that I don’t “look Jewish,” though that would cause all sorts of internal discombobulation in my head. But no matter. This is about the war against Christmas.

It’s going badly.

Ralf went shopping just before Christmas. This is a dangerous thing to do. Folks start casing the aisles, desperately looking for items on their shopping list that they never otherwise buy. This is due to mad attempts to make some new kind of cookie. The recipes discovered in the newspaper or online almost always require exotic, unknown ingredients which might be located in the baking aisle but could just as well be found in the “international” aisle. The stress makes folk a bit emotional.

Be that as it may, Ralf remained calm. He found all the items on our list. At checkout, he met an old student of his working at the grocery store. (This happens to both of us, which is worrisome, of course. One prefers to imagine one’s students being gainfully employed after graduation and not struggling to make their own ends meet in the produce section.)

“Merry Christmas!” the student said.

Sometimes, we don’t bother, but since Ralf knew the person in question, he did.

“We celebrate Hanukkah,” he said as his student continued stacking spinach. The two then chatted about various items of interest. We like talking to sales people; they are invariably the most cheerful folk we get to meet out in public. That’s the nature of capitalism: Make sure all your underpaid employees behave like happy underpaid employees.

“Merry Christmas!” the student said again as Ralf wheeled away the cart.

“Crazy,” Ralf told me later. “Like, I had just told him we were Jewish…”

But I can top Ralf’s experience easy.

On my desk are those stickers we all get as freebies when people want our donations. You know, the one with your name and your address next to some cute design? Animals, if you donate to wildlife groups, flowers and fields for environmental one,… you get the idea.

The ones on my desk feature Christmas ornaments, poinsettias, and other wintery motifs. And this is what the text reads: “Rabbi Barbara Thiede….(plus address).”

Everyone celebrates Christmas. Jews, too, are celebrating Christmas. Even ordained rabbis are celebrating Christmas.

Look, I get it. The vast majority of Americans are Christian. Add up Jews (1.9%), Muslims (.9%), Buddhists (.7%), Hindus (.7%) and “other world religions” and “other faiths” you get a grand total, according to the grand Pew-ba, of 5.9% non-Christians. (See “Religions” at http://www.pewforum.org/religious-landscape-study/ )

No one ever actually says who is waging the war against Christmas. I’m guessing it’s not the tiny 5.9% of folk who are representing minorities who are so minor that you can hardly tell they are there.  Nor am I sure that the war is being waged by the “nones” who likely have Christmas trees just because they are sparkly and fun.

Obviously, the war isn’t going well.

That’s fine, really. It’s not New Year’s Day just yet, and there were still Christmas melodies playing on one public place I visited yesterday. I can listen to another rendition of “Let is Snow” or “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Or other Christmas classics authored by nice Jewish boys. Why not?

Rabbi Thiede wishes (most of America) a Merry Christmas.


Must I Ask? In Response to the Pittsburgh Shootings

Tree of Life Synagogue – Pittsburgh

October 27, 2018

Dear friends,

Please consider speaking to your congregants about the murder of 11 Jews today while worshiping on the Sabbath.

Please consider pointing out that in 2017 antisemitic incidents have increased 57% — the largest increase in any given year, and please note that the increase in antisemitism we have been seeing is, in considerable part, related to the 2015 presidential campaigns and the hateful antisemitic rhetoric that year which was then and continues to be made permissible in this country by dog whistles, by acquiescence, and by deployment of false equivalencies (“good people on both sides…”).

In grief,


Many of my Christian colleagues wrote back last Saturday night, with great kindness and compassion.  Some, I know, did speak from their pulpits to the horror of the Sabbath Jews had endured. Some added wisdom that could deal with the murder of two black people in Louisville by a man who then announced that “white people don’t kill white people.”

The next day, I posted on Facebook.

Last night I wrote to my every Christian colleague to ask them to please speak to the horror of antisemitism from their pulpits this morning. I appreciated every loving response. But as a teacher of the history of antisemitism, I know: We are still asking. We will still be asking. I do not think we will know what it is to live in a world in which this request is no longer necessary. 

I spent the day grieving.  I have gone from one church to another, given one presentation after the other, led adult study and bible study, spoken with, prayed with, tried – again and again – to embody the deep ecumenism that Reb Zalman espoused.

I am asked to speak about Torah – and that’s often just exactly what I do.  I am asked to share Jewish ritual and tradition and prayer practice, and I do.  I have learned with Christians, prayed with Christians, shared my heart with Christians of all kinds.

But in all these years, no congregation has initiated a conversation about antisemitism, though most church communities I visit know that I teach that subject.

I have often asked myself: When will white people examine their history, collusion and complicity in enslaving, controlling, subjugating, imprisoning and even murdering black people?  This past week I asked myself a like question: When will my most compassionate and dear Christian friends understand that loving statements about the evil of antisemitism will not suffice – not when the overwhelming majority of Christians neither know nor understand how their traditions and texts contributed to its creation?

If I am honest, I must admit this: even if those many church communities were to ask me to teach their congregants about the history of antisemitism some part of me would ask: “Why not do this yourselves? Must a Jew explain Jewish pain – yet again?” It’s not as if there are not texts to study (David Nirenberg’s Anti-Judaism, for example).  I’ll share the curricula I’ve used.

Three years ago, during the 2015 campaign, when right wing extremism and members of the current administration stepped out in public to begin their close, intimate dance, I told my husband and son: Jews will die in America.

It has been three years of dread, living an awful expectation.  And now, just as black leaders did after Dylann Roof murdered nine black congregants of Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston in the summer of 2015, so am I doing.  Just as they explained and explained to white folk – yes, racism is still alive — so I find myself saying, “see?  Yes, antisemitism is still alive.”

We will not rid this world of either one until the worlds which spawned them take up the work of eradicating them.

May we live to see such a time.


In the Beginning (in Honor of Sexual Assault and Abuse Survivors)

[E]verything I know of God… must find an ethical expression. … The attributes of God are given not in the indicative, but in the imperative. The knowledge of God comes to us like a commandment, like a Mitzvah.

To know God is to know what must be done.

Emmanuel Levinas


A week ago, I was at our university library, in a room with several female staff members. The Brett Kavannaugh hearings came up. “Without any one here saying a word,” I say, “we could assume that a good number of the women in this room have been sexually harassed, sexually assaulted, or sexually abused. And we would be right.”

Those two sentences elicited one story after the other. In the end, three-quarters of the women present said that they were among the victims. There was the young black mother who didn’t say exactly what had happened to her. There was the middle-aged white woman who described her assault in detail. There was an older white woman who confirmed: she, too.

In how many such rooms are we finding out, yet again?  There was that relative… There was that classmate. There was that doctor, that lawyer…

A few days ago, I stood in a university hallway with colleagues. The conversation turned to the Brett Kavannaugh hearings. Both my colleagues wryly admitted that they had had to make appointments to talk with a counselor. Both are victims. There were grief-filled attempts to joke about the number of counselors compared to patients. “How are they finding time to fit everyone in?” one colleague asked.

My students include survivors of sexual assault. How many have I spoken with about sexual harassment, sexual abuse committed by family members, being raped by a college classmate and not believed? Students who had been harassed, students who had been sexually abused as children and minors, students whose parents and friends blame them for the violence done to them. They spoke (sometimes) this past week.

Sexual assault victims know well how memory works – and doesn’t. They remember the fear, the panic, the unmitigated horror and the terrible, seemingly unerasable shame. Not one can forget those things. They know that if they speak, the details they can’t recall will be used against them.

They know that they will be dismissed.

Today, Senator Orrin Hatch told sexual assault victims who approached him to “grow up.”

A rape victim asked me this past week how not to despair.

This Shabbat is Bereishit. In Genesis 1, we are afforded verse after verse of beginnings, of new light and new green and new life. Everything is magic; everything belongs on the good earth with the heavens above.

God is in the midst of a sweet, bursting creation. Nothing is not right. Everything is complete. Each part belongs to each other part. The world is whole. It is very good.

In that moment of mystical, perfect time, God’s power fills every green thing, every swarming thing, every flying thing, every swimming and crawling and walking thing. Reading, verse to verse to verse, the creation of the world is nothing less than a divine incantation, a prayer of being and becoming. There is light everywhere, starry and silvery light, blinding and brilliant sunlight, light rippling through seas and green leaves and grasses.

I crave this light.

I crave beginnings.

I crave an incantation of such divine power that it can heal the wounded and heal those who wound.

We have been given this world and all the life in it. Only we can write the words, invoke the purpose, create the incantation that will bring us a beginning of lasting light.

I understand despair. I feel it. I know it.

There is no answer to despair but the imperative. We must know what must be done.



Broken to Whole – An Elul Story in Three Parts

Part 1: Naming What is Broken

About two years ago a young woman arrived in my life and irrevocably altered it.

CALA Demonstration

For the past two years, I have watched this young woman grow from strength to strength. She went back to school to acquire skills to help her understand and combat systemic oppression. She spends most of her energy in community activism and organizing.

She serves as secretary and grant-writer for the board of the Community Activism Law Alliance of Chicago (CALA), an award-winning organization that brings lawyers and activists together to offer free legal services to marginalized individuals and communities. CALA fights for workers, for victims of sexual and domestic violence, for immigrants of all kinds. CALA offers free workshops and free legal representation, advice, training, and pro bono support to those who are not simply underserved, but utterly isolated.

Dream Riders cheering each other on with Serafina Ha in the most amazing green pants I have ever seen.

She also brings her indefatigable spirit to her work as a community leader, filmmaker, interviewer and publicist for NAKASEC, the National Korean American Service & Education Consortium, a grassroots organization working on behalf – especially – of Asian immigrants. This past summer, NAKASEC has been sending its young people out to demonstrate, to speak, to bike for more than a month across the west coast to help make the gifts and hopes of immigrants real for those willing to hear their voices.

She listens to the stories of those who have been hurt and harmed; she imagines any way she can to help heal and free those she serves. And then she builds those ways and makes them concrete.

Part 2: On Broken Things

If you love a musical instrument you own, you do not want it baking in a car or freezing in the hold of an airplane.

I needed a guitar I could travel with – for teaching and for leading services. But the guitar I wanted was – at least for me – a rather expensive endeavor. For good reason: it was made with an inventive technology that allowed its owner to take its neck from its body and pack it up into a package so neatly that it could be placed in an overhead bin on an airplane.

I listened to the demos of guitar players far more skilled than I on and off for many months. I put aside money. Finally, I contacted James Brawner, owner and partner at Journey Instruments to think through my options. We talked about the guitars, music-making, even a bit about what we were doing with our lives.

Just a day or two before the guitar was about to arrive, James wrote me an email. He had received a note about the guitar indicating that it had suffered some small nicking on the wood near its neck. But I was leaving on a trip for which I really needed the guitar for a service I was leading. I wasn’t sure what to do – send it back? Take it anyway?

I grew up in a world of broken things. Having a newly-made guitar arrive in even a slightly damaged state triggered unhappy memories. I called James and confessed my uncertainty. He generously told me to take the guitar on the trip and pray with it. We would work it out when I got back.

I took the little guitar to ALEPH’s 2018 smicha week, where I was teaching. Then she helped me lead Kabbalat Shabbat services.

I returned from my trip and called James. I was still uncertain, still fighting the childhood memories of having things harmed and broken, of knowing harm and hurt. I could send the guitar back, James said. He could also offer me a discount if I decided to keep her.

I called James back. “James,” I said, “I want the discount.”

Part 3: Transforming Brokenness into Wholeness

I explained. I had prayed with that guitar. After all, I said, all of us have been harmed and hurt and even broken.

I wanted the discount not because I needed it, but because I wanted to give it to organizations offering hope and strength and help to those who have been harmed and hurt and broken. My little guitar wasn’t perfectly whole, but, in the end, her small hurts could be the agency of healing.

James was so delighted that he told me he would match the money he was sending to me and give it to organizations he loved.

I got the discount last week. Today I added a little money to the discount so I could round it up. Then, I sent half to CALA and half to NAKASEK.

In honor of the young woman who walked into my life two years ago in Grant Park, Chicago. In support for the work she does. In the name of those she serves.

This blog post is dedicated to Serafina Ha.


Repurposing, Renewing, Revisioning Judaism — The Work of Our Hands

I made my first tallit out of an embroidered shawl. I shook when I put it on for the first time.

I had grown up in a world in which only men wore prayer shawls. A part of me felt as if I were transgressing.

That was eighteen years ago. And I’ve been making kippot and tallitot ever since.

I resisted turning my hobby into any kind of business. My practice was, for years, to make my work into gifts for friends and colleagues. But after repeated requests to sell my work, I eventually created Not My Brother’s Kippah and put my things up on Etsy.

I began to meet people I would otherwise never have known. I learned about their lives. I found that what I designed and cut and sewed was a wholly new way to bless – even to heal.

In the past year, three women purchased tallitot from me. One of the women had two different p’sukim she was thinking about for the atarah, the embroidered neckband of a Jewish prayer shawl. Which should she choose? “Go and sit with the verses,” I told her. “Just hold them in your heart. You’ll know which one.”

About an hour later, she wrote back to tell me that she did know, after all.

She had become, she said, her mother’s courage during her “early departure.” The verse she chose brought her mother back to her again: Al tirah ki imcha ani. Fear not, for I am with you (Isaiah 41:10).

There was a second client who wanted a tallit that would speak both to her Chinese and her Jewish heritage. I learned a life story in our correspondence – how her parents had escaped from danger, how she had learned to make her life in America, how she had, over three decades, framed every aspect of her Jewishness in the tikkun olam work she embraced.

And then there was a young Jewish-Vietnamese American woman who contacted me in December of 2017. We engaged in months of consulting and negotiation about colors, patterns, and texts. We needed fabric with a lotus pattern but had to be sure to avoid anything white – especially touching her head. White, she told me, is the color of death in Vietnamese culture. So though her kippah was made of fabric that included a creamy white, I lined it with lilac silk.

On her atarah, she wanted Genesis 18:27: “Here I venture to speak to my Lord, who am but dust and ashes” (Genesis 18:27). She knew the tale of Rabbi Simcha Bunem of Pershyscha, who carried two slips of paper in each of his pockets, one of which read: “bishvili nivra ha’olam” (for my sake the world was created) the other v’anokhi afar v’efer” (I am but dust and ashes). At her suggestion, I embroidered the two phrases on the inside corners of her tallit. To be clothed in humility and surety in perfect balance – that was her kavannah.

Once she wrote, “I’m going to pass this down to my great-grandchild with all the blessings you’ve prayed OVER it, that I’ll pray IN it.” I finished it just before her thirtieth birthday. She celebrated by leyning Pinchas in shul that weekend.

A sari tallit
Made from a sari

Recently, I decided to heal as I created in a whole new way; I began making tallitot out of gently used saris.  I want to repurpose, reuse, renew.  Each sari has its own story.  As each becomes a tallit, it binds traditions and cultures together in a wholly new way. And why not celebrate diverse worlds coming together? We could use more of that in our time.

Connections emerge, take life, become unexpected gifts.  This past month I have corresponded and talked with the mother of a boy whose bar mitzvah is a year away; I’ll be talking both with the young man and his rabbi at some point. Just this past week or so, after he bought four kippot of mine, I began corresponding with a young man in Munich, whose story becomes increasingly tender and beautiful with each email.

My life is inordinately busy with classes to teach, administrative work to accomplish, research to complete. I never have the time I would really like to have to sew as much as I long to do. And I usually think of my teaching and research and writing as the most important work I do to nourish the tribe.

Maybe it is. But I have also learned that the renewal of all we know and the discovery of all we have yet to realize about Jews and Jewish life – these are things, it turns out, that can be found in cutting, stitching, and blessing.

May the work of all our hands serve such aims.

Note: This post is in honor of my son, Erik Henning Thiede.  He had the idea for using the saris to make tallitot so that I could become a more environmentally aware fabric artist.