Dvar Torah: Finding Living Waters in Old Wells

In this week’s Torah portion, Toldot, we find Yitzchak in a peculiar position. He is a patriarch in transition, caught between the towering legacy of his father, Avraham, and the future turbulence of his sons, Yaakov and Esav. In the middle of this family drama, the Torah pauses to tell us a story about infrastructure.

We read that after Avraham died, the Philistines stopped up the wells that Avraham’s servants had dug. They filled them with dust. When Yitzchak returns to the region, he faces a choice. He could walk away from those blocked sources of life. He could try to dig entirely new wells in random places, rejecting the past. Instead, the text tells us:

“Yitzchak dug anew the wells of water which had been dug in the days of Avraham his father... and he called them by the same names that his father had called them.” [1]

This act of re-digging is a powerful metaphor for Progressive Judaism. We do not simply live off the water of the past, often, we find the ancient wells stopped up. They are filled with the dust of history, of irrelevance, sometimes of ethical problems that make the water inaccessible or undrinkable to us. Yet we do not abandon the tradition entirely to dig in foreign soil. We clear away the debris. We dig down through the hard earth to find the mayim chayim, the living water, that still flows beneath.

Tonight, I want to talk about a well that we, as a community, are currently re-digging: our mikveh, Mikvah Libi Eir, here at Bet David.

For many in our community, the word mikveh does not conjure images of spiritual refreshment. It conjures images of dust. It brings up associations of an intrusive, obsessive, and often sexist policing of women’s bodies. For many of us, the mikveh is a well that was stopped up a long time ago, and we have been quite content to walk on by.

We must acknowledge that discomfort. We cannot re-dig the well if we do not admit that there is dust in it.

The classical halachic literature about mikveh focuses almost entirely on laws for married women: counting days, avoiding touch, immersing in order to resume sexual relations. [2] There are spiritual readings there too, but the frame is clear: this is about policing sexuality, and it sits inside a male-defined system where women are often literally unnamed.

For centuries, the mikveh was almost exclusively associated with niddah, the laws surrounding menstruation. The book of Leviticus details a system of tumah (impurity) and taharah (purity). In the original biblical mindset, these were not moral judgments. You were not “bad” or “sinful” if you were impure; you were simply in a temporary state, usually involving contact with the mysteries of life and death, which prevented you from entering the Holy Temple. [3]

History, however, did not stand still. The Temple was destroyed. Most purity laws fell away, we no longer immerse after touching a lizard or attending a funeral. But the laws regarding women remained. And, as the feminist theologian Rachel Adler powerfully articulated, the system became distorted.

In her early career, in the 1970s, Adler wrote a famous essay defending the mikveh. She argued poetically that the cycle of immersion was a universal human experience of death and rebirth, a way to touch the divine rhythm. [4] But twenty years later, in a brave act of theological honesty, she wrote a retraction titled In Your Blood, Live. She looked at the reality of how mikveh was actually lived in the Orthodox world and realised her earlier theology was a “theology of lies”. [5]

She realised that in the lived reality of Jewish history, the laws of niddah were not a spiritual cycle shared by all. They became a system where women were the class of people designated as “impure”, while men remained “pure”. The mikveh became a place where women were inspected, where their natural cycles were treated with suspicion, and where the primary goal was to render a woman “kosher” for her husband’s sexual access. [6] You also have halachic treatments that, even when they try to be pastoral, still talk about menstruation with the language of danger, confusion, and suspicion, piling stringency upon stringency out of fear and ignorance about women’s bodies. [7]

This is the dust that the Philistines, or perhaps history itself, has thrown into the well. It is the dust of exclusion, the dust of treating a woman as an object rather than a subject, the dust of associating the female body with defilement. It is no wonder that for generations of liberal Jews, the mikveh was rejected as a relic of a patriarchal past.

But here is the challenge of Yitzchak: if we just walk away, we leave a powerful tool buried in the dirt. If we reject the mikveh entirely, we lose one of the few tactile, full-body rituals our tradition possesses. We lose the feeling of being held by the water, suspended in the womb of the world.

As Progressive Jews, we must avoid two extremes. On one hand, we must avoid the “fetishism of tradition”, the idea that we must do things exactly as they were done in 19th-century Europe for them to be “authentic”. That preserves the dust along with the water. On the other hand, we must avoid the “absolute rejection of tradition”, the idea that because a ritual has a difficult history it is irredeemable. Progressive Judaism’s path is not simply to stand in the middle between these options. Our task is to seek in the Jewish tradition those elements that align with our values, recognise the age in which we live, and add meaning and texture to our lives.

So, how do we re-dig this well? How do we find the mayim chayim, the living waters?

First, we shift our language and our theology. The old language of purity and impurity is broken. To the modern ear, “impure” sounds like “dirty”. Rabbi Miriam Berkowitz teaches that in a world without a Temple, we are all technically “impure” (tameh met), and that is fine. It has no practical consequence. [8]

Instead of purity, let us speak of kedushah, holiness. When we frame the mikveh this way, it ceases to be about “cleaning up” a woman. It becomes a moment to pause and sanctify the body. It becomes a way to say that our physical selves, our aging, changing, miraculous, sometimes broken bodies, are vessels for the Divine image.

Second, we democratise the ritual. In the traditional model, the mikveh is almost exclusively for women observing niddah and for converts. In the Progressive vision, the well is open to everyone. The water does not discriminate.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, we expand the purpose. If we go back to Torah, the word mikveh appears already in the first chapter of Bereishit: “God called the gathering of the waters, mikveh ha-mayim, ‘seas’.” Water is not yet about purity or impurity. It is the raw material of life. One beautiful Progressive Israeli collection on mikveh reminds us that water appears in the story even before plants and animals, as the condition that makes life on earth possible. [9] Later, midrash and poetry connect water to Miriam’s well in the wilderness, to the tears and hopes of our ancestors at the be’er, to the rains that are a sign of blessing in Eretz Yisrael. [10] Water is promise, not punishment.

We must reclaim that promise, and the mikveh as a space where we can recognise that life changes all the time. We move from checking for spots of blood to checking the state of our souls. We move from a ritual of obligation to a ritual of transition. [11] This shift has been embodied over the last twenty years by Mayyim Hayyim, a community mikveh in the Boston area founded by Anita Diamant, which has transformed the way mikvaot are understood in the liberal Jewish world.

Think about the transitions in your own life. We are good at marking the beginning of things, birth, marriage, B’nai Mitzvah. We are less good at marking the middle, the end, or the healing.

Imagine a mikveh for celebration. A person marks a 50th birthday, a first year of sobriety, a new relationship, or a long-awaited retirement. They immerse to mark the passage of time, to thank God for Shehecheyanu, for keeping them alive to this season.

Imagine a mikveh for healing. A woman has just completed chemotherapy. Her body has been a battlefield for months, poked by needles, scanned by machines, filled with toxic medicines to save her life. She feels alienated from her own skin. She comes to Mikvah Libi Eir not because she is “dirty”, but to reclaim her body. She immerses to wash away the smell of the hospital, to weep in the safety of the water, and to rise up feeling whole again. [12]

Imagine a mikveh for closure. We know how to break a glass to start a marriage. How do we mark a divorce, or the end of a long relationship, or the decision to step away from a job that shaped our identity? Immersion can be a physical enactment of letting go. As the water touches every part of the body, it symbolises the washing away of anger, grief, and a past chapter, allowing the individual to emerge ready for what comes next. [13]

Imagine a mikveh for identity. A person marking a gender transition uses this ancient Jewish ritual of transformation to sanctify a new name and identity, saying to the community: “This is who I am, and this body is holy.”

This is what it means to re-dig the well of Yitzchak. We use the same physical structure, the gathering of living waters that must be natural, untouched by human hands in its collection, connecting us to the rain and the earth. [14] But we allow the water to flow for us. We reject the idea that the mikveh is a place of judgment. We reject the idea that it is a place where women are policed. We reclaim it as a place of mayim chayim, of living waters for living people.

This is the opportunity that sits before us at Bet David with Mikvah Libi Eir. We have dug this well. Now we must have the courage to use it.

I invite you, men and women, young and old, to rethink what this space can mean for you. Regardless of your level of observance, you can feel the power of water. You just have to be human. You just have to have a body that carries the stress, the joy, and the dust of living in this world.

Sometimes, we need to wash that dust off. Sometimes, we need to be held by something larger than ourselves. Sometimes, we need to hold our breath, go under, and emerge feeling like we can breathe again.

Yitzchak re-dug the wells of his father, but he drank from them in his own time. Let us do the same. Let us not leave the well stopped up. Let us clear the earth, and may you find that the water deep down is sweet, cool, and very much alive.

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] Genesis 26:18.
[2] Barbara Kadden, Teaching Mitzvot: Concepts, Values and Activities (A.R.E. Press, 2003), Chapter 15, “Immersing in a Ritual Bath”, pp. 89–90.
[3] Barbara Kadden, Teaching Mitzvot, Chapter 15, “Immersing in a Ritual Bath”, p. 89.
[4] Rachel Adler, “Tum'ah and Taharah: Ends and Beginnings”, Response: A Contemporary Jewish Review (Summer 1973).
[5] Rachel Adler, “In Your Blood, Live: Re-Visions of a Theology of Purity”, Tikkun 8, no. 1 (1993), p. 205.
[6] Adler, “In Your Blood, Live”, p. 199.
[7] Rabbi Miriam Berkowitz, “Reshaping the Laws of Family Purity for the Modern World”, teshuva for the CJLS (2006), p. 2.
[8] Berkowitz, op. cit., p. 5.
[9] Parashat HaMayim: Immersion in Water as an Opportunity for Renewal and Spiritual Growth (IMPJ, 2011), p. 11.
[10] Parashat HaMayim, p. 13.
[11] This approach aligns with the philosophy of Mayyim Hayyim around using mikveh to mark life transitions, as reflected in their published ceremony resources. Check www.mayyimhayyim.org
[12] Susan Grossman, “Mikveh and the Sanctity of Being Created Human”, teshuva for the CJLS (2006), p. 70.
[13] Parashat HaMayim, p. 72.
[14] Kadden, Teaching Mitzvot, p. 89.

From Idol-Breaking to Harm-Naming: What It Means to Be Ivri

What does it mean to be a "Hebrew"? Our tradition's answer is as much of an ethical challenge as an ethnic label. The name first appears in this week's parashah, Lech Lecha, when our ancestor is called "Avram ha-Ivri". [1]

While in modern Hebrew Ivri just means "Hebrew," the Sages saw something far more profound. In a famous midrash [2], they link the name to the word ever, which means "side" or "margin." Why was he called ha-Ivri? Because, they explain, "the whole world was on one side (ever), and he was on the other (ever)."

To be an Ivri, then, is to be an iconoclast, a spiritual contrarian. In a world steeped in polytheism, Avraham was willing to stand alone, to go against the entire world because he saw that the usual way of doing things was profoundly wrong. He challenged the status quo for the sake of truth.

And yet, this same iconoclast, this man of great faith and courage, has a profound and repeated moral failing. Almost immediately after arriving in the Promised Land, a famine drives him and Sarah to Egypt. Fearing the Egyptians will kill him to take his beautiful wife, Avraham devises a plan: "Please say that you are my sister". [3]

Let us be clear: he risks Sarah's autonomy and safety to secure his own. She is taken to Pharaoh's palace, and only a divine plague saves her, while Avraham is "treated well on her account". [4]

This is not a singular lapse in judgment. It is a disturbing pattern. Avraham and Sarah do it again, years later, with King Avimelech in Gerar. [5] The trauma is apparently so deep that their son, Itzchak, repeats the exact same behaviour with his wife, Rivka, and the same King Avimelech. [6]

These episodes are not footnotes; they are the Torah’s deliberate choice to preserve actions that place a woman at risk, even when the intention is self-protection. The text resists hagiography. It asks us to praise faith where it shines and to face harm where it occurs. This is one of the gifts of our tradition. We do not read our ancestors as flawless. We bless their courage and hospitality, and we also name their failures. That honesty is not a modern import. It belongs to a people in covenant, who tell the truth about harm in order to repair it. It trains us to examine our own habits, our own households, our own institutions, and to ask who is being protected, who is being exposed, and whose voice has not been heard.

This specific failing of our patriarchs—their willingness to endanger their wives for their own security—is not just an ancient story. It is a story about a blindness that persists today: the failure of men to truly grasp the risks that women face.

The global evidence is stark. UN Women summarises the prevalence plainly: worldwide, about one in three women have experienced physical or sexual violence at least once in their lifetime, most often at the hands of an intimate partner. [7] In South Africa, this is a matter of life and death. According to the World Population Review, South Africa ranks as the fifth worst country in the world for femicide, with a rate of 9 women killed per 100,000 women in the population. [8]

These are not just numbers. We, as a community, are the victims, but we are also the perpetrators. Until we have the courage to stand for what is right, to be the contrarian and point to Avraham’s conduct as unacceptable, to stop instinctively believing men we like over the victims of their harassment, and to realise that our community is not immune to the same dynamics that harm women elsewhere, then we will continue to be part of the problem.

What, then, does it mean to be an Ivri—an heir to Avraham—today?

Lech Lecha teaches us that being a "Hebrew" is not just about our theological inheritance. It is an ethical challenge. If Avraham was a contrarian who challenges the world's idolatries; we must be contrarians who challenge its injustices.

This parashah calls us to cross over, to stand where risk is greatest and safety is not assumed. For the men in our community, this is a clear call to action: to cross the divide of gender and privilege. It means actively listening to the stories and experiences of women, believing them, and seeing the world not just from our own perspective of safety, but from their perspective of risk.

Avraham's journey began when he left his father’s house. Our moral journey continues when we confront our ancestors’ and leaders’ failings and commit, in our own lives, our own homes, and our own society, never to repeat them.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Gen. 14:13.

[2] B’reshit Rabbah 42:8.

[3] Gen. 12:13.

[4] Gen. 12:16.

[5] Gen. 20:1–16.

[6] Gen. 26:1–33.

[7] https://www.unwomen.org/sites/default/files/2025-09/progress-on-the-sustainable-development-goals-the-gender-snapshot-2025-en.pdf

[8] https://worldpopulationreview.com/country-rankings/femicide-rates-by-country

 

Orgulho na maioria e na minoria

Para o meu coração matemático, o livro de baMidbar, que em português é chamado de “Números”, é a oportunidade da unir duas paixões: os números e o judaísmo. Desta vez, tenho pensado sobre as aulas de matemática dos primeiros anos, ainda aprendendo sobre o significado de cada um dos símbolos e notações. Lembro-me bem da confusão entre os símbolos “maior” (“>”) e menor (“<”) e das regrinhas que usávamos para saber qual usar em cada situação. Uma regra dizia que a “boca aberta” do símbolo sempre deveria estar na direção da quantidade maior; outra nos ensinava a fazer um tracinho do braço inferior do símbolo – desta forma, um símbolo se tornava um “4” inclinado (o menor) e outro se tornava um “7” inclinado (o maior). Olhando hoje, com algum saudosismo, parece que naquele tempo era mais fácil determinar quais eram as maiores grandezas e quais eram as menores, mesmo que precisássemos recorrer a estes “truques” no processo.

Hoje em dia, os conceitos de “maior” e “menor” se tornaram bem mais complexos, especialmente se considerarmos seus derivados, a “maioria” e a “minoria”. Além dos conceitos numéricos, há situações de poder, nos quais quem está em maior número nem sempre tem mais destaque. Só como exemplo, pensem nas mulheres, que apesar de serem a maioria da população (51,1%), tem claramente muito menos poder que os homens.

Na parashá desta semana, Shelach Lechá, Deus indica a Moshé que escolha emissários para investigar a terra de Israel, na qual eles pretendem ingressar em breve. Das doze pessoas escolhidas, dez voltaram com um relato negativo; apenas duas reportaram que, apesar dos desafios, os israelitas tinham condições de, com o apoio de Deus, conquistar a terra. O grupo majoritário, ao defender que eles não conseguiriam vencer em combate, afirmava que os residentes da terra eram gigantes, que perto deles os hebreus eram como gafanhotos [1]. O povo em sua maioria seguiu a opinião dos dez enviados pessimistas, para indignação Divina. Moshé conseguiu convencer Deus a não matá-los todos logo ali, mas em resposta à falta de confiança daquela geração em si mesma, Deus determinou que eles vagassem pelo deserto por 40 anos, para que aqueles que entrassem na terra de Israel tivessem uma mentalidade distinta daquela visão derrotista.

Em seu comentário sobre esta parashá, o rabino Jeffrey Salkin afirma: “A opinião da maioria nem sempre está certa. (...) Muitas das grandes coisas da história mundial não aconteceram porque a maioria era a favor delas; muitas vezes é preciso uma minoria criativa de pessoas para convencer os outros a expandir sua visão.” [2] 

Vivemos em uma época de imensas e rápidas transformações. Da tecnologia ao meio ambiente, dos valores sociais aos modelos de negócio, o mundo nunca testemunhou tantas revoluções ao mesmo tempo. De um lado, muitos de nós nos sentimos confusos com tantas mudanças o tempo todo, com medo até. De outro lado, novas oportunidades têm sido criadas a cada dia; grupos que viveram silenciados por séculos, que se viam como gafanhotos indefesos frente a gigantes que os destruiriam se chamassem atenção, passaram a ter coragem de se expressar. Como a nova geração que pôde entrar em Israel, estes grupos historicamente silenciados passaram a demandar seu pleno reconhecimento, querem ser enxergados, reconhecidos, ouvidos e respeitados. Em alguns casos, são a maioria ou têm a maioria ao seu lado; em outros, talvez não sejam tão numerosos, mas querem o seu direito de pertencer plenamente. Afinal de contas, nossa tradição ensina que “salvar uma vida é como salvar todo o mundo” [3] ou seja, cada vida é única e tem valor, mesmo quando não está na maioria.

Nesta sexta-feira, teremos na CIP o Cabalat Shabat do Orgulho, uma oportunidade para vermos e sermos vistos, para escutarmos e sermos escutados, para amarmos e sermos amados, para respeitarmos e sermos respeitados. Maioria ou minoria, nos números ou no poder, que possamos todos nos sentir verdadeiros com quem somos e com a coragem de conquistar nossos sonhos, mesmo quando eles parecem inalcançáveis.

Shabat Shalom!

[1] Num. 13:33

[2] Jeffrey K. Salkin, “The JPS B’nai Mitzvah Torah Commentary”

[3] https://bit.ly/3PdnBgO

Porque gravidez não é doença, nem fonte de impurezas

Não foram raras as vezes em que ouvi pessoas estabelecendo uma relação entre a palavra hebraica para “compaixão”, rachamim, e a palavra para “útero”, réchem, e, a partir daí, comentarem que o Divino não tem gênero, incorporando aspectos masculinos (como o poder, guevurá, e o julgamento, din) e femininos (como a compaixão, rachamim). Deixando de lado o essencialismo que considera o poder e a justiça atributos inerentemente masculinos, enquanto a compaixão seria uma qualidade inerentemente feminina, poderíamos considerar que a tradição judaica teria uma visão positiva da maternidade e da capacidade de gerir outra vida dentro de seu próprio corpo.

Em algumas passagens bíblicas, claramente, esta expectativa é confirmada. Em Isaías 66:13, por exemplo, Deus se apresenta como uma mãe para o povo judeu, afirmando “Como uma mãe consola seu filho, assim eu os consolarei; Você encontrará conforto em Jerusalém”. 

Em outras passagens da Torá, no entanto, a maternidade é vista de forma crítica. Quando o fruto proibido é comido, o castigo da mulher é expresso desta forma: “Duplicarei e reduplicarei as dores da sua gestação; você dará a luz com dor, contudo seu desejo será para o seu homem e ele governará sobre você.” [1] Ao invés de ser vista como um momento maravilhoso no qual nova vida está sendo criada, a gestação é apresentada neste texto como um evento doloroso, em particular o culminar deste processo, o parto.

Na parashá-dupla desta semana, Tazría-Metsorá, a questão da maternidade volta a ser endereçada sem que a maravilha da gestação da vida seja reconhecida. Pelo contrário: o tom das instruções relaciona a participação feminina no processo reprodutivo como uma fonte de impurezas e culpa. De um lado, temos questões relativas ao estado de impureza ritual de mulheres durante o seu fluxo menstrual (e nos dias subsequentes) [2], parte indissociável do processo reprodutivo. De outro lado, o tratamento dado a parturientes, novamente as relaciona à impureza ritual, indicando o número de dias que elas devem permanecer isoladas de objetos rituais, a depender de se o bebê tiver sido um menino ou uma menina. Além disso, ao final do período elas deviam oferecer um sacrifício de chatáat, uma oferta pela purificação de uma transgressão. [3] Com a destruição do Templo no ano 70 EC e o decorrente abandono dos sacrifícios animais pelo judaísmo rabínico, estas práticas perderam a relevância mas a visão que enxerga na gravidez e no parto obstáculos que representam perigos e desafios ainda se mantém em práticas judaicas contemporâneas. Ainda hoje, muitos sidurim e rabinos indicam que uma mulher que acabou de dar à luz deve dizer bircat hagomêl, a benção que alguém diz depois de ter passado por uma doença séria ou por uma cirurgia. 

É necessário e urgente que tenhamos a coragem de olhar criticamente para estes textos e para estas práticas. A rabina e teóloga Rachel Adler, a respeito das passagens nesta parashá-dupla escreveu “Sagrado não precisa significar inerrante; basta que o sagrado seja inesgotável. Nas profundezas da Tua Torá, eu procuro Você, Eheyeh, criador de um mundo de sangue. Rasgo a Tua Torá verso a verso, até que esteja quebrada e sangrando assim como eu." [4]

Gravidez não é doença. O ciclo reprodutivo feminino não é fonte de impurezas. Ainda que hajam riscos envolvidos na gravidez e no parto, estes são momentos a serem desfrutados e celebrados, situações em que a parceria entre Deus e humanos se torna clara e visível [5] e nossas práticas rituais devem refletir esta postura de estarmos maravilhados e incrivelmente felizes quando uma criança nasce. 

Que neste shabat possamos nos alegrar e maravilhar com a vida e com uma tradição religiosa que nos surpreende e nos provoca e na qual o questionamento e inovação não são apenas aceitos, são também valorizados.  

[1] Gen. 3:16

[2] Lev. 16:19-26

[3] Lev. 12:1-8

[4] Lifecycles 2: Jewish Women on Biblical Themes in Contemporary Life, , p. 206

[5] Veja, por exemplo, BT Nidá 31a

Dvar Torá: Por que é tão difícil não falar mal dos outros? (CIP)

Eu quero voltar pro finalzinho da Amidá, na página 26. Nos primeiros séculos do período rabínico, as pessoas ofereciam pedidos pessoais ANTES da Amidá. Quando Raban Gamliel II, líder da comunidade judaica na Terra de Israel no começo do 2º século, instituiu a Amidá, este espaço para pedidos pessoais foi mudado para o FINAL da Amidá. No Talmud, vários rabinos propuseram formulações para estes pedidos pessoais, um rabino da Babilônia, Mar bar Ravina [1],[2]. Quando Amram Gaon codificou o primeiro sidur do qual temos conhecimento, ao redor do ano 860 EC [3], ele incluiu a versão de Mar bar Ravina como sugestão para as pessoas que não soubessem como compor sua própria petição pessoal e quando o primeiro sidur europeu, o Machzor Vitry, foi impresso no século 11, o que era uma sugestão se tornou uma regra: todos deveriam, ao final da Amidá, dizer aquela versão da prece pessoal.

E o que diz a prece pessoal de Mar bar Ravina? “Meu Deus, impeça minha língua de dizer o mal e meus lábios de enganarem” e por aí vai…

De tudo que os rabinos podiam pedir do ponto de vista pessoal, eles não pediram riqueza, nem sabedoria, nem a disposição para trabalhar de forma mais intensa no dia seguinte. Eles pediram a capacidade de se conter e não fazer parte do que a nossa tradição chama de “lashon hará”, a língua do mal. E a verdade é que é tão difícil, né?!

A prática de falar mal dos outros se tornou de tal forma parte das nossas rotinas que a gente nem percebe mais… entra em reunião de trabalho falando mal do colega; se reúne com a família e se põe a falar mal da prima que ninguém gosta; cria grupo paralelo dos pais da escola pra poder falar mal dos pais que ficaram abandonados no grupo original. Quando a gente se dá conta, já foi — e não foi nem por maldade, mas simplesmente porque é assim que todo mundo se comporta.

Se você parar para prestar atenção nas confissões que fazemos em Iom Kipur, grande parte delas são coisas que fazemos com a fala. Só para dar alguns exemplos:

• Difamamos = דיברנו דופי
• Incitamos o mal = הרשענו
• Acusamos falsamente = טפלנו שקר
• Demos mau conselho = יעצנו רע
• Zombamos = לצנו
• Provocamos = ניאצנו 

Ao mesmo tempo, a tradição reconhece que a fala é um atributo Divino, através do qual Deus criou o mundo e que distingue os seres humanos dos outros animais. Quando Rashi comenta o verso em Bereshit que fala do sopro Divino que deu ao ser humano sua alma viva, ele diz: “animais também são chamados de almas vivas, mas a alma humana tem tudo o que eles têm e mais porque aos seres humanos foi dada a compreensão e a fala.” [4]

E o mesmo Rashi revela uma compreensão assustadoramente contemporânea ao analisar uma passagem da Torá, no livro de Vaicrá [5] que proíbe a fofoca. Ele escreveu: “Digo isso porque todos os que semeiam a discórdia entre as pessoas e todos os que falam calúnias vão à casa dos amigos para espiar o mal que ali vêem, ou o mal que ali ouvem, para que o divulguem nas ruas. - eles são chamados de "pessoas que andam espionando.”

Um midrash [6] diz que, dos 6 atributos que foram dados aos seres humanos, 3 estavam sob nosso controle e 3 não. A visão, o olfato e a audição não estariam sob nosso controle — afinal de contas, cheiramos, escutamos e enxergamos mesmo o que não queremos. De outro lado, a fala e os movimentos dos pés das mãos estariam sob nosso controle. O exemplo que o midrash dá não poderia ser mais claro com relação às nossas escolhas: “a pessoa precisa decidir para estudar Torá, difamar, blasfemar e se rebelar.” E uma passagem dos Provérbios confirma este caráter de escolha, ao afirmar: “Morte e vida estão no poder da língua.” [7]

De acordo com o Talmud, lashon hará tem o poder de matar três pessoas: aquela que fala, aquela que escuta e aquela sobre quem está sendo falado. Por que será que é tão difícil usar sempre este atributo na direção da vida?!

Na parashá desta semana, Miriám, a profetisa, se torna a fofoqueira, ao fazer contra um comentário maldoso sobre Moshé ou sobre sua esposa para Aharón — comentário específico não é claro e há comentaristas que enxergam nele aspectos de preconceito racial e outros que dizem que ela estava defendendo a cunhada, que estaria recebendo pouca atenção de Moshé. De qualquer forma, ela desenvolve uma doença de pele como punição pelo seu ato e teve que ser excluída do acampamento por sete dias.

Na maioria dos casos, no entanto, a exclusão que acontece como consequência de lashon hará, não é daquele que dá início ou que espalha a fofoca, mas aquele sobre quem se fala. Seja por vergonha, por sentir-se não acolhido ou por sentir-se explicitamente rejeitado, não é incomum que as vítimas dos processos de lashon hará se afastem do ambiente comunitário em um processo no qual todos perdemos.

Há uns 25 anos, eu morava em Tel Aviv e passei a frequentar a sinagoga reformista de lá, Beit Daniel. Toda semana, eu me sentava mais ou menos no mesmo lugar e havia uma senhora que sentava sempre perto de mim. Com o tempo, começamos a conversar, ela sempre tentando me apresentar sua neta… Um dia, ela me pergunta: “você viu quem está na sinagoga hoje?”. “Não,” eu respondi. “Quem?!” “Convidados não desejados!”, ela me disse. “Quem são eles?” eu perguntei, e adicionei em tom de piada, “o Rabino Chefe”, uma figura ultra-ortodoxa e sisuda que nunca apareceria na nossa sinagoga reformista. “O rabino-chefe não é bem vindo?!”, ela se espantou com a minha brincadeira. “À minha casa eu não o convidaria”, eu respondi e com isso concluímos nossa conversa.

Mais tarde, durante o kidush, entendi de quem ela estava falando. Naquele dia, havia acontecido a Parada do Orgulho Gay em Tel Aviv e membros da nossa sinagoga tinham ido participar e convidar os participantes a virem ao Cabalat Shabat. Para minha vizinha de sinagoga, no entanto, aquelas pessoas que não tinham lhe feito nada, eram convidados indesejados apenas por serem quem eles eram. 

Por muito tempo, por tempo demais, aqui em São Paulo, aqui nesta CIP, membros LGBTQIA+ da comunidade judaica se sentiram também convidados indesejados. Eles se sentaram ao nosso lado e escutaram nossas piadas homofóbicas, fingindo rir delas para não colocar em risco sua aceitação na comunidade. Parece absurdo, mas com uma frequência imensa lashon ha-rá assume o formato de piada — piada de mal gosto, piada cheia de preconceito, mas que continuamos contando ser perceber o efeito corrosivo que elas têm.

Em um documento escrito há alguns anos por um grupo de judeus LGBT no facebook, ao falarem de como se sentiam na intersecção de suas múltiplas identidades, os autores escreveram: “Nosso Judaísmo foi duplamente – triplamente – exílico. Nós fomos primeiramente forçados para fora de nossa identidade sexual e, a seguir, fomos forçados para fora do Judaísmo. E a única alternativa era esconder uma das duas identidades, para poder preservar a outra.” 

Hoje, um grupo de membros do Hineni, o grupo LGBTQIA+ da Fisesp, veio participar conosco do Cabalat Shabat. Ao lhes dar as boas vindas, eu queria tentar quebrar pelo menos duas dimensões deste exílio triplo do qual o documento falava. Saibam que vocês não são hóspedes indesejados. Primeiro, porque esta casa é sua e ninguém pode ser hóspede na sua própria casa. Segundo, porque nós queremos muito que vocês participem e venham e estejam sempre por aqui. O Judaísmo é inegavelmente a sua casa e a CIP é uma das muitas casas de portas abertas para vocês dentro da comunidade judaica.

Que neste shabat possamos engajar somente em lashon hatov, a língua do bem — e que esta prática de shabat nos sirva de incentivo para podermos sempre usar as palavras só para construir, encantar, unir e acolher.

Shabat Shalom.

[1] My People’s Prayer Book, vol. 2, p. 187

[2] Talmud Bavli 17a

[3] My People’s Prayer Book, vol. 1

[4] Comentário de Rashi para Gen. 2:7:4

[5] Lev. 19:16

[6] Bereshit Rabá 67:3

[7] Prov. 18:21

 

Dvar Torah: Yom Kippur Morning (UIUC Hillel)

It was not an easy decision to start walking with a kipah six or seven years ago. I wanted it to be a constant reminder that l was walking in God's presence, that I am here to serve the world and not the other way around, that the people I interact with, from the prospective student to the University president, from Hillel's largest donor to the beggar at the street corner, from my newborn baby to my 100-year-old grandmother, we are all created in the Divine image and we deserve to be treated with dignity. It was also a symbol to the rest of the world, showing that l was serious about my engagement with my Jewish tradition, and that l was studying to become a rabbi. My reluctance, on the other hand, had to do with expressing what kind of religious Jew I was becoming, a message that was not carried by my kipah, even when I tried a gorgeous pink one.

 

But back to acknowledging God’s presence in all moments of my life, which was a huge factor in the decision. What about the moments in which I don't want anyone with me? Times in which I am about to do something that I know is wrong ‐ or simply, when I want to go the bathroom? Yeah.... The bathroom was one of my big crisis with my kipah for quite some time and it took me two or three years to stop taking my kipah off when I went there. Let’s acknowledge: there is the beauty of religion, the intricate poems we read and the lofty sermons we hear at services - and there is the messiness of life, with bathrooms and dirt, and poverty, and wars; and we are all much better served if we can keep these two worlds (the synagogue and the real world) as separate as possible.

 

Except that this approach is the very opposite of what the Jewish tradition has to say on the matter. Judaism, as a way of living, is not limited to the four walls of this room. If Torah is really meant to become a tree of life, it needs to encounter life, and this encounter can only happen when we open our whole lives to the values we talk about during religious services.  Without being with us when we meet our daily lives and dirt, and poverty, and wars, Judaism loses much of its power and significance. 

 

And before we get to the topic of sex, let me start with a story and a request. First, the story:

 

A few months ago, Lisa Brown, a Michigan State Representative, was suspended from speaking on the House Floor because she mentioned the word "vagina." Does anyone here know what she said before she got to the word vagina? Here it is the text:

 

Yesterday we heard the representative from Holland speak about religious freedom. I’m Jewish. I keep kosher in my home. I have two sets of dishes, one for meat and one for dairy, and another two sets of dishes on top of that for Passover. Judaism believes that therapeutic abortion, namely abortions performed in order to preserve the life of the mother, are not only permissible but mandatory. The stage of pregnancy does not matter. Wherever there is a question of the life of the mother or that of the unborn child, Jewish law rules in favor of preserving the life of the mother. The status of the fetus as human life does not equal that of the mother. The status of the fetus as human life does not equal that of the mother. I have not asked you to adopt and adhere to my religious beliefs. Why are you asking me to adopt yours?

And finally Mr. Speaker, I'm flattered that you're all so interested in my vagina but no means no.

 

Regardless of your position on the abortion debate, Rep. Brown was making a thoughtful claim for religious freedom in this country - and, yet, most people don't have any idea of what she said, and she is now famous nationally because of one word: vagina.

 

So, this is my request: today we are going to talk a bit about sex but, more importantly, we are going to talk about human dignity. Keep that in mind. Don’t let the word "sex" prevent you from listening to the values that we will discuss here today.

 

And, for the record, before my speaking privileges are also revoked for speaking about sex on Yom Kippur ‐ I am not the one who made the choice of topic. It's part of the traditional liturgy for this day. The text that is traditionally read on Yom Kippur afternoon is Leviticus 18, which you will find in your blue booklets and deals with rules of proper sexual behavior. There we find prohibitions against incest, and against sexual acts practiced as part of pagan religious ceremonies, and against sex with animals. We also find the following statement: “do not lie with a man in the ways of lying down with a woman; it is an abomination.” (verse22) This verse had been used as textual proof that homosexuality [at least male homosexuality) is absolutely forbidden by the Jewish religion.

 

Now... let me go on a detour and give you some background for how I think we need to read this text, and all of Torah for that matter. I do not see Torah as a lesson plan, a document telling me how to conduct my life, step by step. God created us in the Divine image and gave us the intellect and the capacity to discern right and wrong, good and bad and, therefore, make our own decisions. To stay within the realm of metaphors in the field of education, I see Torah as a set induction. Set induction are the activities the teacher does in the beginning of a class to stir people’s interest in the matter.

 

So, when I read the verse “do not lie with a man in the ways of lying down with a woman; it is an abomination," I do not read it as an absolute condemnation of same sex relationships, I read as an invitation to discuss the ethics of intimate relationship and get to conclusions that are relevant to me, my generation, my values and the world I live in. Homosexuality might even be one of the topics of the conversation, but it is certainly not the only one - and while Iwant Jewish values at the center of this process, I have the right to get to conclusions that are not the traditional ones. In the words of Rabbi Mordechai Kaplan, one of the most influential Jewish thinkers of the 20th century, "Tradition has a vote, but not a veto.”

 

It might sound revolutionary, but it is the traditional rabbinic way of reading the Torah. In Deutoronomy 21:18-21, parents are instructed to take their rebellious children to the gates of the city, so they could be stoned to death. I have met many rebellious children in my life (and I might have been one myself.) but I have never heard of anyone being stoned because of this. The rabbis understood that the text was an invitation to discuss relationships between children and their parents - not a free card to physical punishment as a form of education. A rabbinic text from the 2nd century asks why these commandments were included in the biblical text and the answer is, so that you can learn it, discuss it , and be rewarded through your growth.

 

Many Reform, Reconstructionist and Conservative communities have, for many years, abstained from engaging in this conversation. Different from the perspective I am trying to transmit here, it was understood that this passage was not an appropriate reading for Yom Kippur. You won’t find it in your Reform Machzor. But this approach has been challenged in the past 10 or 20 years. In the words of Jewish Feminist Theologian, Judith Plaskow,

 

As someone who has long been disturbed by the content of Leviticus 18, I had always applauded the substitution of an alternative Torah reading - until a particular incident made me reconsider the link between sex and Yom Kippur. After a lecture I delivered in the spring of 1995 on rethinking Jewish attitudes toward sexuality, a woman approached me very distressed. She belonged to a Conservative synagogue that had abandoned the practice of Leviticus 18 on Yom Kippur, and as a victim of childhood sexual abuse by her grandfather, she felt betrayed by that decision. While she was not necessarily committed to the understanding of sexual holiness contained in Leviticus, she felt that in quietly changing the reading without communal discussion, her congregation had avoided issues of sexual responsibility altogether. She wanted to hear her community connect the theme of atonement with issues of behavior in intimate relationships, to have it publicly proclaim the parameters of legitimate sexual relations on a day when large number of Jews gather. (Judith Plaskow, ”Sexuality and Teshuva: Leviticus 18" in Beginning Anew, p. 291)

 

I don't want to scare anyone, but I find it important to talk about some of the statistics of sexual violence on college campuses:

•   One in five women are raped during their college years.

•   In two third of the cases, the attackers were classmates or friends. In 25%, they were boyfriends or ex‐boyfriends.

•   More than one in 5 men report "becoming so sexually aroused that they could not stop themselves from having sex," even though the woman did not consent.

•   In a survey of students at 171institutions of higher education, alcohol was involved in 74% of all sexual assaults. http://wwwnyu.edu/shc/pmmotion/svstat.html

 

We simply cannot afford not to have this conversation or to claim that this is not a Jewish issue! Risks are simply too high ‐ there is too much at stake.

 

Remember my kipah and my attempt to be always reminded that every person I meet was created in the Divine image and deserves to be treated with dignity. Treating with dignity, in my view, involves not humiliating or hurting another person; not manipulating people for our own satisfaction; recognizing their feelings, thoughts and desires as much as we recognize our own. Are you being treated  with dignity when you go out at night, or when you are in a loving relationship? Are you treating other with dignity? How would you define dignity? What role can Judaism have as you think about these questions?

 

Talking about these issues is not easy - and the topic itself is a complicated one. Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg, who is nowworking at the Fiedler Hillel in Northwestern University, wrote,

 

Jewish sexuality is nothing if not complex. And, perhaps, Jewish sexuality ‐ or, at least, our understanding of it - may be more complex now than ever before. Over the last generation or so, the effects of postmodernism, feminism, and queer libration have become all too keenly felt, creating something of a sea change in how we address sex and sexuality. More people than ever are talking about how to maximize sexual empowerment between consenting adults, and the belief that sexuality itself is a societal construct worthy of examination is becoming increasingly widespread. As a result of work both in the academy and in people's real lives, a whole new set of questions with which to address our time-honored traditions has become apparent. There are new ways to challenge the tradition's underlying assumptions, to think about how an ancient idea might speak to our current, ever evolving understanding of human potential, and perhaps to offer thorny sources a little sexual healing.

 

Our tradition teaches לא עליך המלאכה לגמור ולא אתה בן חורין לבטל ממנה. It is not upon you to finish the work, but you are not fee to desist from it. We are not going to finish addressing these questions here today - but l wanted to instill the seeds for this conversation to continue happening and Hillel is interested in creating the framework - a safe space for thoughtful, honest and respectful conversation on the topic of Jewish sexual ethics, aiming at both learning and getting to your own conclusions. If you would like to be part of it , please come talk to me or send me an email.

 

Gmar Chatimah Tovah - may we all be inscribed and sealed in the book of life for a year full of joy, happiness, growth and engagement with the world.