How to explain the prohibition of kol isha to my non-religious relatives. Oh, the quandaries that keep life interesting.
As a proud member of the Stern musical production this semester (unsolicited promotion: the play is going to rock—buy tickets quick before they run out! Sorry boys), I was forced to tackle this abrasive question upon extending an invitation to certain individuals unfamiliar with the all-women protocol.
Wait, what do you mean my husband can’t come? Well, you see, it’s a rabbinic ordination (oh, I get it, it’s those sexist rabbis at it again) that prohibits—no, too restrictive—that admonishes—might as well plaster a scarlet letter on my forehead—that encourages, there we go, that encourages women not to sing in public. Arms crossed, outer lip protruding indignantly, stance dripping with disdain—she assumes the unmistakable pose of war. We circle each other, slowly, preparing to do battle.
And, joust.
You really subscribe to this nonsense? Yes, I do, and it’s not nonsense, it’s a rabbinic ordination to try and protect wom….
First you voluntarily sit in the back of a synagogue, and now they’re trying to make you sure you can’t sing in public? Why don’t you just sign over the right to vote and head back to the 19th century…
I am actually registered to vote, as a Democrat for that matter, and we don’t sit in the back we sit on the right hand side…
We know the drill. Hopefully in not as aggressive or cantankerous a fashion. But if we, and I feel I am accurate in assuming I speak to the majority of my audience, have chosen, as free-thinking adults, to undertake an observant Jewish lifestyle (I keep my term intentionally vague to accommodate the widest audience possible), there will be things we do that provoke questions. A different dress code. Passing up a handshake or friendly hug for a less intimate greeting (seriously, we should all just bow to one another—it would make life so much more simple and sanitary). Not performing in front of male audiences if you are a woman. Not eating there. Not driving then. Not reading that. It’s not a secret—not everything to which we Jews ascribe can be deemed ‘politically correct,’ God bless us, and at some point or another, whether on a job interview or simply while braving an egalitarian Thanksgiving dinner, we have to come face to face with that reality.
The question: how do we respond to the challenge? How does one defend a position about which he himself might have some unresolved questions? Does one walk away feeling defeated? Frustrated? Defiant? Perhaps invigorated (for all those of you out there who thrive on controversy)? Dare I suggest a tinge of embarrassment?
When confronted by these sort of contentious situations, or at least thought-provoking scenarios, we tend to immediately assume the defensive. There is often a misplaced attitude of apologetics—I’m sorry my belief system makes you so uncomfortable. I’m sorry my beliefs, in some way, impose upon your preconceived and equally biased notions of what is just and right. We automatically assume our position is the harder one to defend, resigning ourselves immediately to the low-ground. We perceive the questioner as having the upper hand, our responsibility thus to sheepishly defend.
My question: why do we subconsciously conclude that our position is harder of the two to defend? Is it because our position, our religious beliefs and practices, are held by so overwhelmingly few? If that be the case, our logic is flawed. A position held by the few rather than by the many does not reflect upon the truth-value of that position. In fact, it may very well be the opposite. As esteemed author Herman Wouk observes in his seminal work, This is My God:
“We live in a time when non-belief is in fashion; it has been for about a hundred years…But this popularity of one point of view should be enough to make any serious man suspicious. Sheep are sheep, whether they are all leaping over the fence or all huddling in the fold” (Wouk, Part I, Prologue).
We need not resolve ourselves to desperate justification for lack of popular support. The unique practices we and relatively few others have successfully preserved should be, instead, a source of pride.
Does the embarrassment stem from the seeming ‘political incorrectness’ of our practices? If that be the case, then once again, our logic is flawed. The standards of society are constantly in flux. One brief contemporary example is the recent repeal of the ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy in the American military. The repeal reflects a deep and significant shift in our country’s core set of standards and ideals. If we make the mistake of allowing American society to determine our yardstick of correctness, we resign ourselves to a set of standards in perpetual flux. And, really, how meaningful is a set of standards subject to the constantly changing, ephemeral societal winds?
Perhaps we assume the defensive because of personal insecurity with our own position. The outstanding questions and discomforts we may maintain about some of the things we do, or some of the viewpoints we profess, may make us hesitant to boldly espouse our views to others. The panacea for that condition requires admission and acceptance of personal limitations, intellectual and otherwise. We won’t know everything. We can’t know everything. We don’t have all the answers, and never will. It’s hard to be okay with having questions. It is also incredibly liberating once you can.
In this article, I raise my glass to Jewish pride: to Jews doing crazy things, and being proud of it; to acceptance of questions and doubts, and the determination to plod on anyways; to a realization that the traditions we observe and preserve are meaningful and unique; to the hope that we will one day find the courage to assume the upper-ground, no questions asked.