Both Avigayil and I (Amram Altzman) have written extensively about the ways in which we have taken on Jewish rituals which, traditionally, fall outside of our traditional gender identities. This is a conversation we’ve been having, more specifically, about what it means to take on Jewish rituals and how that relates to our Jewish identities and our gender identities.
Amram Altzman: When I think about some of the rituals that I’ve taken on, like candle lighting before Shabbat every Friday night, I also think about some of the things I was taught that Jewish males should do, like wear tzitzit all the time, and how I don’t do (or stopped, and then started again) doing at different times in life.
This, in turn, makes me think back to the times when I felt that I fit with the definition of what it means to be a Jewish man—specifically, an Orthodox Jewish man—and times when I did not. It was not only when I felt comfortable with my Judaism, but also when I felt like I fit in with the other Orthodox men that I knew and looked up to that I felt that I could relate to them. In retrospect, I see the times in which I stopped doing those rituals, like wearing a tzitzit under my clothes and donning tefillin, as an expression of the fact that I did not feel like I fit in with other men. Taking on rituals I found were more traditionally feminine, like immersing in the mikveh and lighting Shabbat candles, was an expression of the fact that I was comfortable not necessarily fitting into the box of what it means to be a traditionally observant Jewish man.
Avigayil Halpern: For me, performing ritual that’s not traditionally “female,” or that’s explicitly “male,” has never really felt like an expression of my relationship with my gender; coming from an egalitarian halakhic, or Jewish legal, perspective, I see myself as simply an adult Jew performing mitzvot that I am obligated in. Obviously, as a young woman who has spent most of my life through this point in Orthodox spaces, my femaleness has had a significant impact on the way I came to these mitzvot and the way others perceive my performance of them. Female role models and peers have been hugely important to me, and I actively work to create community for women who lay tefillin and wear tzitzit, with the dual goals of making each of us feel less isolated and redefining the image of the observant Jew in the public imagination.
While I am a tefillin-and-tzitzit wearing woman, though, and my femaleness has had a huge impact on the way I have experienced those mitzvot, the mitzvot themselves are not reflective of the way I experience my gender. I once laid tefillin at school during spirit week while wearing a pink tutu, which totally delighted me. I didn’t need the tutu, however, to affirm my femininity contrasted with the tefillin; rather, the juxtaposition made me feel as though I was reclaiming the mitzvah for people of all gender identities. I’ve been asked several times if I wear tzitzit because I wished I was a boy, and while in Israel this year, strangers have loved to approach me and ask “at gever oh at ishah?” (“Are you a man or a woman?”) Given that I am a cis woman who presents in a feminine way—and that the askers always use the feminine Hebrew pronoun “at” —it’s clear that this question is not intended to open a discussion about my gender identity, but rather aggressively point out that my tzitzit are a challenge to the gender binary. However, I experience my observance of the mitzvot of tzitzit and tefillin not as an expression of my gender, but rather as an attempt to remove gender from the way the public conceives of these mitzvot.
AA: I don’t know if my lighting Shabbat candles makes me more feminine—I am a cisgender male—but I do feel more comfortable with performing what are considered more traditionally masculine rituals because I also have had the opportunity to partake in rituals that are traditionally feminine. As I moved from living in a Modern Orthodox community to living in a more egalitarian community on campus, I also began to look for ways in which I can make my practices more egalitarian as well. I also think that part of how my practices as a Jew have changed have been because of my Jewish role models, many of whom have also been women or queer (if by coincidence or by the fact that I sought them out after I came out), which I think has also impacted the way in which I see gender. From the time I was very young, I was around women who wore kippot, men who did not, and at least knew of—even if I did not experience them until I was in high school—Jewish communities wherein women were prominent leaders and took on those which I, having grown up in the Orthodox world, saw as “masculine” rituals to practice.
My choosing to take on more feminine rituals does not make me less of a man—it just helps me envision a Jewish masculinity wherein I feel comfortable and wherein I can feel comfortable as a queer person. Coming out as queer in the Orthodox world makes you realize (usually very quickly) that your presence destroys the gender binary that has been set up when it comes to Jewish practice, be it in the synagogue which separates men and women or in the home, which also separates men and women by virtue of what they do Jewishly. I don’t think I would be as keen on taking on these so-called “feminine” rituals if I had not come out and made this realization. For me, erasing the binary between “masculine” and “feminine” rituals is a way that I can feel comfortable with my being a traditionally observant queer Jew.
I think one other thing to keep in mind is that even though men can, if they so choose, take on the rituals (men, for example, are traditionally required to light Shabbat candles if they are unmarried and not living at home, and many have the tradition to immerse in the mikveh if they so choose), there is far less precedent for women laying tefillin and wearing tzitzit in Jewish legal history.
AH: I think one of the primary ways our experiences with gendered ritual have differed is that when I began to observe “masculine” ritual, it was very public. The fact that tefillin and tzitzit are masculine and public, of course, is linked; they have to do with the appearance of the observant Jew in the public sphere, and of course appearance in the public sphere is deeply gendered. The mitzvot defined as “for women” have played a relatively minor role in my Jewish life and identity to this point; I light a candle every Friday night, and this is an important part of how I experience Shabbat, but beyond that weekly moment, I don’t do anything else that has been “feminine.” I have on occasion made the bracha on separating challah with my mom when she has made enough, but I’ve never dunked in a mikveh—it’s fairly uncommon for unmarried women to do so, and while the experience interests me, it’s not one I’ve gone out of my way to have. On the flip side, my adoption of “masculine” ritual has been hugely impactful; I don tefillin daily (well, I aspire to), and I wear my tzitzit visibly every day, and these mitzvot shape my life.
Both the public and daily aspects of these mitzvot are tied to women’s historical exemption from them, so it makes sense that they are the two elements that come to mind when I consider what differentiates them from the other mitzvot I do. I’ve also deliberately made these mitzvot both very public and central to my life, as I am an activist around women’s donning of tefillin and tzitzit. I make my experiences public so as to normalize the image of a woman in tefillin and tzitzit as a paradigm of the observant Jew. I, like you, am working to shape a Jewish idea of gender that doesn’t center around rigid and exclusive hierarchies of mitzvot. We’re coming at the issue from opposite sides. Where do you see it ending up? What is the ideal endpoint of our efforts to de-gender these rituals?
AA: Every morning, when I begin my prayer, I pray that I am fearful of God “ba-seter u-ba-galui,” in private and in public, and one of the reasons that I feel compelled to perform these rituals is that they are often much more private and intimate, which is very different than the experience I had as a child. And, just like you found meaning in a more public expression of your Judaism, I found my adopting these private rituals equally as impactful. Having a moment to light candles before Shabbat, and formally beginning Shabbat by doing something very private and very intimate, for me, is one of the most impactful moments of my week. It’s what helps me separate my work week from Shabbat. It reminds me that my Judaism and my commitment to ritual and tradition is something that runs constant through my life, and has shown me that rituals in a community and rituals in private—even if they only last a minute—are equally as important.
I think I see the end goal of de-gendering ritual to be finding new avenues toward spirituality. Blaise Pascal talks about the need to “Kneel down, move your lips in prayer, and you will believe.” We, Jews, have our own version of this: Na’aseh ve-Nishma’, “we will do and we will listen” (Exodus 24:7). As a teenager who struggled spiritually and with Jewish practice, I found it hard to relate to this idea of simply doing things blindly and then believing through them. Now, having found new ways to enter into some sort of spiritual system, I think I understand. There isn’t just one way to engage with spirituality, and, when we gender these rituals, we exclude different—and, perhaps, equally important—ways in which we can engage Jewishly because we have these notions of what a “good Jewish man” or a “good Jewish woman” are supposed to do. Ultimately, de-gendering ritual is a way to understand how we relate to our Judaism in ways in ways that engage our whole selves. This, in turn, allows us to reimagine masculinity and femininity in Judaism, and create a system that forces us to use ritual as an entry point to Jewish spirituality, as opposed to merely going through motions.
AH: What I find gets lost in discussions of finding meaning and spirituality in ritual is consideration of the value of obligation and community. Not every mitzvah is or must be immediately moving or meaningful, but mitzvot, to one who considers themselves to be obligated, are part of a system that works in the context of history and community. Creating a Judaism in which obligation remains a value, but is extended to all those who the community views as full members, can create meta-meaning; a halakhic community that grants true citizenship to all its members, while retaining obligation as a central paradigm, has the power to carry the halakhic system far into the future.
Ultimately, what this discussion highlights for me is that the gendering of ritual simply doesn’t work. I relate more to the rigid structure of daily mitzvot and a paradigm of obligation, while you find more value in private, intimate mitzvot and a focus on individual spiritual needs. I’m struck by how much this is the reverse of the narrative we’re fed; men are creatures of logic and structure, while women are beings of emotion and instinct. Clearly, this is flat-out false. When ritual is freed from the constraints of gender, Jews the chance to access a wider and deeper range of religious opportunity, and individuals and the community only benefit from this.
Amram Altzman is a student at List College.
Avigayil Halpern is a student at Midreshet Ein Hanetziv in Israel and will start at Yale next fall.
