Ritual and Horizontal Tradition

By Avital Morris

A few weeks ago, I was sitting on my bed with a friend, watching a YouTube video of a man tying the knot of tefillin shel yad in the Sephardi style. She had just bought tefillin and wanted to put them on in her family’s Moroccan tradition, but they had been made for Ashkenazim and didn’t wrap the right way. We had no idea how to tie tefillin, so we found the YouTube video and watched it slowly, pausing every few seconds to make sure our knot matched his.

Avital Morris

I am grateful for the Internet for many things, but especially for the access it gives me to Torah and mitzvot. I  cannot learn in most of the Torah institutions in the world, because I’m a woman and also in college in Chicago, but I have learned so much Torah from the Internet by downloading sources and shiurim from around the world and learning them in chevrutot. When I need to lead a part of tefillot and have no one around who knows it or would teach it to a woman, I can almost always find instructions online and figure it out. And when I was asked to tie someone’s tefillin because she doesn’t know a Sephardi man who would fix them for her, I was able to help only because of YouTube.

But it still feels feels sad and wrong to learn these skills from the Internet, useful as it is. Ritual practice has centuries of mimetic tradition behind it, and I’ve heard so much about people learning Torah from years in a beit midrash, learning to daven by singing with a chazan, and learning ritual from parents and teachers. Learning from a person who has no idea I exist (and would be horrified if he did) seems like a rupture in this tradition.

I’ve been putting on tefillin since I was twelve, but in the past couple years, I’ve become more serious and more public about it. Since then, several women interested in putting on tefillin have reached out to me for help. Each had tried to figure it out from YouTube and had been thrown off by some combination of the technical complexity, the fact that most of the videos are of extremely burly Chabad men and therefore hard for people who don’t look like that to follow, and the fact that it’s hard, weird, and lonely.

Teaching other women to put on tefillin is one of the most meaningful experiences I’ve had with mitzvot. Tefillin are physically challenging at first: it’s hard to make them tight enough to stay on but loose enough for comfort, and it’s easy to be discouraged and tempted to give up before it becomes second nature. Especially for women who’ve been told that they should not be wearing tefillin, physical difficulty can feel like confirmation that this mitzvah is inaccessible to them. And even years into putting on tefillin, I feel much safer and able to daven when I’m not the only woman in tefillin, so I’m incredibly happy to talk other women through it and say amen to their shehechianu the first time they fulfill this mitzvah. I love the feeling of passing on mitzvot, and I’m happy to have them learn from me instead of the Chabad man on YouTube.

Of course, the tradition is not supposed to work this way. Most boys learn to put on tefillin from their fathers, not their friends. All of the women I’ve helped with tefillin are at least my age and, in the ordinary tradition of tefillin, would have had them for years. We’re turning a vertical tradition, passed from one generation to the next, into a horizontal one, passed within a single generation, and sometimes it feels confused and off-balance.

Halakhic egalitarian Jews have an analogous relationship to mimetic Judaism more generally. Because we think that paradigms of the roles different people play in halaka have shifted completely since the Rabbinic period and most contemporary halakhic authorities do not, we can’t consult most rabbis about many of our questions and end up looking to older sources and trying to map normative halakha to the world we live in.

Although this frontier is sometimes exciting, I will admit to an occasional longing for an Artscroll-type series that would just tell me what to do, instead of the broad collection of sources and opinions that I usually end up with when I need to make any kind of halakhic decision. Our institutions, rituals, and communities use categories that have been understood by Jews for centuries, but the process of figuring out what exactly they look like is still very much ongoing, and is being done largely from the ground up, by people who are not halakhic authorities in any way.

By creating these communities, I hope we are constructing a chain of transmission that, a generation from now, will feel like it’s always been there. I hope that our children will have an experience of this mitzvah that feels like any other Jewish ritual that children see modelled at home, but that can only happen if people know how to put on tefillin in the first place. For now, teaching women to put on tefillin feels like at least a taste of the mimetic tradition by which people have passed on mitzvot for centuries, and I’m proud to be a part of it.  

Avital Morris is an alumna of Midreshet Ein Hanatziv and is currently a second-year at the University of Chicago.

Me, My Classmates And My Tefillin

By Gefen Lavee

Every one of us dreads public ridicule. Being put on the spot, stared at, teased. Many people will put in extreme effort so as not to be laughed at by their peers, not to be thought of as different, as weird. Unfortunately, in our society, feminism, on this front, puts us in a tricky position. Even though I live in quite a liberal community, and go to an open-minded school, I find that my feminist views, and more so actions, are often looked at as something

Gefen Lavee

negative, maybe even extreme. Sure, I can do whatever I want with my own life, but still people seem to misunderstand the point of my actions, or not be very willing to listen to the ideas behind them. This is caused mostly by what society has taught them to do, and what they are used to.

I remember the first time I told my classmates that I don tefillin. It wasn’t all of them -- I told only my few closest friends from school, one time when we were sitting at break and I was so excited that I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I had readied myself for the looks of shock on their faces, maybe for a few glimpses of disdain and hopefully a good discussion about obligation and women. I was not ready, however, for the laughter. This was followed by a rain of questions; “You do? Really?”, “Do you do it regularly?”, “Doesn’t it feel weird?”. Then one girl said “As open minded as I am with these things, I’m warning you that if I ever see you with tefillin, I’ll probably laugh.” More than this hurt me, it confused me. What is so ridiculous about donning tefillin? Most women don’t do it, but men do all the time, and no one laughs at them.

From a totally objective standpoint, however, if an outsider, someone who is not used to seeing men don tefillin daily, would go into a shul and see a bunch of men standing with black boxes strapped to their heads and a black leather cord wrapped around their arms, it would probably look quite ridiculous to them. These girls, my classmates, have grown up watching men don tefillin their whole lives; it is a very basic, very normal thing in their minds. However, they are not used to the concept of women doing so, and therefore this to them seems bizarre, ridiculous.

I do not blame or judge my classmates. It is human nature to be afraid of things they do not know or are not familiar with. It makes sense to do so -- from an evolutionary point of view, keeping wary and alert keeps you alive. However, nowadays, when our lives do not depend on it, we must teach ourselves to be more open, more thinking, examining our lives and what we do daily. It is the key to our society’s well being. If we learn more, if we think things through, we are more likely to both find the place fitting for us, and help our society progress.

The first step towards this life of constant thinking and learning is creating a different mindset, one that may not come easily. A way of looking at the world that isn’t black and white, good and bad, safe and scary. What we do, as educated humans, is constantly cross lines, explore new realms, go a little bit further every day. This takes courage. It requires that we not be scared to ask questions, to look further into things, to keep acquiring more knowledge. I believe that this mindset will also lead to more tolerance - as long as we do not have all the information about a person, information that as other people we can never access, can never fully understand, we cannot judge. We must not judge.

My classmates' bout of laughter came from ignorance, from a mindset so used to one thing that it found it hard to get accustomed to another. We must strive to change that mindset, to cut loose the boundaries made by society and by our own brains so as to be more open to different behavior, to other opinions. This will lead us to a more tolerant society, a better starting ground not only for feminism, but for every growing liberal movement. We must learn to put ourselves in other people’s shoes -- or maybe even other people’s tefillin.

Gefen Lavee is from Zichron Yaakov, Israel, and is a graduate of Pelech -- Zichron Yaakov and an alumna of Drisha's Dr. Beth Samuels High School Program. This year, she is studying at Midreshet Ein Hanatziv.

Kippah, Tefillin and Standing Out

By Kohava Mendelsohn

Tefillin often feel foreign or strange initially, especially for women.

I am a thirteen-year-old Jewish girl who grew up in a feminist house. I attend a Jewish school that supports egalitarianism, where girls are allowed to wear kipot, tallitot, and tfillin. However, girls in middle school wear doily kipot at the bottom of their hair and boys wear “normal” ones. In the lower grades, boys and girls wear the same type of Bucharian kippah, one that is large and stays on their heads without clips. I felt that wearing a doily hanging from my hair would not feel to me like wearing a kippah. I always wore a regular kippah at shul, and I felt like a doily didn’t cover my head. If a kippah is hanging from the bottom of your hair by a bobby pin, it is not serving its purpose--kippot are supposed to cover the head to remind the wearer that there is a something greater above you. When I entered middle school, I asked to wear a similar kippah to the younger grades, one that I had worn before at my previous Jewish day school. I was allowed to, and I was the only person that wore that type of kippah.

Once a week, the upper grades gather to pray together. This is when we put on tfillin. Male teachers put their tfillin on, and some of the boys who have had bar mitzvahs do as well. While girls are allowed to lay tefillin, they just didn’t, nor did the female teachers. One week, a male teacher asked a group of girls if they wanted to put on tfillin, so they did, and one of the female teachers also did. The next week, only one girl layed tefillin, and the next week it was only boys again. I did not put tfillin on at that time because I was one of the younger people in my grade and was not a Bat Mitzvah yet.

Later, the first week after bat mitzvah, when I could wear tfillin, I left my tfillin -- which my parents gave me -- at home the first time because I was embarrassed to put them on when no other girls were. I eventually took them to school and one of the male teachers who put them on every week showed me how. The teachers were very friendly and made me feel more at ease. A few people gave me weird glances but nobody really cared. I felt different and a little on edge. The tfillin helped me feel like a Jewish adult, but I felt a little unsure of what to do. The next time I put them on I still needed help tying them, but I remembered more. I was more comfortable wearing my tfillin because I had done it before.

I wanted to wear tfillin because I never have heard a valid reason why I shouldn't put on tfillin, and if there is no reason why I shouldn't, then I should; I am obligated as a Jewish adult.

Kohava Mendelsohn is thirteen years old. 

Committed but Conflicted

By Shoshana Michael Zucker

I began praying with a tallit when I was in high school in the early 1970s. Active in NFTY, it was not a gender issue but rather an affirmation of a more traditionalist stance. I didn’t think about tefillin, I don’t think anyone knew at the time did. Both tefillin and the gendered-ness of certain mitzvot were ideas that I knew existed somewhere, but not in my life.

Shoshana Michael Zucker

Several years later, I landed up on the upper West Side of Manhattan, in the orbit of JTS but not formally affiliated with it. I joined the West Side Minyan and the greater Ansche Chesed community that was just beginning to come back to life. Becoming more committed to halakha but still firmly egalitarian, I bought a pair of tefillin. The discourse about “equal obligations for equal rights” that accompanied the debate about accepting women to the JTS rabbinical school was very much in the air but my personal decision was not based on extensive learning. I taught myself from the NCSY Tefillin book and prayed with tefillin for several years, mostly in private but also with the weekday minyan at Ansche Chesed. The few times I wore them elsewhere, I found the feeling of being stared at unbearable.

Then we made aliya, founded Kibbutz Hannaton and had three children. I was on an emotional roller coaster and couldn’t maintain the practice. The tefillin got put aside.

Fast forward. When my daughter was nearly Bat Mitzvah she asked in the most natural way, “Why aren’t you buying me tefillin? Are they too expensive?” It had never dawned on her that she wouldn’t put on tefillin and I never dawned on me that she would want to. At the time, none of the girls or women in her TALI school or the NOAM youth movement prayed with tefillin, but she knew I had a set (and probably didn’t know how little use they got) and her brothers each lit a Shabbat candle. Although she was raised in a very different religious environment than I, she also had little concept of mitzvot being gendered. I gave her my tefillin. She used them faithfully, even in the IDF, despite some nasty feedback. I felt that the tefillin were being put to good use, and was content to be part of a transitional generation.

More years passed, my children grew and left the nest. I began to feel that I was now “using someone else’s exemption;” there was no reason why my life obligations could not accommodate tefillin, especially because I prayed every morning and my synagogue community was accepting. Just when I was on the verge of starting again, a friend was threatened in a public place by a man who found the tefillin marks on her arm objectionable. I felt embarrassingly weak, but that scared me.

The dissonance of reciting Shema without tefillin, “bearing false testimony against myself” (see TB Brachot 14b) continued to nag. Since I work at home, I began using my husband’s tefillin “on a second shift” after he left in the morning. Slowly my commitment strengthened and I bought my own set. Thankfully, the seller didn’t ask who would be using the tefillin. Most of the conversation revolved around the scarcity of Ashkenazi sets. I didn’t want to wait, lest I lose courage. I bought a Sephardi set, and retied the arm knot so I could wrap inward. With an Ashkenazi knot and Sephardi parchment, my hand tefilla represents the ingathering of exiles.

Laying tefillin remains primarily a private practice for me, limited to home and few “safe places.” External expressions of piety feel brazen. Not as a matter of gender, but rather of faith and theodicy. So much in the world is broken, how dare I declare myself committed to God and mitzvot beyond the minimum required for communal identification? Some days, I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is that laying tefillin has strengthened my discipline for prayer. I miss far fewer mornings now. Afternoons and evenings, too. Like moving from being in a relationship, to being engaged and then married.

Indeed, when wrapping the tefillin straps around the hand it is customary to say, “I will betroth you forever: I will betroth you with righteousness and justice, with goodness and mercy…” (Hosea 2:21-22), which I also said to my husband at our wedding. Before doing this, I move my wedding ring from its usual place to my forefinger (so it doesn’t come between my finger and the tefillin strap), returning it to where it was originally placed when we stood beneath the huppah. For me, it is a moment of recognizing the balancing acts and adjustments we must all make between multiple commitments. It is one of the most significant pieces of my tefillin puzzle. Sometimes I think the world-to-come will be a time when all of our commitments fit together without juggling. May it come speedily and in our day.

Shoshana Michael Zucker is an active member of the Masorti congregation Hod veHadar in Kfar Saba. She earns a living by translating and editing but would rather teach Torah.

Text and Textile

By Maya Rosen

In middle school, I fell in love with Chazal. After a teacher gave me a copy of Massechet Pesachim, I spent hours thumbing through my English-Hebrew-Aramaic dictionary, slowly teasing out the linguistic and textual puzzle. It was through the Talmud that I first experienced the feeling of an intellectual heritage. As I pondered legal principles and fanciful legends, I became aware and appreciative of the gift of books, language, and culture. The rabbinic engagement with every aspect of life taught me to feel both love for and responsibility to the printed word.

Maya Rosen ties tzitzit.

More than just another text, the Talmud introduced a host of characters into my inner world. I encountered figures who view learning as an all-encompassing life orientation, and I loved them. I marveled over Rabbi Akiva’s logic, Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai’s conviction, and Ben Azzai’s intuitions. Reish Lakish always made me smile, and I admired Rav Huna’s character. These rabbis became constant figures in my life, and I thought regularly about what they would think or how they would act in the situations in which I found myself.

At the same time, I was convinced that Chazal would have hated me. I regularly encountered misogynistic stories and statements in rabbinic texts, and I imagined Chazal’s disappointment that I, a young woman, was learning Talmud. I didn’t want to stop, but I felt that my learning affronted the very system I loved so much. I spent my days in public high school wishing I had the opportunity to learn Torah seriously, and it pained me to think about what Chazal would have thought of my secular studies, my Western dress, and my liberal politics. I wanted Chazal to approve of my life, but my female body was a source of resentment and shame every time I opened a new daf.

Around this time, I acquired my first set of tefillin and tzitzit. At the time, it felt like an impulsive decision, though looking back on it, I realize I had a strong conviction that Torah was speaking to and demanding something of me. I wanted desperately to be a full and active citizen in the world of Torah. I no longer believed that the mitzvot I spoke of twice a day in the Shema were speaking only about men. In the same way that Chazal had become real people for me years earlier, I wanted the words of the Torah also to become real. Beginning to lay tefillin and wear tzitzit was, in a literal sense, the materialization of my prayers.

Happily, my relationship with Chazal has changed considerably. As I have learned more Torah, I see the change inherent to the system; also, I now understand better how history generally is constructed. I now think, or at least hope, that Chazal would have thought that I’m worthy of living within the same history as their system.

Perhaps it is ironic that by beginning to observe what many consider particularly “gendered” mitzvot (tefillin and tzitzit), I finally improved my angst-ridden relationship with Chazal. I found that these mitzvot combined the physical and the transcendent in a way that ultimately felt beyond gender. I started counting the seven wraps of the tefillin strap around my forearm with the seven words of Psalms 118:5: “min hametzar karati ya anani bamerchav yah," "Out of the straits I called upon God, who answered me with great spaciousness.” As I tucked the corners of my tzitzit into my clothes, I would smile thinking of the Sifre’s comment: “‘v’asu lahem tzitzit’—af hanashim b’mashma," "‘they should make for themselves tzitzit’—this includes women.” Sometimes I would think of Rashi’s comment that compares the four corners of tzitzit to the four verbs God uses in promising redemption. Often, I recited the words of a baraita in Menachot: “chavivin yisrael she’sivavan ha’Kadosh Baruch Hu b’mitzvot: tefillin b’rosheihen u’tefillin b’zeroteyhen, v’tzitzit b’bigdeihen." "Beloved is Israel for the Holy-Blessed-One surrounded them with mitzvot: tefillin on their heads, and tefillin on their arms, and tzitzit on their clothing.” Putting on my tzitzit in the morning before school and remembering that, indeed, "chavivin yisrael" became a gentle act of tikkun with Chazal.

Wearing tzitzit and laying tefillin remain the most sincere ways I know to portray to God the identity to which I strive. When I put on tzitzit in the morning, I am putting on the uniform of the person I want to be. The words of the Shema and the tassels on each corner under my clothing remind me to try and live a life that is surrounded by and enveloped in mitzvot. For this reason, tzitzit are the best example I know of the linguistic link between “text” and “textile.”

There are still problems. I am vain about not allowing my tzitzit to peak out of the shoulders of my favorite dress, and I often wake feeling that laying tefillin is only a task to be checked off my morning to-do list. One thing that has been helpful is finding peers, teachers, and communities who think seriously about mitzvot, gender, and their intersection. When I started wearing tzitzit, I thought that doing so would isolate me from the Jewish community. My work this past year to create Netzitzot, an initiative to sell tzitzit designed for women (www.netzitzot.com), has shown me that my fears were misguided. At the Netzitzot launch party in New York a few months ago, the dozens and dozens of people in attendance proved to me that tzitzit are fringe in the literal sense only. We tied tzitzit onto fifty garments that night, and as the party came to a close and we gathered together to doven Maariv, there was a certain buzz in the air as each person got to the phrase in Shema: “v’asu lahem tzitzit," "you should make for them tzitzit.” This we had done, and I knew Torah approved.

Maya Rosen is a rising sophomore at Princeton University and the founder of Netzitzot.

Jewish Feminist Luck and Choices

By Judith Rosenbaum

When I think about my Jewish feminist experience, most of the time I think about my luck. I had the good fortune to be born in the early 1970s just as Jewish feminism was unfolding, into the New York havurah community at the center of this development, to one of the young women (Paula Hyman) pioneering the movement. So Jewish feminism has been, for me, a birthright more than a choice – something I almost took for granted as a defining characteristic of my Jewish life.

Judith Rosenbaum (right) wearing tefillin in 1992.

One of the first independent Jewish feminist choices I remember making consciously was my decision to begin laying tefillin when I became a bat mitzvah. This was in 1986, and while I was lucky to be part of a community where this was an option, it was certainly not a given that I would choose to take on this practice. At my day school, there was one other girl who had just begun to lay tefillin around the same time, but it was still definitely seen as an odd thing for a girl to do.

Luckily – again – I was a spunky kid. I didn’t mind standing out. In fact, I liked being different. When I wrapped my tefillin, I felt bold. Though the practice felt strange at first, it was the strangeness of wrapping leather straps around one’s head and arm, not the fact of doing so as a young woman. In fact, I think I wore my tefillin more proudly and confidently than the boys in my class, who I recall as somewhat fumbling in their attempts to get the straps on tight enough that they wouldn’t slip down and bunch around their wrists, and loose enough that they wouldn’t cut off circulation in their arms. For me, laying tefillin was an active choice; for them, it was school policy.

When I began attending a non-Jewish high school, daily prayer – and therefore, tefillin – ceased to be a part of my schedule, and I missed them. My tefillin seemed forlorn, nestled next to my tallit, which still got regular use every Shabbat. Soon I was recruited to join the members of my congregation who volunteered to attend morning prayers on particular days of the week, to insure that there would be a minyan for those who needed one to say kaddish. My day was Wednesday, and though it was always hard to drag myself out of bed to make it to minyan so early in the morning, I was glad to have an opportunity to use my tefillin again.

There were many aspects of that early morning minyan experience that I treasured: feeling like a grown up who was making an important contribution to my community; feeling remarkably accepted by the other regulars in the morning minyan crowd, most of them men over 80 years old. It wasn’t inspired davenning, to be sure; it was quick, chanted hurriedly in low voices. But as we all sat there, swaying in our tallitot and tefillin (my tefillin shel rosh usually perched on top of hair still wet from the shower), I felt an incredible sense of belonging and pride. When I would take my seat in class an hour later, I often ran my fingers over the indentations on my left arm, a sweet reminder that I had already done something important that day.

Embracing tefillin was one of the ways in which I made feminism my own. I’m proud to hold the distinction of being one of the oldest women who has been laying tefillin since becoming a bat mitzvah, and for many of my friends, one of the first women they ever saw in tefillin. More than 25 years after my bat mitzvah, I remain in the minority as a woman who lays tefillin. Though I feel some disappointment that this mitzvah still feels inaccessible or unappealing to many women, I am proud to be able to model not only how to wrap tefillin but also how comfortable a woman can feel in those strange leather straps.

Judith Rosenbaum, PhD, is a writer, educator, and historian, and the incoming Executive Director of the Jewish Women’s Archive. She also serves on the faculty of the Bronfman Youth Fellowships in Israel.

No Animals Were Harmed in the Making of These Tefillin

Eden, right, prays with her father.

By Eden Farber

Growing up in an observant household, taking on new mitzvot has always been exciting, part of initiating and personalizing my Jewish
journey. When I was seven, I started keeping Shabbat. When I was eleven, I started fasting on fast days. When I was twelve, I started davening every day. When I was fifteen, I started studying daf yomi (admittedly not a mitzvah, but certainly a significant practice). When I was sixteen, I had my first truly inspirational prayer experience at a partnership minyan in New York City. And when I turned seventeen, I began laying tefillin.

Of all the reasons that I took a long time to start wearing tefillin, I’d like to address only one here: frankly, I was grossed out by the idea of wrapping a dead body around my arm every day. It just felt uncomfortable. As a person who is very conscientious about what I put in my mouth and on my body—I adhere to a vegan diet, make my own toiletries, and more.—this mitzvah felt unnatural. How can I perform a spiritual ritual that can only be completed through the untimely death of a fellow creature?

This issue quickly became more than just a theological question: it became an ethical dilemma.

I’d like to bring a halachic concept to the table. It’s called a mitzvah haba’ah b’aveira, a mitzvah that comes from a sin. Recently, my chavruta and I came across this concept in our Talmud shiur. Our scenario involved using a stolen lulav on Sukkot—which is forbidden, for this reason. We don’t want to do mitzvot, which are inherently good, by doing aveirot, which are inherently bad. It would seem obvious that stealing to fulfil the mitzvah of lulav would be wrong—why even give an explanation? It’s unethical. Doing something good in the world by doing something bad in the world cancels the good deed out; it’s basic mathematics. A negative plus a positive gets you nowhere—especially when they don’t have the same weight. Killing for the sake of fulfilling a mitzvah didn’t seem to add up. I didn’t want my prayer to become a mitzvah haba’ah b’aveira.

Despite my feelings about the ethics or lack thereof of leather, however, I still really wanted to take on the practice of tefillin. As a halachic Jew, I simply couldn’t not. Tefillin are part of the deal. I didn’t know how to balance wanting to fulfill my chiyuv, my obligation, and sticking to my ground about not supporting the killing of animals. I asked questions and did research until I finally heard of something that seemed to be the perfect solution: tefillin shel shlil. Tefillin shel shlil are tefillin whose leather is made from an animal that died of natural causes. There are sofrim in Israel who ask kibbutzim to tell them when a cow dies naturally, and from that hide and that hide only they make the tefillin.

This way, no one is killing; there is no prescribed death for the purposes of human benefit. It’s natural, it’s recycling. It’s like giving the cow another life, without touching its first one. I can’t say if this is objectively so or I’ve just sunken into a deep level of cognitive dissonance—I can only tell you that I’ve never once felt gross putting on my tefillin shel shlil.

Finding a comfortable solution was not easy, but Judaism is not about ease. There are questions—very difficult questions—and there is no one answer for every person. Not picking and choosing my halachic practices or my ethical ones is difficult, but worthwhile when I can say that my halachic lifestyle compromises neither my integrity nor my ethical commitments.

Now, every day when I put my tefillin on, knowing that they are a product of nature and not of industry, I daven proudly. I am happy to have taken another step in my Jewish journey.

Eden Farber, age seventeen, is an unschooler and an alumna of Drisha's Dr. Beth Samuels High School Programs and BIMA at Brandeis. She is a columnist for the Atlanta Jewish Times and has written for  theFBomb.org, JOFA's The Torch, the JOFA Journal, the New York Jewish Week's Fresh Ink for Teens, and Modern Hippie Magazine.  Next year, she will be attending Midreshet Ein Hanatziv's Hesder program, which combines Torah study and military service.

Finding a Group of Likeminded Women

By Lauren Tuchman

There has been quite a firestorm in the Jewish blogosphere of late with regards to ritual and gender, and the ways in which gender is tied to, or not tied to, religious obligation and donning of ritual garb. The discussions are tremendously multilayered and complex and I cannot address them fully here. Though debates of this sort have been going on for quite some time, the latest round began after several Orthodox day schools began to allow female students to lay tefillin, black boxes containing pivotal passages from the Torah that are worn during morning prayers on the head and arm. I have found these discussions deeply frustrating and it often feels to me like we are spilling more virtual ink derailing and attacking instead of relating and accepting. As a Conservative egalitarian woman, tefillin are an incredibly important mitzvah for me. I yearn to live in a world in which mitzvot are not gendered, a world in which religious obligation is accessible to all who wish to take hold of Torah. I believe we need to radically rethink obligation and implementation of such, and I believe this is a sacred task.

Lauren Tuchman

One of the most unique aspects of the rabbinical school at JTS is that it is the only rabbinical school in the world of which I am aware that requires women to lay tefillin. My tefillin journey began several years ago, and although it had its ups and downs, laying tefillin is a mitzvah I deeply cherish today. When I expressed interest to a friend of mine in learning to lay tefillin, I was incredibly fortunate to receive unqualified support for this. I began laying tefillin while a graduate student exploring my relationship to mitzvot and observance more broadly and was incredibly fortunate to have been taught and encouraged by a variety of women, each of whom was very excited that I wanted to take on this mitzvah. I must say—at first, though I always knew intrinsically that laying tefillin was the right thing for me—I found them incredibly overwhelming and not a little strange. No sooner would I finish laying my tefillin in the morning than Shacharit would be nearing its end, requiring me to quickly master the art of speed davening. Since tefillin have been and in many communities still are traditionally a men’s thing, it can be hard for women to find the support and resources they need. For me, finding a group of likeminded women was incredibly comforting.

Though tefillin is a mitzvah that I deeply cherish, I have experienced feelings of isolation as one of the few women I knew who laid tefillin in my community, and I often wondered why I, unlike so many other women I knew, never felt uncomfortable with the prospect of laying such a typically or traditionally masculine ritual article. Whenever I would be asked about this, particularly by more liberal friends of mine—women who, though raised in egalitarian communities still felt a visceral discomfort with tefillin—I began to be unsure of myself. Why didn’t I feel the same discomfort, and in fact felt the exact opposite, that tefillin was the absolutely right thing for me? What was their experience that I was totally missing and couldn’t relate to? And how can I relate to it? I believe that this is emblematic of the fact that the gendering of ritual garb has been something I have always struggled with. After all, if Michal, the daughter of Saul and Rashi’s daughters, according to legend at least, laid tefillin, why not me? 

I was thrilled to participate in a class this summer at the National Havurah Committee’s summer institute taught by two women all about tefillin and encouraging the mostly female audience to take on the mitzvah, if they felt it was the right thing for them.

Although I am now at a place of complete comfort with my own Jewish choices and mode of Jewish expression, I look back on those moments when I felt like tefillin was the weirdest, most overwhelming thing I had ever tried to put on and feel incredibly grateful that I managed to find a community of supportive women who helped me along my journey. It is my hope that I can pay it forward.

Lauren Tuchman is completing her first year of rabbinical school at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York, where she previously earned a master of arts in Judaic studies. She is a contributing scholar at State of Formation, a platform for emerging religious thinkers from a variety of traditions.

Bread and Butter, Challah and Tefillin, and the “New Jew”

The following is an excerpt from Rabbi Dr. Haviva Ner-David's newly released book, Chanah's Voice: A Rabbi Wrestles with Gender, Commandment, and the Women's Rituals of Baking, Bathing, and Brightening, which is now available for purchase.

Whatever work in the home has now come to mean to me, I am still not willing to sacrifice my work in the world. I have come to value “women’s work,” but I also want to be involved in the work men have traditionally done. I want to bake challah and wear tefillin. Or, more accurately, I want both Jacob and myself to both bake challah and wear tefillin. And that is not so simple. It requires juggling, sharing, organizing, and compromise. Sometimes frozen spinach will have to do when we were both too busy all day to buy fresh; and sometimes the laundry will have to sit unfolded for days. And sometimes a meeting will have to be cancelled when a child is home sick; and sometimes the tefillin will have to lay, untouched, in their bag, when other more pressing responsibilities arise.

Rabbi Dr. Ner-David at prayer

But the mental and emotional switch I made as result of my journey into challah baking is that I now see all of these aspects of life as spiritual. Baking challah requires not only faith and submission to a process, but also patience and an ability to be present in the moment. Like all nurturing creative work.

When my oldest child, Michal, was born, my outer world changed and so did my inner world. To suddenly have a newborn to care for was a shock. Raising a child is a productive and grand endeavor, but day-to-day care-giving activities are not particularly intellectually satisfying. I would change a diaper only to have the baby decide that a clean diaper is an even better place to poop than the dirty one. Or I would finish nursing the baby and before I knew it, the baby was hungry again.

Despite the challenges of this consuming experience, I loved being the mother of a newborn. I loved nursing. I loved dressing my new baby. At first I tried to read books while nursing, but as Michal grew older, reading while nursing became more difficult and unnecessary. Instead, I spent the time watching her, playing with her fingers, or letting my thoughts wander. Caring for an infant prepared me for parenting in general. As time went by, I learned to let go, to enjoy sitting in the park with my kids, making them dinner, even folding the laundry. I became less goal-oriented, less achievement-oriented, and learned to just be, to be present and alive in the moment, and for that to be enough.

Is this state of being the end goal that the positive time-bound mitzvot—like laying tefillin and reciting the Sh’ma—are meant to achieve? Is this why women, historically the primary childcare providers, are exempt from these mitzvot? Did they learn the art of being present in the moment from their nurturing work and daily household tasks? The Mishnah tells us that women are exempt from positive time-bound mitzvot, but it gives us no explanation as to why. Fourteenth-century Rabbi David ben Joseph Abudraham explains that women serve their husbands; if they are obligated to perform time-bound mitzvot, they will feel torn between serving their master (“baal,” the Hebrew word for husband, also the word for master) and serving their Creator, and the result would be tension in the home. In the 13th century Rabbi Jacob Anatoly says that it is a woman’s God-given role to serve her husband. Therefore, it made no sense to obligate her to mitzvot that would take her away from the job God meant for her to do.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, writing in the 19th century, suggests that women are spiritually superior to men (both innately and due to their more cloistered existence away from the temptations and distractions of the world), and therefore do not need to perform all of the 613 mitzvot. Contemporary Rabbis Emanuel Rackman and Norman Lamm posit that women are more aware of the sanctity of time because of their monthly bodily cycles and therefore do not need the positive time-bound mitzvot, whose purpose is to make us aware of the sanctity and cyclical nature of time.

Another popular contemporary explanation for the exemption of women from positive time-bound mitzvot is that women’s time must be flexible so they can devote it to raising children and homemaking, which are as important as the mitzvot from which they are exempt. Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, the revered 20th century Ashkenazi posek, assumes this explanation for women’s exemption from positive time-bound mitzvot.

I doubt these contemporary explanations were the actual historical reasons for the exemption. Women in talmudic times did not live as cloistered an existence as women in 19th century Europe. Moreover, as in 19th and 20th century Europe, if the couple was not wealthy, neither would have had the time to lay tefillin in the mornings; and if they were wealthy and had servants, both the man and woman would have had the time. In talmudic times, wealthy women hired wet nurses and servants for most of the home-making and child-rearing work.

More likely, women were exempt from these mitzvot for reasons closer to those suggested by Rabbis Jacob Anatoly and David ben Joseph Abudraham back in the 13th and 14th centuries. Women’s role in Jewish society was to be subservient and enable the husbands to perform the important work, which included these most prestigious mitzvot. Another factor may have been the desire to keep these mitzvot in the hands of men to safeguard their sanctity and prestige. If women, second class citizens, began to perform these mitzvot, they would lose their value.

It seems from the Gemarah itself that “positive time-bound mitzvot” was a descriptive category rather than a prescriptive one. In the discussion on the mishnah which states the general principle that women are exempt from all positive time-bound mitzvot, the rabbis of the Talmud bring so many exceptions to the rule that they conclude that one cannot learn anything from general principles. Women probably did not commonly perform a number of mitzvot for the reasons stated above, and only later were these mitzvot lumped together and given a name so that the Rabbis could officially discourage women from performing them. This seems especially likely since there are so many mitzvot women are not only obliged to perform but that are even considered special “women’s mitzvot” that are just as if not more time-bound as those they are exempt from. I can think of no mitzvah more time-bound than lighting Shabbat candles, for instance, or all of the intricate internal vaginal checks required surrounding the menstrual cycle.

This means that when women’s exemption from the category of positive time-bound mitzvot was established, the issues were sociological, not spiritual. Women’s exemption preserved men’s power and kept women in their subservient role; it was not about women inhabiting a higher spiritual plane. There are too many derogatory statements about women in the Talmud for one to believe that the ancient rabbis considered women to be closer to God than they were. If the rabbis believed this, they would have told the women to make the rules! The rabbinic approach to mitzvot is not that they are a consolation prize. They are a privilege and an honor. They are humanity’s side of the covenant with our Creator.

Whatever the historical truth may be, however, it does not detract from the power of our own experience of mitzvot. Could caring for my children stand in for formal ritual acts? Could taking the time to steam organic carrots and mash them rather than buy baby food in a jar substitute for laying tefillin? No. Men and women need both: the everyday activities of family life, and the more formal mitzvoth, to connect us to our past, to our tradition, and to connect our children to that tradition and past.

Nevertheless, it may be that when we are caught up in nurturing, we do need these mitzvot less. Perhaps we can be easier on ourselves when we miss yet another morning of wrapping tefillin because we had to find our son’s shoes. Perhaps we can be more forgiving of ourselves when even on a more smooth morning, we, again, resort to a quick wrapping and unwrapping of the tefillin with only the most essential prayers thrown in. And maybe in the years when homemaking is at its most intense, we can even allow ourselves to take a break from some of the more formal mitzvot that take away from the time we need to spend with our children or spouses or in simply keeping afloat of household chores.

For instance, someone working a full-time job already has little enough time for family and communal life. How much time should he or she set aside for serious Torah study? Leaving home in the evening to study Torah makes sense if studying Torah is the highest Jewish value—and there are stories in the Talmud of scholars leaving home for years on end that would seem to support that position. But I would question the point of all that Torah study if it comes at the expense of other Jewish values including family, community involvement and making the world a better place.

I have come to the conclusion that the rabbis exempted women from certain mitzvot to ensure that men are free to serve God through mitzvot, and that the mitzvot not lose their status and, therefore, their power to inspire awe. The impact of this exemption on women’s spirituality and ability to serve God was acceptable, in their view—if the question of women’s spirituality was even considered.

Today, however, women are equal citizens in secular society (at least officially) and are not expected to sacrifice their self-fulfillment for men. The rabbinic model of women’s exemption from mitzvot no longer makes sense. Even as I have come to value homemaking and other nurturing activities once considered more feminine (such as communal work), I am still not willing to consider them “women’s work.” To be full, balanced human beings we all need to be engaged in both the public and private spheres, in nurturing acts as well as acts of self-fulfillment. Men, therefore, should take challah and women should wrap tefillin, and vice versa. If we value both of these experiences, and if we see neither gender as subservient to the other, we should settle for nothing less.

The growing presence of same-sex couples in our communities, who have joined together to sanctify their relationships and build families together, highlights how little it makes sense to divide roles along gender lines. Should the children of lesbian parents have no model for performing the mitzvah of tefillin? Should gay men not bake challah with their children? Should each member of the couple be assigned a traditional gender role? How much more sensible to share these mitzvot so that no one member of the couple loses out spiritually and no mitzvot are neglected!

Nevertheless, we should not take the rabbis’ concerns lightly. Will the mitzvah of wrapping tefillin lose its sacred aura if women begin to practice it? Not if we reckon women to be just as important as men. And not if we remember to value homemaking as akin to other, more formal spiritual acts. We need to shatter the hierarchical model altogether, not replace the current one with another.

But what of the concern that the family unit will suffer if we step away from homemaking to perform time-bound mitzvot? Will we all—men and women alike—be able to make time to perform the positive time-bound mitzvot daily and simultaneously give homemaking the attention it deserves? Perhaps not. But I am not suggesting that women strive to be men with all that the category entails in the halakhic rabbinic system. Rather, if it is impractical to expect everyone to lay tefillin every day at every point in their lives, perhaps we need to rethink the nature of this obligation for everyone—men and women alike.

Taking this notion seriously means creating a new halakhic category; rather than dividing Jews between “man” and “woman”, one obligated in time-bound mitzvot and one exempt, we can simply call a Jew a “Jew”. This new “Jew” will not be a member of a hierarchical, gendered Jewish society, and therefore, we need a new paradigm for how this new “Jew” should relate to mitzvot.

Perhaps the very notion of obligation is no longer the appropriate model for understanding mitzvot. In our day and age, religious practice stems more from personal choice than communal or even Divine obligation, and our understanding of what it means to be a mitzvah-observing Jew should reflect that. No longer are Jews born into a community which defines roles and sets religious expectations from which there is no escape. People choose to observe mitzvot who could just as easily ignore them. They choose to be part of a community of Jewish religious practice when they could just as easily walk away from their Jewish identity and observance. The theology that assumes obligation comes only from God is therefore no longer relevant for most of us.

Instead of an obligation imposed from without, Jews practice mitzvot because of a commitment from within. One might even make a commitment to a specific religious community or approach, or even make a commitment to God, and by so doing obligate oneself to observe mitzvot—but the option to not make that commitment is equally real.

I propose, then, that we accept this sociological reality as a new theological paradigm of religious practice. Between the traditional positions of inescapable obligation and unrelieved exemption, the model of commitment represents a middle way, a paradigm that combines these two rabbinic models. This new commitment model evokes the seriousness of obligation but suggests that the obligation comes as a heartfelt gift, a terumah, from the individual Jew.

As a gift to the merciful God, the commitment to mitzvot has limits. Built into it is the flexibility that the earlier system achieved through exemption. I do not believe that God wants us to dedicate ourselves in a way that brings too much turmoil into our lives on earth and too much tension in our relationships and certainly not in a way that removes us from nurturing work. Changing the baby’s diaper takes precedence over wearing tefillin, but the presence of a baby does not let us off the hook entirely from our commitment to God.

Within this model of commitment, prioritizing and balancing our commitments and values remains an ongoing responsibility. This is not as simple a matter as the traditional division of roles based on gender, but I see this as the only option in an egalitarian, non-hierarchical society.

The traditional model assumed there was an enabler in the picture to maintain the household. Therefore, if we rid ourselves of hierarchy, we must redefine what it means to perform these mitzvot “properly.” If we let go of the notion that mitzvot like tefillin must be performed every day and with total kavanah, performing them will not feel as impossible a task as it sometimes does when trying to balance this with other tasks of value. We may be committed to the mitzvah of tefillin, but not to its perfect performance. What becomes important is to keep the ritual of wrapping tefillin as an ideal, as a mitzvah that is important to us, even while remembering the inherent value of the work that is exemplified by the “women’s mitzvot.”

It is also important to remind ourselves that we are not missing out on the formal ritual experience completely even if we can’t do the actual wrapping every morning. Childcare, cooking, and making a home, when done with the right state of mind, can put us into that same state of living beyond time and beyond ourselves that is part of the experience of serving God through what the Mishnah calls the “positive time-bound commandments.”

By the same token, if we are too exhausted on Friday to bake our own challot, we can forgo the mitzvah of taking challah once in a while. Thankfully, Judaism blesses us with more than one ritual way to offer ourselves up to God. What is essential is that we, the new “Jews,” remain committed to both tefillin and challah and all they represent as integral parts of our religious practice.

If the goal of feminism is indeed for women to be changed by men and for men to be changed by women, and for society as a whole to be changed as a result, then we have no choice but to open ourselves to becoming the “New Jews” with a totally new, untraditional, relationship to mitzvot.

And yes, this will mean Judaism as we know it will be somewhat transformed. But we should not fear this inevitability; this is all part of using the broken pieces of the world to build a better place for everyone in it.

Rabbi Dr. Haviva Ner-David is the rabbinic director of Shmaya: A Ritual and Educational Mikveh. She is the author of Life on the Fringes: A Feminist Journey Towards Traditional Rabbinic Ordination (2000, JFL Books) and Chanah's Voice: A Rabbi Wrestles with Gender, Commandment, and the Women's Rituals of Baking, Bathing, and Brightening (Ben Yehuda Press, 2014). Rabbi Ner-David has also been an active board member of Women of the Wall and Rabbis for Human Rights and was one of the founders of Shira Hadashah, the first partnership minyan. She was the first woman to publicly receive Orthodox rabbinic ordination and now describes herself as a post-denominational rabbi. Rabbi Ner-David lives on Kibbutz Hannaton with her husband and seven children, where she runs the Shmaya mikveh and is working on workbook for engaged couples and a novel.

Becoming "Tefillin Girl"

By Shira Harris

As a self-conscious seventh grader, the concept of wearing tefillin seemed exciting but impractical. I was influenced by peer pressure and wanted to blend in with the rest of my grade. I cared too much about what others thought of me and was not self confident enough to make a bold statement about my Judaism. When presented with the opportunity to wear tefillin, I responded like a typical twelve-year-old.

 Two years later, during my freshman year of high school, as a tallit-wearing girl, I began to rethink about the concept of wearing tefillin. Growing up in an egalitarian community where women wearing tefillin is halachically accepted, I decided that I was ready to begin observing this mitzvah. I was a freshman at an egalitarian high school and felt surrounded by a supportive community with older female students and teachers who also wore tefillin. I vividly remember the day I bought my tefillin. I asked the saleswoman for a set of tefillin, not acknowledging that they were for me. I look back on that day and am disappointed that I was not brave enough to tell her that I would be putting them on each morning. I went directly from the store to my synagogue where one of my rabbis taught me how to wrap it, noting that the woman had sold me sefardic tefillin. 

 I was greeted on Monday with stares, questions, and skepticism from my peers. Thankfully, as the years passed, the questions, stares, and judgements eventually died down. It became routine to put on my tefillin each morning, as well as for my school to see me as “tefillin girl.” What used to make me feel uncomfortable now helps me feel connected to prayer and enhances my identity as a student at school and as a Jewish woman. As one of the Co-Chairs of the Vaad Tefillah at my school, I have taken the place of the women who came before me in mentoring younger students to take ownership of this mitzvah. As I leave the familiar halls of high school, I know that I will bring my tefillin with me next year as I begin college. 

Shira Harris is a senior at Chicagoland Jewish High School in Deerfield, IL. Next year, she will be a first-year student in the Double Degree Program with Barnard College and the Jewish Theological Seminary.

Safrut, Egalitarianism, and Community

By Jen Talyor Friedman

I write tefillin.

This means that most mornings, I sit down with a long thin strip of parchment, and a quill pen cut very narrow, and I write the texts of tefillin in teeny-tiny letters. When they’re done, I roll the strips up and make them into little packages with lengths of calf hair and narrow parchment ribbons, and set them into the tefillin housings, which I buy from Israel. I sew them closed, sand and paint the join. I attach retzuot and send them off to their new owner.

Image of tefillin via Jen's Etsy shop

Learning to write tefillin takes a long time. It’s not the complex rules of writing, although that takes a long time to master. It’s not even the calligraphy, really, although good calligraphy helps. What takes the time is learning to do calligraphy according to a complex set of rules on a miniature scale. I’d written four complete Torah scrolls before I felt like a good enough calligrapher to start doing tefillin.

Learning to write tefillin also isn’t easy when you’re a woman. Traditionally, women have not been allowed to be scribes, and there are not so many teachers who are willing to teach women. As it happens, I’m the first woman since the advent of egalitarian Judaism to have written a Torah scroll (or four). I happened onto the scene just as yeshiva learning was becoming more accessible to women, and when you combine yeshiva learning with calligraphy, you can get the sacred scrolls. I still had to teach myself most of the details of the scribe’s craft, but I was lucky to have access to a few broad-minded teachers, who helped me just enough.

Why have women not been allowed to be scribes? “Those who don’t lay may not write,” says the Talmud (Gittin 45b). Those who are not commanded to lay tefillin are not permitted to write any of the sacred scrolls—not tefillin, not mezuzot, and not Torah scrolls—and women, in the classical view, are not commanded to lay tefillin.

So women aren’t allowed to participate in the constant rebirth and transmission of our sacred texts. The Talmud says that writing a Torah is an experience equivalent to receiving it yourself like Moses on Sinai. Women aren’t allowed to have that experience. Even though women are required to have mezuzot on their doors, they aren’t allowed to write those mezuzot. And they certainly may not write tefillin. This is the classical view.

At the time I became interested in writing sacred scrolls, I was on the fringe of Modern Orthodoxy, which takes gender barriers seriously. You can’t be a Modern Orthodox woman and write Torah scrolls. I struggled for a while, but ultimately I realized that I simply didn’t want to be part of a world which is okay with that. I tried telling myself that I didn’t really mind; I tried convincing Orthodox communities that it was time to change that rule, and I found peace when I quit trying and became part of an egalitarian Conservative community, which took as axiomatic the equal rights and obligations of men and women within the framework of Jewish ritual.

So now I live in a world which sees me as an equal citizen, and my job in that world is the creation and repair of sacred scrolls.

This I like very much. I no longer bother trying to justify myself to people who insist that “Women have no obligation in tefillin” or “Why don’t you do all the women’s mitzvot perfectly before you start doing men’s mitzvot” or all the other things people say. It’s like I don’t bother trying to justify political ideas to people whose politics are radically different to mine. Life became much simpler and more enjoyable when I decided to make communities with people who share my outlook, rather than trying to convince everyone around me to change theirs.

Some readers here aren’t yet able to do that. The trick then, I find, is to not engage with people who are only interested in telling you that you’re doing it wrong. Politely assure them that you’re not interested in making them change their practice, and ask that they extend the same courtesy to you. Repeat as necessary. Have interesting discussions with interesting people, by all means, but don’t bother with the people who want to make you stop doing your thing.

The hard thing for me at the moment is connecting with women who are still in an Orthodox framework, but who want me to write them tefillin. There is no way for an Orthodox person, male or female, to have kosher tefillin written by women. It’s not like Kiddush or tallit or Kabbalat Shabbat or Torah reading, where it’s mostly about custom and a flexible reading of the halakha lets women in. There really is no way to justify women writing sacred scrolls in an Orthodox framework. So I can’t write tefillin for Orthodox women, in good conscience, because I’m not about making people stop being Orthodox. 

It’s hard because as a female tefillin scribe, many of my clients are women, who feel particularly drawn to the idea of having a woman create their tefillin. Most of them are first-generation tefillin-wearers, making their own space in a men’s ritual. For some of them, tefillin written by a woman are a kind of support, a reminder that they aren’t alone.

I also sometimes talk with women who feel odd wearing ordinary tefillin because it feels like wearing a man’s garment—after all, the person who wrote it almost certainly had no idea a woman was going to be wearing it. Some women feel better if they know their tefillin have been written with women in mind. I can’t give that support and reassurance to Orthodox women, and that’s a pity.

As a female tefillin scribe, I’m also exploring the possibility of giving a more feminine feel to the straps. I have heard of leather-stamping being used to beautify tefillin in Italy, several hundred years ago, and it does not make the straps non-kosher provided they remain black, so why not have a pattern of flowers, or leaves, or anything at all, stamped into the straps? In addition, the insides of the straps can be any colour apart from red; I’m learning how to dye leather so that I can make tefillin with straps which are black on the outside and fun colours on the inside. Some women will find this idea completely repellent, and some will love it. That’s okay. There’s plenty of room for us all.

 
Jen Taylor Friedman is an egalitarian feminist Jewish ritual scribe and scholar. She is notorious for having created Tefillin Barbie, and notable for being the first woman in modern times known to have written a sefer Torah. She has written four Torah scrolls and her students have written several more. She lives in Montreal, writes tefillin, mezuzot, and ketubot, and teaches aspiring scribes all over the world. Her website is at www.HaSoferet.com.

Welcome!

Welcome to V'Tzivanu!

A few years ago, I began to think about the possibility of wearing tzitzit and laying tefillin. As a curious fourteen-year-old, naturally the first place I went to explore this idea was the internet. But when I searched for "women and tefillin," I found only articles explaining why women do not wear tefillin, and "women and tzitzit" turned up "tzitzit belts" marketed by messianic Christians. In the past few months, the Jewish news and blogosphere has exploded with stories of young women laying tefillin. It has been my great joy to be a part of these stories, and I hope that now, when some young woman Googles "women and tefillin," she is met with more than explanations of why we do not perform this mitzvah.

This press coverage, however, is not enough. The driving force behind my decision to finally begin observing these mitzvot was my female role models. Conversations with female teachers solidified my beliefs and strengthened my resolve, and when I finally screwed up the courage to lay tefillin, it was a woman who taught me. It is my hope that V'Tzivanu will provide a place for women to explore their experiences with tefillin and tzitzit, and be a resource for girls who fear that they are alone. There can never be too many women's stories in the world. We are not alone, and it is time for the world to know that.

Tizku l'mitzvot!

-Avigayil Halpern