In Your Blood, Live!

Photo courtesy of The Mikvah Project

This essay was written as a (preliminary) exploration of the theology and symbolism surrounding blood, menstruation, the Jewish purity laws and the dignity of female sexuality.

In Your Blood, Live! (Ezekiel 16:6) - Toward a Progressive Theology of Niddah

The large majority of contemporary writings on taharat hamishpacha and niddah focus on the experience of immersion and the subsequent days of purity (yemei tehorah). When one is in a healthy and loving relationship with one's spouse, the yemei tehorah are (often) a positive and love-affirming experience. Mikveh night and the subsequent (two) weeks hold the promise of sexual and emotional intimacy, open up the potential to conception (if the couple so desires) and guarantee physical closeness. There is the added bonus of (mikveh) date nights and of reinforcing a message that the female partner who underwent immersion is a beautiful and sensual being. One should also not forget to mention that marital intimacy within the framework of this religious observance can also lead to heightened spiritual experiences. All in all, it seems, that it is the yemei tehorah that the system of mikveh observance shapes positively.

But how about the yemei tum'ah (the days of impurity)? How does a woman in niddut (menstruation) feel about herself, her body and her partner during the week(s) of abstinence and harchakot ('distancings' enforced to guarantee abstinence)? Because obviously, in traditional Halacha, this is the crux of the original issur (Torah prohibition): 'do not approach a woman sexually in her niddah period' (Leviticus 18:19). And moreover, how do the yemei tum'ah affect her partner who is equally bound by the restrictions that the Halacha prescribes? This essay will attempt to explore the meaning of menstruation, marital abstinence and the relationship with one's body.

First of all, it is helpful to look at the function and meaning of blood in Judaism. Without understanding the apparent blood taboo that is ingrained in Biblical (and Rabbinic) thought, we cannot evaluate niddah in an intellectually honest way.

Judaism is concerned with blood because Judaism is obsessed with life. As Deuteronomy 30:19 states: 'choose life so that you and your descendants may live'. Blood is seen as the life-force of the animated being (be it human or animal) and hence, blood holds the essence of life and the potential of death (this idea was originally proposed by the Jewish feminist thinker Rachel Adler although she modified this in later writings).

In her seminal work, 'Purity and Danger', cultural anthropologist Mary Douglas posits that purity and impurity are very closely related. Purity happens when the cosmic order of things remains intact while impurity (or our experience of what is 'dirty') happens when that order is violated. A famous secular example she cites is that hair on one's head is deemed 'clean and normative' but hair found in the sink or in the shower is deemed 'dirty and disgusting' because it is not supposed to be there.

A similar case can be argued for blood in Jewish thought. Blood is at once intensely holy and intensely impure. It is holy when it is part of the normal cosmic balance, i.e. in the body, as a life-bringer. But when blood is spilt and it is shifted out of its normative context and into the context of death and dying, it becomes a ritual pollutant. Because then, blood signifies not life but death. Judaism is a religion of life, of sanctifying the Here and Now, of fulfilling our covenant in the earthly realm and life is supremely valued. It is not for naught that pikuach nefesh (the saving of another human being's life) overrides virtually all other commandments.

My understanding is that it is this fundamental worldview which informs many of Judaism's 'chukim' (statutes), the so-called 'irrational' commandments. Understanding the purity system means understanding the core values of our tradition. It explains the requirements for ritual slaughter (namely, spilling the blood and respectfully burying it in the sand), the requirements of separating meat (the symbol of death) and dairy (the staff of life), the moral concession in Genesis to the descendants of Noach to eat meat (while the original Divine plan is that we would all remain vegetarians) in order to curb their bloodlust and the purity laws related to menstruation, seminal emissions and other discharges. Judaism eschews the substance that taints us with death. Yet at the same time, blood is featured prominently in ritual sacrifice and in certain purifying practices of the Kohanim (Priestly class). As Mary Douglas suggests with her theory, I would posit that blood has a dual meaning in Jewish cosmology. It reminds us of the nexus between life and death.

When we look specifically at menstrual blood, this idea becomes more apparent. Although the ancients did not have a sophisticated knowledge of a woman's cycle, they did intuit that our flow and our fertility are somehow related. They also intuited that this was the case for semen and this is why sexual intercourse and especially seminal emissions rendered the man impure also. The Biblical system was egalitarian and logical: for natural discharges (menstrual blood and semen), both a man (the ba'al keri) and a woman (the niddah) would be rendered impure until nightfall. So, after one's menstrual period had ended, one would wait until nightfall to immerse in a mikveh. The same principle applied to males. Also, there was a second category of abnormal emissions (possibly of sexually transmitted diseases or unnatural bleedings). For males (the zav) and females (the zavah), this conveyed a higher degree of impurity. Logically so, since the concern of impurity is death and loss of potential life and arguably, it makes sense that a diseased physical phenomenon renders greater impurity than a natural, healthy phenomenon. In the case of the zav and zavah, they would count seven days after their emission and then immerse (also probably having the added benefit of it being a common sense profylactic practice).

The nexus between life and death is the key concept in understanding purity laws. In anthropology, we call these liminal moments - moments where we stand on a (symbolic) threshold and are placed in an (existentially) vulnerable position. Childbirth is a liminal moment that balances on the cusp of life and death, especially in antiquity. No surprise, then, that childbirth carries great impurity. At the same time, childbirth brings new life and is also seen as a great source of holiness. And so, what is holy can be impure and vice versa. Menstruation is a lesser example thereof. Every time a woman menstruates, she loses the potential for life: the uteral endometrium breaks down and rebuilds itself in anticipation for a newly fertilized ovum. Is it surprising then that we could consider menstruation such a liminal moment, where we brush up against death? And we could reconstruct our conception of niddah as something existing in acknowledgement of the miracle of our bodies, cycles and fertility.

The status of being tamei/temeiyah in Temple times excluded one from bringing sacrifices at the Tabernacle (Mishkan) or Temple (Beit haMikdash). Men were probably just as often 'impure' as women. The notion of being excluded from communal worship, at the axis mundi (worldpole) is not only negative. Tum'ah can be seen as a reflective and inward-oriented state in which we can rest, slightly disconnect from our community and engage with ourselves and immediate surroundings. Perhaps it is the state in which we contemplate lost things or our mortality. Tum'ah does not and should not signal physical or moral 'dirtiness'. It is unrelated to physical cleanliness or moral taint.

For the menstruant in pre-industrial society, her temeiyah might even have been a welcome relief, a lightening of her load of domestic burdens, An excuse to rest. For the couple who become tamei by virtue of their love-making, it might also have been a welcome reprieve from communal obligations and to be allowed, of sorts, to focus on each other until nightfall.

Am I an apologetic for this system? Absolutely. As a Progressive Jew who is at once vested in the Tradition, I take a maximalist view of kabbalat mitzvot (the acceptance of the commandments). Just as I believe that each Jew possesses the right to informed autonomy vis a vis the commandments, I also believe that each mitzvah has the potential to be transformative in our lives. Hence I would challenge and encourage each Jew to think intently about the beauty that each mitzvah can bring them. Before a mitzvah is deconstructed and discarded, perhaps it serves us well to consider its merits. Given my personal perspective, only when it is clear as daylight that a mitzvah violates its own integrity and our moral sensibilities, do I deem it unfit for my practice.

I am of course more than aware that the purity system in Biblical Judaism can carry many mysogynist overtones, as can the niddah system as later defined by Rabbinic law.
But I also believe the system can be redeemed. Even in our modern world, eons past the destruction of the Temple and the collapse of the majority of our purity laws, I believe that the concepts behind niddah still ring true. Also, I believe that adverse effects notwithstanding, the mitzvah can be practiced sensitively in a way that increases its beauty and meaning for both spouses. In a time where individuals can feel profoundly insecure about their physicality and about the place of intimacy in their lives and relationships, a Progressive and sensitive practice of niddah can teach women and men the value of their bodies and the virtue of patience.

It is up to us to make our Torah a torat chesed, a Torah of lovingkindness and empowerment. Taharat hamishpacha may not be for everyone but there can be much holiness found in this system. Niddah fulfils the promise recited under the wedding canopy: that both spouses shall be 're'im' and 'ahuvim': friends and lovers. This spiritual and physical discipline can invigorate a marriage and encourage mutual emotional growth. Thinking about the holy vessels that we occupy and what it means to integrate God, blood and sexuality gives power and a renewed understanding to the words of Ezekiel: 'in your blood, live!'

The House of Secrets

'The House of Secrets - the Hidden World of the Mikveh' van Israëlische schrijfster Varda Polak-Sahm leest weg als een spannend meisjesboek. Zo spannend dat de lezer er zelfs rooie oortjes van kan krijgen.

Polak Sahm's verslag van de wondere wereld van het mikwe houdt ergens in het midden tussen een (amateur) etnografie en een bespiegeling rondom gender, seksualiteit en spiritualiteit. Het gedurfde verslag neemt de lezer mee op een ware ontdekkingsreis naar een geheime en intieme wereld waar erotiek en religiositeit diep verweven zijn.

De auteur heeft een tijdlang onderzoek gedaan bij een aantal Ultra-Orthodoxe mikwedames in Israël en heeft als seculiere Jood geprobeerd een geheel andere wereld op papier te vangen. Dit is goed gelukt. In haar boek geeft ze op persoonlijke en boeiende wijze hun wereld vol tegenstrijdigheden weer. Tegenstrijdigheden tussen de oprecht vrome mikwedames en de seculiere kalles (bruidjes) die met lood in hun schoenen naar het rituele bad gaan om aan de eisen van het rabbanoet (Israëlisch opperrabbinaat) te voldoen. Tegenstrijdigheden tussen de (relatieve) macht en autonomie die de mikwedames hebben in het bestieren van het mikwe en het onwrikbare gezag van de rabbijnen boven hen. Tussen vertrouwen en macht, liefde en plicht, hoop en angst, eros en God. Polak Sahm vervlecht dit alles kundig in een pakkend narratief en etaleert hiermee haar talent als verhalenvertelster. Ook weeft ze in dit verhaal haar eigen ontdekkingstocht naar het mikwe. Hierdoor wordt het boek ook een soort ego-document.

De vrouwen in het boek belichamen al deze tegenstellingen. Van de sexy seculiere echtgenote die koket in haar rode minirokje toch trouw maandelijks het rituele bad bezocht tot de diep gelovige vrouwen die met bedekt haar discreet en ingetogen gebruik maken van het mikwe. Van Ashkenazim tot Sefardim, vroom en vrij, jong en oud. Ontroerend zijn de verhalen over een zwaar lichamelijke gehandicapte bruid die ondanks alles toch naar het mikwe komt en hilarisch zijn de anekdotes over Amerikaanse aanhangsters van het Kabbalah Center die toegang tot de levende wateren van het mikwe zoeken.

Het boek is ontwapenend in zijn eerlijkheid en daardoor behoorlijk pittig in zijn openbaringen. Ja, dit boek gaat over seksualiteit en is behoorlijk expliciet in de beschrijving daarvan. Seksualiteit en het mikwe zijn onlosmakelijk met elkaar verbonden. Maar het gaat vooral om hoe (religieuze) vrouwen omgaan met hun lichaam, God, hun gemeenschap en zijn (soms stringente en patriachale) wetten. Het is een intiem portret van hoe deze vrouwen hun cyclus en hun huwelijkse plichten ervaren. 'The House of Secrets' is een intens en vurig relaas.

De eerdergenoemde tegenstellingen spatten van de bladzijden en dit is dan ook meteen één van de tekortkomingen van het boek. Het is geen makkelijke of toegankelijke kost. Alles staat op scherp: zwart-wit, zonder schaduwen of grijswaarden. Dit boek pulseert met passie en dat maakt het zowel aanlokkelijk als gevaarlijk voor de beginnende lezer over dit onderwerp. Er is plaats voor een breed spectrum aan ervaringen maar geen plaats voor nuances. Het boek geeft voornamelijk de ervaringen en zienswijzen weer van de (Ultra-) Orthodoxie. In het boek worden aannames en uitspraken gedaan over vrouwen, seksualiteit, lichaam en (rabbinaal en patriarchaal) gezag die voor liberalere of feministische lezers behoorlijk rauw op het dak kunnen vallen.

Toch ben ik dankbaar dat de schrijfster mij op deze ontdekkingsreis heeft meegenomen. Maar wat ik miste in haar boek was nuancering en een bredere representatie van wat het mikwe voor vrouwen (en mannen!) kan betekenen. Mildere en gematigde stemmen en interpretaties van de Halacha (Joodse wet) omtrent taharat hamisjpacha (deze huwelijkse wetten) ontbreken.

Helaas wordt het daarom voor niet- (of Modern) Orthodoxe mikwegebruiksters tamelijk moeilijk gemaakt om met het verhaal te identificeren. Dat is een gemiste kans. Nu het mikwe in het Progressieve, Liberale en Conservative Jodendom een opmars maakt is het juist belangrijk om over literatuur te beschikken die de gebruiken en concepten rondom het mikwe, de vrouwelijke cyclus en de heiliging van seksualiteit in een vrouwvriendelijke en moderne context kan plaatsen. Wat dat betreft slaagt Varda Polak-Sahm daar maar deels in. Teveel van haar verhalen kunnen weerstand opwekken bij de moderne of feministische lezer.
Dit alles maakt het boek dus eerder tot een handleiding 'mikwe voor gevorderden'.

Nu nog hopen op een boek dat dit zelfde thema behandelt vanuit de ervaringen van niet- of Modern Orthodoxe mikwegebruiksters. Het zou prachtig zijn om een relaas te lezen dat dit (nog onontgonnen) gebied verkent.
Ondanks mijn kritische kanttekeningen lof voor Polak-Sahm's boek. Lof voor de durf en integriteit waarmee het geschreven is en voor de moed van alle (Orthodoxe) vrouwen die ons bekend hebben gemaakt met hun Huis van Geheimen.
Ik wacht met spanning op een eigentijds en toegankelijk vervolg.

The Passionate Torah

I must admit; some things are remarkably Dutch about me and one of those things is my complete happiness to discuss sexual matters in a spirt of openness. (Although I suspect that having both parents in the mental health industry might have had something to do with that too - I was reared on Freud).
So, I was excited to hear about the project of a former schoolmate (and future colleague, God willing) of mine: Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg. She had edited Yentl's Revenge and written her own book Surprised by God before bringing to light (as we say in Hebrew) her latest (editorial) work: The Passionate Torah.

As soon as this anthology of essays discussing Judaism and sexuality came out, I rushed to the library to read it.
As suggestive as the sexy cover with the ketubah hanging over the unmade bed is, be not mistaken: 'sexy' doesn't begin to describe this intelligent and cutting-edge anthology with its stellar contributors.
'The Passionate Torah''s sex-appeal is not steeped in graphic depictions of eroticism but rather in rigorous and daring scholarship. Divided in three sections according to the Buberian worldview of relationships (I-It, I-Thou and We-Thou), the various contributors write about anything. From a fresh approach to hilchot niddah/family purity laws, winding through controversial discussions on the eroticism of Jew-Gentile relationships, to a reconstruction of a progressive form of tzniut (modesty). Other topics ranged from prostitution, the Sotah trial as rabbinic pornography, queer theology and masturbation.

Although the book is not as sexy as the cover suggests, it is tantalizing in its courage to 'go there' and discuss issues that are taboo, villified or just plainly misunderstood. Some of the stellar contributors are gay activist and philosopher Jay Michaelson, Orthodox-ordained Rabbi Haviva Ner-David and legal scholar Rabbi Elliot Dorff.

Pieces that really had me riveted were "Queering God, Torah and Israel" by Jay Michaelson as he constructed a more gender-fluid and queer theology understanding God to be the biggest dragqueen and gender-bender of them all. Not only is this liberating to GLBT people but also helpful to heterosexuals who would like to expand their experience of gender and the Divine.
Danya Ruttenberg's piece "Towards a New Tznïut" was both brave and innovative in her insistence of addressing subject matter that has traditionally been the jurisdiction of Orthodoxy (and men). With great sensitivity to women, their bodies and self-images, Ruttenberg crafts a new vision of dressing with self-love and self-respect.
In terms of theoretical discussion for practical application, Haviva Ner-David lowers the threshold on the ancient mitzvah of mikveh and Family Purity by offering alternative readings and practices helpful to non-Orthodox Jews.
Finally the book closes in a vein of Messianic hope with Arthur Waskow's "Eden for Grown Ups" in which he cites the Song of Songs as a new ethic and eros helping us to understand our relationship to our sexuality, our planet and to the Divine.

"The Passionate Torah" is a beautifully crafted and balanced piece of work that manages to combine inclusivity with an engagement of traditional Jewish texts and traditions. As a traditionally-observant but progressively-minded Jew, it was heartening to read essays on gender and queer issues side by side studies of Talmudic passages and ancient observances.
In conclusion, I have high praise for "The Passionate Torah", which should be a must-read for every (formal or informal) student of Judaism. However, a mild critique remains. As I read the various essays, I sometimes found myself a little resistant to the (righteous) indignation the writers brought to our ancient texts. Maybe I am overly apologetic (or helplessly naive) in my reading of Biblical or Talmudic texts, or maybe I take a feminist worldview for granted, but I felt that I did not really need that anger. I didn't find that anger conducive to the reading of the book and found it a little distracting: don't we all know by now that most of Jewish (and human) history is patriarchal? I am far more interested in finding a way of overcoming that and making women and men love themselves, each other and Judaism within their own (denominational) framework and terms.

Apart from this mild critique, "The Passionate Torah" is a wonderful book. I also think it would be great if it could have a companion volume in which the abstract discussions of this volume are illustrated by real life experiences and examples--this would help these discussions come to life in rich and meaningful ways.

All in all, this book is worth your time and money and skillfully balances modernity and tradition--no easy feat. Sexy? That it is not. But it's title is accurate in one regard: this book will make you passionate about Judaism. And dare I say it? That's sexy.