Weddings, Blazers, Fringes, Assumptions, & Shlakh Lekha

I officiated at a wedding late Saturday afternoon.

It went beautifully, thank you very much.

But during the weeks prior, a lot of thought and discussion went into the clothing I should wear.

Was it okay, for example, for a female rabbi to wear a masculine-looking suit, a black blazer with pants, and Doc Martens?

Might some people be offended, or think it improper for me not to wear a dress, especially in more conservative parts of the U.S. (i.e. down South)?

On the other side of the argument was “Is this internalized misogyny?”

Why so much talk of women’s clothing when women find themselves (not by accident) in positions of authority?

Also, haven’t I entered a traditionally male field as it is?

It’s only 50-100 years since women have been allowed to become rabbis!

Anyway, what are the rules in this very rapidly changing world?

On a podcast this week I heard a Black Jewish Orthodox man comment that he’d been “given permission to carry ID on Shabbat” by his rabbi—something normally “forbidden” in the Jewish Orthodox world according to Jewish law.

Logical, and happy, that the rabbi should have the sensitivity to understand how dangerous it is for a Black man in the U.S. to walk around without ID.

There’s also been so much discussion in my home around what it’s like for Jews of Color; do they feel, and are they, welcome in most Jewish spaces?

What are the assumptions made by others, and how do they hurt?

My younger daughter went to a concert in Brooklyn last night, and someone made assumptions about her.

She was drinking a Modelo beer (Mexican).

A guy standing near her leaned in and said, “Isn’t that a little ‘ghetto’?” (I guess he thought he was flirting?)

She looked at him and said, “It’s not okay to say that,” to which he replied, “Yeah, that’s why I looked around first.” (to make sure no one of color would hear—how very sensitive of him.)

This infuriated my daughter on so many levels, and she told him so (you did not want to be that guy).

His assumption that she is purely an Ashkenazi Jew (she considers herself a Jew of Color), not to mention the racist and classist content of his remark.

I, too, went to a concert last night—but in Central Park: New York Sings Yiddish.

There was so much nostalgia in that space, and I felt a wave of sadness come over me.

It was nostalgia for a world gone by; I thought of my mother and how she would have loved this.

I also think it’s beautiful that there are people actively keeping Yiddish culture alive.

But in that culture of mostly secular Jews there are so many assumptions made that don’t take Jews of other types into account.

I wondered how the few People of Color felt in that overwhelmingly Ashkenazi space.

How many assumptions were made about them?

With all this talk of nostalgia for the past, clothing and rules, societal expectations, and Jewish law (also known as Halakhah) swirling around in my head, I think of the last paragraph of this week’s Parsha.

It is that very last paragraph that commands us to wear fringes on the corners of our garments—called tzit-tzit.

Why?

To remind us of God’s commandments and remember to perform them.

That we should not follow where our heart or our eyes lead us—because emotion might lead us astray.

In this very rapidly changing world, what do the commandments mean?

Does a Black man really need his rabbi’s permission to act in a way that could potentially save his own life despite a commandment?

Does he need his rabbi to remind him of the law saying that saving someone’s life takes precedence over any commandment?

What if the white Ashkenazi rabbi (my assumption) didn’t understand the danger?

And what about “commandments” that later rabbis surmised from the Torah, but that are not specifically spelled out in it? (Classic example: the very complex laws for how to keep kosher based on the simple verse forbidding a kid to be boiled in its mother’s milk.)

Judaism is a religion that teaches that we all have direct access to God; we don’t need an intermediary.

Yet we often give ourselves over to authority figures to make decisions of common sense for us.

I understand.

Rules make us feel safe in this unstable world.

Laws can actually keep us safe (i.e. seat belts, no-smoking in public areas).

But in today’s world, do we need an authority to give us permission to save our own lives—or to wear pants, or to welcome people into our community?

In the end, I wore my double-breasted black linen suit and my cream-colored Doc Martens to the wedding.

And I draped my Tallis (prayer shawl) with its fringes on the corners over my shoulders (see here on my Instagram).

And perhaps partly because I felt like an authority figure, I was treated as one there.

Plus, on the contrary to offending anyone, I got compliments.

Feeling grounded as the rabbi, as one friend said, is more important than the expectations others have of how I should dress.

Wearing heals, worrying about stockings and whether my legs are shaven or not—all these things make me feel decidedly ungrounded.

While taking into account that we don’t live in a vacuum, I also want to count myself among the leaders of change that allows for more flexibility in many ways—not the least of which is in women’s dress code.

Also, while respecting halakhah, changes in law often comes after the public opinion changes.

Finally, welcoming people, however they come to Judaism—or even if they don’t—should be placed above all else, with an awareness of the assumptions we make, and the classist and racist ideas we carry.

So here’s to being a trailblazer as a rabbi with a blazer!

And please say Amen—and share any thoughts you have with me by responding.