Encore Archive

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[Over the next month we will reprint a series of articles that originally appeared in Sh'ma in 1980 on taharat mishpacha, the laws of "family purity."]

Discussing Niddah, Mikveh, Family Purity...

Mikveh is not a viable mitzvah for me

Laura Geller (Sh'ma 11/205, January 9, 1980)

I am a religious woman. As I write that sentence I am aware that many people will misunderstand and assume that I am an Orthodox woman. I am not Orthodox. I learn, I pray, I wrestle with Torah --I take Jewish tradition seriously. I struggle with mitzvot, observing those that fill my life with holiness and rejecting those which cut me off from an experience of holiness.

I have chosen not to observe taharat hamishpacha because it does not connect me with an experience of holiness. The idea of family purity as our tradition defines it seems to belong to another era of Jewish life, an era categorized by roles prescribed for men and women that no longer seem appropriate. While I understand that tumah doesn't really mean 'uncleanness' or 'impurity,' I believe that there is a fundamental fear of menstruation involved in rituals connected to taharat hamishpacha. That fear might have made sense in connection with a biblical blood taboo; it doesn't make sense in the world in which I live. But the problem isn't only that it doesn't make sense; rather it extends to the fact that menstrual taboos are responsible for real damage to Jewish women's views of themselves and their bodies. I have met many women who learned nothing about Torah except that they could not touch the Torah because they menstruate. As adults, when they are told that that is simply folklore, it is already too late. Their sense of themselves as inferior Jews has already permeated their relationship to tradition and to their own bodies.

Are menstrual taboos the Torah we teach?

Let me give one example. Several years ago, at a Simchat Torah celebration, a young woman became very involved in the dancing and rejoicing. Towards the end of services, she ran out of the synagogue crying uncontrollably. I went out after her to find out what was wrong. Tearfully she explained, "I have ruined it for everyone. I was so excited; I felt close to Torah. For the first time in my life I felt that I could have a relationship to Torah and to Jewish study. I became so involved with the excitement of being close to Torah that I forgot I was having my period. I feel so awful --I 'trafed up' the Torah. I ruined it for everybody. I never should have come tonight."

Nothing I said to this young woman could take away her feeling that she had done something terrible. She is certainly not alone in feeling that because she menstruates she cannot fully participate in Jewish experience. For many women that feeling leads to one of two possible conclusions: "that she will feel alienated from Jewish experience or she will feel embarrassed by menstruation." Neither response leads to a healthy involvement with Jewish tradition and Jewish community.

I have talked with several women who argue that taharat hamishpacha provides a healthy framework for their sexual relationships. One woman complained that regular abstention from sexual intercourse has forced her and her husband to find new ways of communicating and being intimate. Another described how regular periods of abstinence have helped her husband learn not to view her as a sex object and have given her the courage to turn down his sexual advances when she would rather not have sexual intercourse. I respect the decision of these women, but it is not a decision that I choose to make. There are other ways for a man and a woman to learn to communicate and be intimate without being sexual; there are other ways for a woman and a man to learn not to view each other as sex objects. For some women, the artificial imposition of a particular period of time as a time for sexual abstinence is not appropriate; women differ from each other and the timing of their need for sexual intimacy also differs.

Mitzvot should connect Jews to holiness

My decision not to observe taharat hamishpacha has not been an easy one. As a religious woman, I am conscious of how difficult the process of spiritual exploration really is. Many of the symbols and ceremonies that connect Jews to sacred time and to holiness were developed by men for men, and therefore it is often difficult for some to know how to respond to them. Often women simply appropriate those symbols that our tradition has labeled 'masculine', arguing that they came to be regarded as masculine simply because men were the Jews who participated in public prayer and study. For example, I pray with a tallit and a kippah, not because they are men's 'clothes' but rather because they are the garments that Jews wear during prayer. But even as I appropriate some of those symbols to help me connect to sacred time and holiness, I want to find and embrace the rituals and symbols that our tradition his provided specifically for women, assuming that those rituals help connect me to holiness.

Mikveh is a ritual that I would like to experience. I sense a connection between women and water, a connection expressed in many different cultures. I like the notion of paying attention to a monthly rhythm, a rhythm familiar to all women. The problem with Mikveh is that in addition to its being a religious symbol, it has also come to be a political symbol.

Mikveh: both personal and political

Let me explain through a personal example. Before I was married I went to the mikveh. I chose to go because Jewish women go to the mikveh before they are married and I wanted to connect myself with generations of other Jewish women. My experience was mixed, because I hadn't adequately prepared for it. I had forgotten to do the internal checking for traces of blood that is a requirement for halachic immersion. Finally it was decided that I could immerse myself in the mikveh but that I could not say the blessing out loud because it would have been a bracha l'vatalah, a wasted blessing. The experience made me feel inauthentic; I couldn't say the blessing, and in addition, I felt that because I hadn't made a commitment to taharat hamishpacha I was pretending to be something that I wasn't. The whole experience made me angry. I'd like to use the mikveh on my own terms, as an affirmation of my specialness as a woman, as a link to other women, but as long as the mikveh is operated as an Orthodox institution, I don't feel that it is open to me.

I began this essay by saying that I am a religious woman. I am also a Reform rabbi. As a rabbi, the mikveh has another meaning for me. Mikveh is a ritual of conversion. My requirements for conversion include a lengthy period of study, mila (circumcision or the taking of a drop of blood from the remnants of the foreskin) and t'villah (ritual immersion). Unfortunately I am not allowed to use the mikveh for t'villah because I am not an Orthodox rabbi. I take my converts to the ocean. It makes me angry to be denied access to the mikveh for conversions when the same people who deny me access often argue that my colleagues' conversions are inauthentic because they don't require t'villah.

Ideally the mikveh could be a symbol of women's spiritual exploration. Unfortunately it has become a political weapon in the arsenal which fights against the legitimacy of non-Orthodox Judaism.