Why I Am A Conservative Jew

by Ilana Goldhaber-Gordon

The men were marching around Hillel’s Orthodox minyan room, shaking their lulavim and crying out “Hoshanah!” Save us! It was my sophomore year of college, and my friend Wendy and I were minyan regulars. But on this Sukkot morning, though she and I prayed as loud as ever, we were conscious of the five-foot-tall curtain separating us from the circle of marching men. Wendy turned to me and said, “I feel like we’re back on the playground, and the boys won’t let some of the kids play.”

Wendy was right, and she and I soon organized a women’s prayer group. It was an Orthodox group, and we censored ourselves according to Orthodox halakhah. No kaddish, no kedushah – even a thousand altos and sopranos would not provide God enough glory to justify these prayers. He must have ten bases, baritones or tenors.

I was trying to bend without breaking, and the women’s prayer group was a good stretch. Even the censorship felt good, it made me feel devout. But other things were pulling me down. Every morning, I recited the women’s traditional consolation, “Bless You, God, for making me according to Your will,” while my male friends blessed God “for not making me a woman.” How do you bend around a blessing like that?

When my cohort began to get married, I saw a rigidity in areas more important then blessings and prayer. Rigid laws about contact between the sexes, rigid laws about procreation, are designed to direct young people toward one lifestyle. That life has a unique beauty, and for many it is uniquely satisfying, but it is not a good fit for everyone. Worse, some of my friends found themselves married to the wrong men, with more children than they could handle and no means to support themselves.

I could not bend far enough to fit into this life. Some of these rules I needed to break. And I could not justify the consequences for some of my friends, who also could not fit but felt obligated to try.

I began to wonder – if the Torah got it wrong on gender issues, where else did the Torah get it wrong? Why shouldn’t I carry things on Shabbat, if it makes the day easier and more relaxing? Why shouldn’t I eat in non-kosher restaurants, if it makes my life easier and gives me pleasure? And soon I did.

When I began breaking rules, I lost something precious. I lost my devotion and my structure. I lost my sense of commandedness, my sense of purpose as a servant of God. The mitzvot are a touch of holiness, transforming everyday actions into a connection with the divine. I wanted that holiness back, but how?

Conservative Judaism returned me to the living tree, the etz chayim. All I required was a shift of view. I needed to see that though the tree is connected to God, perhaps inspired by God, it is not God. Now I know that if I bend or even break a piece of Torah, it will not break my relationship with God. My love of the tree is robust, and for me personally, pruning is sometimes necessary for growth. I recently asked an Orthodox teacher how he explains that offensive blessing, the one about not making me a woman. His answer would have made sense to me 15 years ago, when I still believed that every piece of tradition must be justified as good. He told me that he is grateful he won’t have to endure the pain of childbirth. In this, he teaches girls to hate their bodies, to fear childbirth. But really, what can he say? Some things – like that blessing – cannot be justified.

When we free ourselves from justifications, something beautiful opens up. Now I have the space to look at the tree from new perspectives. I am praying again every day, but with a tallit as a palpable embrace of holiness on my shoulders. And I include one innovative prayer: Brukhah she’amrah ve’hayah olam. Bless the feminine voice of God, whose high, sweet notes were in the utterance that created the world.