"Rules By Which They Could Not Live:" My Bat Mitzvah Drash

Cross-posted to State of Formation.

The parshah I’ve worked on for my Bat Mitzvah is, given my graduate research, apt—and not entirely accidental. My research deals with sexual ethics—and queer sexuality in particular— in Judaism. And as you follow along in your Chumashim, you will notice that parshat K’doshim-Acharei Mot contains perhaps two of the most controversial verses in the Hebrew Bible: Leviticus 18:22—“you will not lie with a man as with the lyings of a woman”—and Leviticus 20:13—“If one lies with mankind as one lies with womankind, they have both committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death.”
In my research, naturally, I have had to deal with these verses, and with possible mitigating interpretations of them. I can tell you the following—first, many such interpretations exist. Second, all of them, to my mind, are some degree of unsatisfying.  There is always the feeling that these interpretations are trying to turn the text into something that it is not. They always, to my mind, fail to erase the stark punch to the gut these verses in their plain sense are to a reader.

At this point, I’d like you to imagine me, at twelve, just starting to realize that I like girls, reading Leviticus for the first time.  And then I would like you to imagine, after that experience, how you, as a twelve-year-old, would respond to the suggestion that you commit to a faith that holds this text as sacred. These verses are alienating. No matter how we try to turn them, they are disturbing. And if you are queer, like me—no matter the interpretation, no matter the academic distance you may try to put between yourself and your subject—ultimately, they still hurt. Any effective and honest response to them, therefore, must begin by acknowledging that.

Futhermore, such a response should, in my opinion, not attempt to retroactively paint the past meanings of the text as something it is not. We have, as a species, a strong tendency to confuse is and ought. That is, we assume that because a thing is the status quo—because it’s “natural,” or “traditional,” or so on—that it is therefore ethically valid. Or, conversely, we might assume that, because we find a thing ethically valid, that it therefore must reflect the natural or original state of affairs.
But these assumptions are erroneous. Just because a thing is “natural” or “traditional” doesn’t make it right—after all, murder, sexual violence, tribalism, and racism are all natural states of affairs. And just because a thing is right doesn’t mean it reflects some primordial state of perfection—racial and sexual equality, for instance (despite assertions to the contrary), appear to be fairly recent concepts.

Effective advocacy for equality or justice, then, needs to start from the understanding that there is a problem to be fixed—that there is something in the world that is wrong and broken. I would suggest that in some cases, the same is true for effective engagement with religious text. David Weiss Halivni posits that Rabbinic interpretation is generated in response to what he describes as the “maculateness” of the Biblical text—that is, the text, as a result of existing within human history, has problems or inconsistencies within it whose function is to generate interpretive responses. He writes, “When the people of Israel congregated once more—at long last and of their own accord—they found not Moses and the pure and perfect Torah of the wilderness, but Ezra and his composite Torah, mad maculate by centuries of human history.” (Peshat and Derash, vi.)
I’d like to go one step further—the text has actively unethical commands in it, whose purpose is to teach us to recognize them. These texts are meant to reflect and demonstrate the brokenness of the world, and goad us into doing something about it.

I would add at this point that we do not have a very good track record when it comes to responding to such texts. Indeed, a look into the prophetic literature reveals that God anticipates this. In Ezekiel 20:25-26 we find the chilling admission: “I gave them laws that were not good and rules by which they could not live: When they set aside every first issue of the womb, I defiled them by their very gifts”—that is, instead of consecrating the firstborn to the temple they sacrificed them—“that I might render them desolate, that they might know I am Adonai.”

God, in other words, knew that the Israelites would get the commandment tragically, horrifically wrong—and handed it down anyway. Suffice it to note, by the way, that while theodicy (that is, the justification of God in the face of suffering or evil) is not the main focus of this drash, the fact that God would take such action, at such terrible consequence, anticipating our brokenness and fallibility, raises deeply troubling questions about the very nature of God.

Despite our poor record thus far, there nevertheless are Rabbinic precedents for this sort of interpretation. Perhaps the best-known example is found in the Babylonian Talmud, tractate Sanhedrin 68b-72a. This sugya engages the Biblical edict (Deut. 21:18-21) that “if a man has a [stubborn and rebellious] son…they shall bring him out to the elders of his town at the public place of his community…[and] the men of his town shall stone him to death.”

Clearly, the Rabbinic interpreters are deeply troubled by this text. First the mishnah (Sanh. 8:1-5) and then the Gemara restrict the definition of the stubborn and rebellious son to the point of absurdity, until the Gemara finally says, “There never has been a stubborn and rebellious son, and never will be. Why, then, was the law written? That you may study it and receive reward.” (71a)

Notice what this interpretation doesn’t do. It doesn’t say that the law used to apply but no longer does. It doesn’t try to excuse it, or to erase it. It brings it forward in all its bald horror, allows it to punch us in the gut, and then goes about making sure that it will never be carried out. Yet in doing so, it preserves a purpose for the law—it is there to learn from. It is there as a witness, as a thing to study—and we should bear in mind that in Talmudic parlance, there is a very real sense of fighting and struggle implicit in study and learning. (For more on this, see Jeffrey Rubenstein’s excellent book, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud.)

There are clearly some differences between the Exodus and Sanhedrin texts, and the ones we have in front of us. Against the assertion that “there never was such a son,” there have been, and continue to be, many, many LGBTQ people who have been hurt, directly or indirectly, as a result of the texts we’ll be chanting shortly. And I’d argue vociferously against the notion that there is personal reward to be gained from learning these texts—we should instead be hanging our heads in shame. But as for why the law was written? “That you may study it” may be the only interpretation I can accept.

In studying this text, I am confronted with a world that is so broken that even the Scriptures given to it, even the laws contained within those Scriptures, contain ethical abominations, contain violent and dehumanizing prescriptions. I am also powerfully confronted with an obligation to help fix it. I am reminded that this law was written, not so that I may “study and receive reward,” but to force me to think critically about it, to stir me and make me uncomfortable, to punch me in the gut so that I may “study and DO SOMETHING.” Shabbat Shalom.

This image is used under a Creative Commons 3.0 license and was retrieved from Wikimedia Commons.

Building Hedges: What the Rabbis Taught Me About Managing ADHD

(Cross-posted to State of Formation)

The [Great Assembly] originated three maxims: "Be not hasty in judgment; Bring up many disciples; and, build a hedge for the Torah."

-Pirkei Avot 1:1

End-of-year report, first grade:

“Rebecca has the ability to be an outstanding student. She has a tremendous amount of knowledge and is eager to learn. Although she has wonderful ideas, she has produced very little work that would give evidence of this. Her inability to attend to the task at hand and to complete her work has caused her great frustration this year.”


By fourth grade, I have learned to perform reasonably well in school. But my work is disorganized, and I’ve picked up the nickname “Hurricane Rebecca,” reflecting the disaster area that is my desk. 


By the time I’ve reached high school, I’ve learned to game the system. Despite my disorganization and last-minute work habits, the work is easy enough for me that I build up an eminently respectable academic record, and manage to graduate in three years.

I enter college with designs on a biology major, but first-year bio and chem classes prove my undoing; the pass-fail option is my salvation. Religious studies is interesting enough to me that I put serious work into it. But I still start papers at 3 am the day they’re due. I worry that someone will discover that I’m not working hard enough, and as I get more seriously into the subject, the stakes get higher. Somehow, I graduate with high honors. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time until I get caught.


In my second year of grad school—last fall—I meet with my advisor for my independent reading. He tells me to shut the door. “This is not graduate-level writing,” he says. “You’re in graduate school, and you need to get serious.” He pauses. “How many hours a day do you work?”


The jig is up. 


I tell him that I’ve suspected for a while that something’s wrong with me, but that I can’t afford to see a therapist regularly right now. 


“Then sell your books and see one. Your brain is your most important tool. If you were a dancer you wouldn’t make excuses about not taking care of your feet.” He continues, “I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t think you were smart enough to do this. It’s clear that you are. But you’ve got to decide to undertake the discipline necessary. What we do in the academy is a discipline. It’s unnatural. You have to train yourself to do it.”


That February, after spending two months not writing the thesis I need to have a draft of by April first, I finally get my butt to a therapist. I get an official diagnosis of inattentive-type ADHD, and begin a course of Adderall.


The first night I take it, I read and annotate two books in three hours. What’s more, I haven’t wasted energy stalling, so I actually enjoy it. By the end of March, I have a complete draft of my thesis. This semester, ten months later, I haven’t pulled a single all-nighter, because my work gets done on schedule. And for the first time, I’m completing work that isn’t required for my classes.

For the vast majority of this improvement, I have to credit drugs and therapy. However, learning Rabbinic texts (a practice I began regularly this summer) has helped me understand the way my brain works-- and the ways to manage that--much better.
After my first academic taste of Talmud [1] as an undergrad, I seem to recall joking about it being “religion with ADHD.” The way the sages seemed to leap from one topic to another, seemingly unrelated one, was comical, albeit uncomfortably familiar to me. Consider Bava Batra 73a, which begins as a commentary on a mishnah concerned with the proper protocol for selling a ship. By the next page, 73b, we have gotten here:

"Rabbah bar Hanah further stated: I saw a frog the size of the fort of Hagronia. (What is the size of the fort of Hagronia? Sixty houses.)"

Yet, if Talmud was religion with ADHD, it was also religion for the clinically anal-retentive, built upon series of rules and practices that were so obscure and finicky as to be absurd—Mishnah Berakhot 7:3, for instance, prescribes a lengthy and specific blessing for a meal with ten thousand guests. But, if ten thousand and one are present, the prescribed blessing is short and generic. The documents themselves are separated into categories within categories—first, general orders, or sedarim, then tractates within the orders, chapters within the tractates, verses within the chapters. And the methods for commenting on texts within the Rabbinic genre are themselves subject to very particular rules.

What seemed a ridiculous contradiction at the time made much more sense to me once I started learning about ADHD. In their 1994 book, Driven to Distraction, psychiatrists Edward M. Hallowell and John J. Ratey write, “Structure makes possible the expression of talent. Without structure, no matter how much talent there may be, there is only chaos…The ADD mind is like spilled mercury, running and beading. Structure is the vessel needed to contain the mercury of the ADD mind, to keep it from being here and there and everywhere all at once.” (Hallowell and Ratey, 1994, 221)

Talmud, and Rabbinic texts in general, might be understood to work the same way. When one interprets a text, whether a mishnah or a verse of Bible, the order of the day is atomization: each verse is a complete unit in and of itself, and any other verse from the canon is fair game to use as an intertext—that is, a text to throw against it, to react with it, and to generate an interpretation—as long as the interpreter can make it work. Which feels a lot like free-associating, and seems like it could easily disintegrate into interpretive chaos.

But. There are rules in place, structures to contain the madness. There is an end that must be achieved, an interpretive problem that must be resolved. Often, the impetus for the interpretive chaos in the first place is some problem or irritant in the original text, something that doesn’t fit with another text or with a larger principle. In Between the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds, Christine Hayes writes, “[a given mishnah may be] ambiguous in the sense that it contains a gap of information. The gemaras must work to fill that gap.” (Hayes, 1997, 57)

The initial stimulus—a problem to be solved—structures the whole interpretive section, reeling it back in at the end to the original text. The discussion may go far afield, but it always has to bring itself back to the text at hand. Eventually, it must come up with some sort of resolution to the task it has set itself.

The quotation at the top of the page, from Pirkei Avot (“Chapters of the Fathers,” a collection of ethical maxims found in Tractate Avot of the Mishnah)—specifically the line about building a hedge around the Torah— is one that has bedeviled me ever since I was introduced to it.

The traditional interpretation is that one must guard the commandments of the Torah from transgression by strengthening them (so, if the Torah says, “don’t go to thus and such place,” I should not even go within, say, a mile of it) I always read it as an expression par excellence of stiffness, hideboundness, of religious or doctrinal inflexibility.

Now, I see an alternate meaning. Building hedges—building limitations around one’s behavior—is a way of structuring one’s day-to-day life. In setting myself a schedule for the day, in insisting I accomplish a certain number of tasks before I can goof off, in creating small rituals (my cup of tea, my morning crossword, the sweatpants I wear to work) around which I structure those tasks—I am building hedges. By limiting my initial options, I increase the number and variety of things I can accomplish.

ADHD forced me to see the need for that lesson. The Rabbis taught it to me.

---

[1] “Talmud” refers to the collection of Rabbinic legal texts, or “Oral Torah”, which has two parts, Mishnah and Gemara. The Mishnah is a collection of legal traditions from the Tannaitic period (70-200 CE); the Gemara is a collection of commentaries on the Mishnah from the Amoraic period (200-500 CE). There are two Gemaras, the Palestinian Talmud (closed c.a. 400 CE), and the Babylonian Talmud (closed c.a. 500 CE).

"Body Parts Not Reached By Penetration of its Main Shaft"

Via Jewschool : Kosher Sex Toys, the frum set's answer to Babeland!

I'm pretty much in agreement with Chanel's read on the whole thing, especially her concluding point:

In spite of all the stuff to find infuriating about KosherSexToys.net- the need for a spell checker, the lack of clinical language, the emphasis on heterosexual marriage-it’s pretty great that this exists. It’s an important move towards more sex positive Jewish relationships and communities.

However. What I want to know is, how the hell do they get away with claiming that a pocket rocket, for fuck's sake, is "the quietest most compact and technologically advanced personal stimulator in the world today"?

The Value of Discomfort: Why I won't make peace with my Torah portion

I have begun to compose my d'var Torah, or drasha (an interpretation, often delivered orally, of the weekly Torah portion) for my Bat Mitzvah. My portion, not coincidentally, includes what are perhaps two of the most controversial passages in the Hebrew Bible: Leviticus 18:22--"you will not lie with a male as the lyings of a woman, it is an abomination"-- and Leviticus 20:13--"If a man lies with a male as the lyings of a woman, the two have done an abominable thing; they will surely be put to death, their blood is upon them." (translations mine)

I note in my drasha that in my research, I have encountered many mitigating interpretations of these texts, some more rigorous and thoughtful than others. However, on an academic and a religious level, at the end of the day I find all of them some kind of unsatisfying. And despite all these interpretations, on a personal level, the verses still hurt.

Both the personal hurt and the intellectual dissatisfaction are compounded by the fact that, as a lived, practiced Scripture with social and spiritual impact, their lived history is part of their being. A new interpretation, whether religiously or historically grounded, cannot remove that baggage. To say, for example, "these verses can be interpreted in terms of sexual violence" (c.f, for instance, Rabbi Steven Greenberg) or "these verses came into being in a context which could not conceive of a loving same-sex relationship" (c.f. Rabbi Bradley Artson)*-- these are good readings, some of the best, and accurate and useful as they go-- but they do nothing to address the history of the verses, and their consequences, historical and current, for pretty much any queer inhabitant of the West (and recently, the 2/3 world-- witness, for example, Uganda.) Nor can they erase the fact that when I stand before the Torah in April, I will be chanting words-- understood, if only then, in that ritual space, as God's words--that at once condemn me (as a queer person) and make me invisible (as a queer woman).

As I read them, all these interpretations ask me in some way to make peace with these texts. This is not something I am willing to do, for two reasons.

First, and more specifically, to make peace with this particular text requires me to forgive the history it carries with it. Not only am I not willing to forgive this, but I lack the authority to do so-- that belongs to those who have been hurt by it more gravely than I.

Second, and more broadly, I don't believe in making peace with Scripture in general. I think that on a practical level, this leads to a dangerous complacency. If we've made peace with a troubling Scripture, we're a great deal less likely to deal with its consequences-- and a great deal more likely to pat ourselves on the back amid self-congratulatory, patronizing intonations: "It's so wonderful we're past that, isn't it? Now let's forget it's a part of our history." Such inaction allows us to feel good about ourselves without taking much concrete action.**

On a spiritual level, I think that making peace with Scripture is perhaps not the way Scripture wishes us to interact with it. Passive acceptance is not a fitting way to receive the foundational texts of our tradition, and parts of the Hebrew Bible reflect this. Abraham negotiated with God for the lives of the Sodomites. Jacob wrestled with the messenger of God. Sarah laughed in God's face, and Miriam spoke out against Moses's arbitrary privilege.

This minor list of narratives isn't an attempt to promote a single interpretation of the Hebrew Bible, and it isn't meant to give a simplistic reading of those stories-- all of which have a dark side. God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah anyway, and when Abraham himself was asked to do something abhorrent, he went right along. Sarah and Jacob, for their moments of bravery and integrity, had more than enough douchbaggery on their tallies to balance it out, and Miriam's reward for her integrity was leprosy and shunning. Yet these dark sides, I think, prove my point: Scripture is complex and troubling. It provides no unblemished (human) role models, no uncomplicated morals, and plenty of "What The Hell, Hero?" moments--many in which the hero in question is God. To make peace with it is to do a grave disservice to a wickedly complicated, history-soaked, deeply divine, and profoundly human text.

It's a lot easier to give an interpretation of a text that makes it palatable, than it is to grapple with the implications of belonging to a tradition whose Scripture is so vexing and whose history is so morally ambiguous. But in my opinion, anyone who tells you that religion is supposed to be easy, or even comforting, is full of shit.

If you are a theist, then theism-- inasmuch as it functions in a faith that the universe cares about you in some way, or that something about you is eternal-- yes, that's comforting, because that's fundamentally divine. But religion-- the social, textual, cultural, historical, and moral context into which you place that belief-- religion is a human thing. Religion is HARD. It should force you to take a hard look at the interaction between the better angels of whatever divinity you believe in and the reality of your existence-- and if you're looking at that honestly, you will realize that you will always come up short. You will also realize that as long as you keep working, that that fact is OK. Honest engagement with religion requires you to live with ambiguity and paradox. It should always keep you just a bit off center. It should demand that you think critically about yourself and about it, and it should require that when you see something that isn't right, in it or in yourself, that you speak up and DO something.

Obviously, throughout history, there are countless examples of religion failing to function in that way, and the consequences have often been horrendous. The consequences of the texts in my parsha are but one body of testimony to that fact. That, too, is part of our shared Scripture as practitioners of religion. That, too, we must grapple with. And that is why, as a practitioner who loves my tradition and my Scripture(in the same challenging, frustrating, adversarial way that I love my species, despite semi-regular exclamations to the effect of "I HATE people!")-- I will not make peace with my parsha. I will chant it with respect and awe, with frustration and profound anger and hurt. And I will stand at the bimah and deliver a d'var torah in which I tell those assembled that in no way should they forget, excise, or avoid this text. Instead, they should wrestle it, as Jacob wrestled God's messenger.

And then they should try not to be as much of a douchebag as he was afterwards.

*In no way do I wish to imply that either Greenberg or Artson fail to do the hard work of engaging the texts and their vexation. Both do a masterful job of it. I am simply using interpretations that they use as part of this process as stand-alone examples here.

**I also do not wish to imply that providing a welcoming and inclusive worship space does not count as valuable action, but I would suggest that avoiding these texts without then making concrete changes-- for example, actually making queer worshipers visible and performing queer life-cycle events-- does not actually count as providing such a space.

Teaching Texts to Kids: My Attempt At Making Talmud Accessible to Your Average 10-Year-Old

As many of you know, I teach a roughly bi-monthly Jewish co-op Sunday school. The kids range in age from 5-11, and in addition I do a few lessons a semester with post b'nai mitzvah kids. The classes take place in a parent's living room, usually, and the parents sit in on-- and often participate in-- the lessons.

For someone without much prior teaching experience, this was fairly daunting to start out with. I had absolutely no idea how to find lessons that would be accessible to the younger kids without boring the living daylights out of the older ones, and having the parents in the room all the time frankly terrified me.

Worst of all, everything I felt I could teach them was text-based. Here's an experiment for you: sometime, try getting your average (by which I mean not Orthodox) ten-year-old to enthusiastically read a section of Leviticus and then apply it to contemporary life.

Yeah. Good luck.

Eventually (I think) I got the hang of how to get them to appreciate the texts-- namely, make it relevant for them in concrete and often tactile way. Every time I have done a cooking project with this group, it has gone over well. So far we've made charoset (to illustrate the different practices of Jewish communities around the world), potato latkes (hannukah, obviously), hamantaschen (with the added perk that they got to boss their parents around, as a way of illustrating role reversal for Purim), and, most recently, matzah.

I had the idea that making matzah would be a good way to introduce the kids to the Talmud, since that is where the rule that matzah must be completed in 18 minutes is derived. I figured that I would ask the kids where they thought the rule came from. The Bible? Let's look-- nope, not there! Once we had discussed the basics of what Talmud was, I thought that we could then read the relevant parts of tractate Pesachim, play style. Then, we would apply what we learned in the kitchen, and end with a discussion of whether they thought rules like this made sense for them in everyday life.

Of course, then I cracked open tractate Pesachim and realized that the language was way too complicated, and that the discussions would appear so tangential to the kids that they would become hopelessly confused. So, here's what I wrote for them instead:

The Case of the Malicious Matzah: A Talmudic Legal Thriller!

©Rebecca Levi, 2011
This scene is adapted from the Babylonian Talmud, tractate Pesachim, 42a, 45 a-b, and 46a

Setting: A courtroom. Miriam the baker has been accused of selling Passover Matzah that is chametz!


Characters (in order of appearance):
Baliff
Judge Mishna
Prosecution
Defense
Yankel the Gossip
Miriam the Baker
Rabbi Huna
Rabbi Isaac Bar Ashi
Rabbi Simeon Bar Lakish


Baliff: Hear ye, hear ye! All rise for Judge Mishna!

Judge Mishna: Be seated! The court will come to order! Today, we will rule on the matter of The People versus Miriam the Baker. Miriam is accused of selling leavened matzah. As we know, besides matzah, “Whatever is made of any kind of grain is removed on Passover.” Serving chametz on Passover is a grave offense, for the Torah says, “whoever eats what is leavened shall be cut off from the congregation of Israel”. Will the prosecution present its case?

Prosecution: Thank you, your honor. The prosecution will prove that Miriam the Baker has been cheating this community for many years by serving them matzah that has started to rise! As we all know, Miriam’s matzah is the best in town, so much so that all the other bakers have gone out of business! We will show that this is because she is cheating by letting the matzah rise.

Judge Mishna: The court thanks the prosecution. Will the defense respond?

Defense: Thank you, your honor. The accusations against my client are no more than gossip. Anyone in this town knows that Miriam strictly observes all of the law, both in her business and in her personal life. No one but the Sages knows the law better than she does. We will prove that Miriam’s business cannot be faulted.

Judge Mishna: The court thanks the defense. The prosecution may call its first witness.

Prosecution: The prosecution wishes to call Yankel the Gossip to the stand.

Yankel: I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so ANYWAY—can you believe that Miriam has been cheating us? Oy, what a shonde!

Prosecution: Thank you, Yankel. Can you tell us when you first became suspicious about Miriam’s matzah?

Yankel: WELL—I had bought her matzah for my family as usual, because of course it’s so good, isn’t it? And then I thought, this is so good it’s almost like it’s leavened! And then, as I was eating, I realized it was so much lighter and taster than what we had as a kid, and I realized, well it tastes like that because it is!
Naturally after that I had to file a complaint, and I told everyone else not to buy from her.

And that’s when my friend Shlomo told me that his sister told him that she doesn’t clean her bowl, so that there’s always a little leavened dough in the bottom to mix in with the rest. It’s a wood bowl and has cracks in it, so the dough hides in the cracks. And she leaves it out for as long as she walks to the oven, so it rises more.

Prosecution: No more questions, your honor.

Judge Mishna: I trust that the court understands what the witness is talking about. If there is an olive’s bulk or more of dough in one place in the cracks of one’s bowl, it makes one’s dough chametz. But if there is less, it doesn’t matter.
Does the defense wish to call a witness?

Defense: The defense calls Miriam the Baker to the stand.

Defense: Miriam, how do you respond to Yankel’s accusation?

Miriam: I was shocked! I’ve always kept my bowls perfectly clean! And the minute that it takes me to walk to the oven and open it can’t be enough time for the dough to rise! It’s true that my bowls are old, and leak sometimes, so I stop them with flour and water paste. But the Sages have said that that doesn’t make the dough chametz! They say, “if the dough is in a place that stops up the bowl, it doesn’t break Passover!”

Defense: No more questions, your honor.

Judge Mishna: Does the prosecution wish to call a witness?

Prosecution: The people call Rabbi Huna to the stand.

Rabbi Huna: Miriam doesn’t mention that other Sages say the opposite—that even dough that stops a bowl makes it chametz! And in such cases we should follow the stricter rule. This has always been our tradition.

Miriam: I know that tradition as well! So I take special care on Pesach to plaster it over with clay!

Rabbi Huna: Ah, but the chametz is still there! Better to get new bowls. We must always uphold the strictest meaning of the law.

Judge Mishna: Order in the court! Miriam, Rabbi Huna, you will speak only when addressed by me or by a lawyer! The prosecution may continue with its questions.

Prosecution: No further questions, your honor. The Prosecution rests its case.

Defense: The defense calls Rabbi Isaac bar Ashi.

Rabbi Isaac bar Ashi: The Sage Rab has said that if the surface of the dough used to seal the bowl is covered in clay, the dough has no effect as chametz. The law is with Miriam the Baker.

Judge Mishna: I can’t find a problem with Rabbi Isaac bar Ashi’s reasoning.

Prosecution: Objection! The defense has not answered Yankel’s claim about how long Miriam leaves her dough!

Judge Mishna: Objection sustained. Will the defense answer the claim?

Defense: The defense calls Rabbi Simeon bar Lakish.

Rabbi Simeon bar Lakish: The prosecution says that Miriam leaves her dough the time it takes her to walk from her table to her oven, is that correct?

Judge Mishna: Correct, that was Yankel’s testimony.

Rabbi Simeon bar Lakish: If that is as long as Miriam the Baker leaves her dough, then the law is with her. Dough begins to ferment only after the time it takes to walk a mile. Unless, of course, there is a mile between Miriam’s table and her oven, in which case I would suggest she speak to whomever built her bakery!

Defense: No further questions, your honor.

Prosecution: Not so fast! The people call Miriam the Baker to the stand! Miriam, how do you know you don’t leave your dough so long?!

Miriam: I have learned this tradition, and I once was able to test this very thing. Before I made some matzah I told my son to go from our bakery to the store, half a mile exactly. He came back just as I took the matzahs from the oven, for the store was closed and so he turned around and came right home.

Defense: The defense rests its case, your honor.

Judge Mishna: I’ve heard enough! Miriam knows the law well, and has been falsely accused. Yankel, you should know better than to spread such lashon hara!

Baliff: Miriam, you may go free! Make us good matzah this year!

Obviously this is a greatly simplified version of the discourse that actually goes on in the Talmud. Obviously, this is also not how a contemporary courtroom works. But I think I got the main gist of the discourse, and I tried to do a few things with the way I set it up.

First, by having a trial and a real person as a defendant, I wanted to demonstrate that halakha is, essentially, case law-- a process of constant evaluation as laws come up against real-world situations. I tried to underscore this point by then having us go and make matzah, so we could use the ruling!

Second, I tried to get across the general format of the Talmudic discussion. As the name indicates, the Judge functions here mainly in the role the Mishna plays in the actual Bavli text: quoting the relevant law to be debated and setting the boundaries of discussion. Though I didn't name the defense and prosecution after individual Sages, I easily could have; they bring the initial case up to test the law in question. Then, other Sages offer arguments-- coming, as it were, to the witness stand.

Finally, in setting it in a courtroom and having the kids participate in the action themselves as a play, I wanted to demonstrate that a.) the Talmud deals with law, and b.) it's an ongoing conversation that all Jews play a live role in.

(Also, the astute will notice the nod to Monty Python in Yankel the Gossip's testimony: This sketch, at about 1:20)

Most importantly, the kids liked it. I think.