Shabbat Tetsavveh

Written by David Mitchell Friday, 15 February 2008

Dvar torah given at the Clergy United Seminar

Fashion

There is an object that lives in this Tallit bag. I never use it, but instead keep it in there as a reminder.

A number of years ago I was running a programme for a group of about 90 primary school kids who had come along to visit the synagogue where I worked. The kids had opportunities to look through Jewish books, learn to write their names in Hebrew, view and hold the Torah, and most importantly ask me any questions that they had about Judaism. One of the learning tables was covered in ritual objects, and on it was one specific item that caught a little boy’s eye. At the end of the programme I asked the children if they had any questions, and the boy’s hand shot up. He proudly stood up, took his chosen ritual object off his head and asked me: Where can I buy a Nike kippah. I remember thinking that there was no such thing as a Nike kippah; but then I remembered that it used to be quite the fashionable thing to take a suede kippah and decorate it, or of course, buy one ready made! Sometimes people bought these kippot with their Hebrew names written on them, and sometimes they had cartoon characters – I have a vague memory of all my brothers wearing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle kip-pot.

Clearly someone with a strong fashion conscience, had seen a navy kippah with a Nike tick, and snapped it up, probably because it accessorised their Nike hoodie. For whatever reasons, this Kippah had made it into the synagogue, and was now in this little boy’s hand. I explained that he could try looking in a Jewish Book Shop or on the internet, but that I really didn’t think he’d be able to get hold of one. He was quite disappointed and I pondered giving him the Kippah – but for whatever reasons I didn’t.

A few days later the School sent us some lovely cards, and I immediately knew which one was from this little boy, because on the front, he’d drawn the infamous Nike kippah. I remember feeling touched that it had so caught his imagination, but also a little guilty that this was his strongest Jewish as-sociation after nearly two hours in a synagogue. I also remember feeling distinctly relieved that Nike haven’t produce kippot and that there are no designer kippot out there. While I love the idea that a ritual object can be personalised, I’m not entirely comfortable that they become associated with mass consumerism and commercialism – and I sadly can’t assure you that no kippah has ever been made in a Chinese sweat shop.

There is a specific object that lives in this Tallit bag. I never use it, but instead keep it in there as a reminder.

About a year ago I was taking a parallel service in a large, affluent, North West London synagogue. At the end of the service I came downstairs into the foyer and saw a large pile of kippot. I realised that it was a Bar Mitzvah, and that this pile of kippot was provided for the guests of the Bar Mitzvah family. Looking closely at the kippot, I realised that they were made of denim, and then I saw that they each had a little clothes tag sticking out from the top – a well-known designer’s label! It turned out that the designer was a relative of the family and had commissioned these branded kippot as a gift. The kippot were there for everyone in the community to take, so I took two. One was given to a friend who thought that it was just too cool, I kept the other and put it in my tallit bag because I wasn’t so convinced.

This week’s Torah portion goes into great detail about the clothing of the Tabernacle Priests and specifically the High Priest. The robes, tunic, sash and headdress of the ordinary Priest would have distinguished them from the ordinary Israelite, but the High Priest would have looked regal and au-thoritative with an additional breastplate, a tunic adorned with bells and a gold headband inscribed with the name of God. The first-century historian Josephus (Wars of the Jews V, Chapter 5), describes the Priests and High Priests as cutting quite a figure. However, were they to walk into this room today, I suspect that once we picked up our jaws from the floor, we’d probably have to stifle our spontaneous smirks at how ridiculous they looked.

As members of the clergy, we often need to wear certain items in order to be identifiable. The question is whether we wear them so that others can identify us, or so that we can identify ourselves. Most vocations have a uni-form whether explicit or not. The city lawyers in their pinstripe suits, the dinner ladies in their whites, the celebrities in their bespoke ball gowns strutting down the red carpet. These clothes are not just functional; they act as a reminder of status, of purpose and of ethnicity. There is a certain irony that in the end, in spite of the astronomical figures that a celebrity may spend on their red-carpet dress, it is just that, yet another variation on a theme. Fashion is, after all, ultimately the uniform of the masses, and as Oscar Wilde so aptly commented, fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.

This week I had the daunting honour of officiating at my first funeral. I had to decide if I would or wouldn’t wear a black robe. The other Rabbi arrived at the home of the bereaved and the two of us had the awful task of running through the logistics of a Jewish funeral with the deceased’s wife and young children. The other Rabbi, who is a graduate of this college, explained beautifully the reasons why she would be wearing a robe – she needed people to identify her as the Rabbi – not something that she felt people automatically would do for a woman in her late twenties. She also wanted the boys to understand that the robe was a layer of separation – she was of course the same person at the funeral as she was on Friday night in the synagogue, but she also wore a layer to distinguish between the two functions. When she took off the robe she could go back to being the family Rabbi, and the boys could separate in their minds, the Rabbi who officiated at the trauma of their father’s funeral, from the Rabbi who helped them celebrate their Bar Mitzvah. Perhaps because I’m a man, or because I dislike formality, or even because I wanted to be both an officiant and a mourner, I didn’t wear robes, and in fact, I don’t think that I will – although this may of course change. For me, my priority at funerals is not how I look – although that is of course important, but what I say and do.

And that brings me back to the designer-brand kippah. If, by wearing this Kippah, someone can find a way to identify and enhance their Judaism, then that’s great; and even if I can think of better ways, it is not my place to judge. But for me, I need to place more priority on individualism. The Mishnah in Sanhedrin (4:5) offers the following teaching:
A human being mints several coins with the same seal, and they are all identical. But the Ruler of rulers, the Holy Blessed One, minted all human beings with the same seal that was used to create the first human, yet not one of us is alike.
 
I bought this colourful Tallit on the first day that I started at the College because I wanted to remind myself over the next 5 years and beyond about the person I was before I began my training. I really hope that over the last 4 years I’ve been open to change, but not so much that I’ve abandoned my identity. Every time I wear this tallit I affirm who I am, and what I represent, and every time that I leave this Kippah at the bottom of my tallit bag, I equally affirm what I am not.

We live in a world where certain fundamentalist or even supposedly liberal forms of governance feel free to dictate what we can or cannot wear. Never is this truer than with religious items of clothing. 

May we and our communities always live in a time and a place where we are free to dress and express ourselves in a way that is true to who we really.