Eshet Chayil: Unrest and the Day of Rest (Marjorie Lehman)

If only this were true. Not surprisingly, the statement above attributed to Meiri appears nowhere in rabbinic literature or in medieval code literature. In fact, the passage in BT Shabbat 118a on which Meiri comments, does not mention women at all. Meiri’s comment surfaces to drive home the point that both men and women are required to eat Shabbat meals, despite making no mention of that in the sugya.

For me, Shabbat preparation begins on Tuesday. It is preparation that, as the only woman in my household, I navigate alone. It begins with a tentative plan of who is coming—never confirmed until minutes before Shabbat begins. How many are coming? Shabbat dinner? Shabbat lunch? Are they vegetarian? Vegan? Allergic to fish? Nuts? Diabetic? Non-red meat eaters? Hmm...what food is in the freezer? What needs to make its way into my home before I can begin to cook for an undefined number of people? If Shabbat is a time of rest—if it is the moment where I reset after a hectic work week—it does not feel that way. It seems to extend for days making me feel more frenzied. Shabbat-time (before, after, and during) is “kitchen-time,” not holy-time. Work gets (quite literally) sliced and diced among the hours devoted to “making” Shabbat. Despite the great fortune of an endless supply of food, which I do not take for granted, the mental load feels heavy. I admit to a fair share of guilt about feeling overwhelmed in the face of the opportunity and the ability to surround myself with family and friends every Shabbat while performing a mitzvah. But then, I think back to this past Shabbat which, I might add, was connected to two days of Yom Tov (Shavuot). The Freshdirect order had to arrive with the cream cheese in enough time to bring it to room temperature so that I could bake the cheesecake for 2 hours. The oven then needed to be brought back to an appropriate temperature to cook the salmon. I needed to run out to shop for other accoutrements between three Friday meetings, my summer research project, and a host of other work-related things that I would have no time to get to until Monday night—it all needed to get done. And then there was three days of cutting salad, setting tables, and cleaning up, only to repeat it and repeat it again. It did not feel celebratory or holy. I did not feel accomplished.

On some level, Meiri’s statement resonates with me. Indeed, Shabbat law falls into the “do not do” category of law (defined as מצוות לא תעשה). This means that in its strictest legal formulation women are like men. On Shabbat everyone is equally forbidden from a set of actions (melakhot) and culpable if they transgress them. The absence of these acts results in a day of rest—one different from the other days of the week. So why doesn’t Shabbat feel restful? Why doesn’t it take on the valance of a lo ta’aseh where gender is irrelevant? Why does it matter so much on Shabbat that I am female?

Despite falling into the legal category of a לא תעשה, Talmudic discussions about Shabbat prohibitions are informed by gender. The prohibition against carrying from one domain into another is rooted in the rabbis’ understanding of what differentiates men from women. More specifically, to read Massekhet Shabbat is to recognize that gendered differences in ornaments worn by men and women, and differences in dress, not to mention differences in trades or professions translate into different prohibitions for each group. What a woman can carry on Shabbat, a man cannot, and what a man can carry on Shabbat, a woman cannot. The following sugya on BT Shabbat 62a, along with the mishnah upon which it comments, encapsulates the rabbis’ struggle over the extent to which gender plays a role in the case of a Shabbat commandment applicable to all.

Interestingly, an attribution to the amora, Rav Yosef who cites Ulla, presents another perspective which, like Meiri’s much later comment, is not mentioned elsewhere in rabbinic literature. The statement, however, feels far more reminiscent of my own experience on Shabbat in the way that it distinguishes women from men, saying, “Women are a people unto themselves.” In this case, Ulla’s point places women into a neatly constructed and describable category, entirely distinct from that of men. The dissimilarity rendered via the use of the Hebrew word, “עם,” suggests that the differences between men and women are so ingrained, so much a part of the nature of who women are, that Jewish law cannot dismiss the distinctions.

And yet, the rabbis do not hide their discomfort. On BT Shabbat 62a the sugya moves on to connect this discussion about carrying to one of the most significant ritual ornaments, tefillin. Referring to a larger conversation on BT Eruvin 95a-96b about finding tefillin on Shabbat and whether one can return them despite prohibitions of carrying, a point is made to challenge Ulla. Women are required to don tefillin just like men. Tefillin, it is argued, fall into another halakhic category required of women—that of positive non-timebound commandments (מצוות עשה שלא הזמן גרמא) referencing M. Kiddushin 1:7. With this point, the sugya in Bavli Shabbat then drops the discussion and moves on to focus on something else, leaving us with the idea that women, like men, are required to put on tefillin. While historically the halakhah regarding this requirement has only very recently come to include women, Talmudic discussion raises the possibility that women were once also required to wear them (see BT Eruvin 96b). So which is it? Are women like men, or are women a people unto themselves? The rabbis were not sure. We are not sure either. My struggle with what is required of me to make Shabbat and keep Shabbat is merely a testament to just how difficult it is to create a household ritual space that always feels equal and holy.

And that brings me to the recitation of Proverbs 31 (Eshet Ḥayil), typically sung to women at the start of the Shabbat Friday night meal to honor the value of their household roles. It ritualizes the quotidian daily acts needed to sustain households, many of which fall on women. The picture painted is one of women who have the capability to do everything from supporting their families to feeding them. I wonder if the custom began because of women like myself—who were overburdened by the combination of work and a commitment to maintaining Jewish household ritual? Did such women need to hear words of praise each week? Did praising women and calling them valorous reduce resentment? Did it work? Maybe men were wishing for the ability to juggle as much as women. Maybe the proverb was aspirational.

In my own experience with the recitation of Eshet Ḥayil and the observance of Shabbat itself I have found that these rituals have blinded us to what they produce. Rote ritual practice can prevent us from seeing the inequities it reinforces.[1] It seems to me that saying these verses weekly should summon us to think about whether anyone can juggle so many tasks effectively. They should force the conversation around our tables of what it means to feel a sense of Shabbat rest. The journey to find a more equitable Shabbat observance is not complete. Each week brings new discussion and strategies. I am, however, comforted when I look back over the arc of my life. Shabbat continues to bring the people in my life together enriching each of us. It is a sign to me that I am invested in something larger than myself, that I keep making something happen through the relationships that my Shabbat experience sustains. It feels messy. It continues to feel unequal. But in the bonds that form, it feels holy.[2]