One of our synagogue members, a bookstore owner, continually gives sound advice.  He says, “In the event that a major film is released, based on a novel or other book, I say, without reservation, you must read the book first!  Reading the book allows you to form your own images and opinions of the material; the journey through the narrative is your own.  In a film, you become limited by the perspective of the film creator; you are presented only with their images.”

It was with this thought in mind, that given the hype, given the eleven Academy Award nominations, I downloaded Yann Martel’sLife of Pi onto my Kindle and finished reading it earlier this week.  Not knowing anything about the book in advance, I could tell from the coming attractions in the cinema that the book had something to do with a shipwrecked boy and a tiger.  What I didn’t understand until after reading Life of Pi was that it is a story about faith and frustration, hope and heartbreak, a story about belief and disbelief in God, all at the same time.  

Life of Pi asks a question which relates directly to this week’s parashah – namely, After all that we have seen, heard, and experienced in life, do we still have the audacity to believe?  At the conclusion of the story, when Pi is convalescing in Mexico he is visited by Mr Chiba and Mr Okamato who find Pi’s account of his survival with the tiger preposterous.  Pi says, “I know what you want.  You want a story that won’t surprise you.  That will confirm what you already know.  That won’t make you see higher or further or differently.  You want a flat story.  An immobile story.  You want dry, yeastless factuality.”[1]

A few weeks ago, I started my day at home reciting the traditional morning prayers.  I was just finishing and removing my tallit(prayer shawl) when my daughter Hannah, who will be three in a few months, ran into the room and said with wide, curious blue eyes, “Oooh, Daddy, what’s that?”  

Following the advice of a colleague who reminds me “when speaking to three-year-olds we need to translate Jewish language into ‘three-year-old’” I let Hannah touch my tallit, play with the fringes, and then I invited her to try wearing it.  

Hannah then said, “It feels nice, Daddy.  I like it.”

So I explained further, “It’s called a tallit.  It’s very special and we wear it when we say our prayers, when we say thank you to God for all of the wonderful things we have in the world.  When you celebrate your bat mitzvah, you can choose to have a tallit of your own.”

Hannah’s eyes opened more brightly and she said, “Oooh, Hannah gets her own tallit Daddy!”

Truthfully, in ten years time, when the moment comes for Hannah to prepare and celebrate her Bat Mitzvah, we will engage in the discussion about the importance of the tallit.  The reality in our community is that some women choose to wear tallit while others do not; and both are equally appropriate interpretations of Jewish tradition and practice.