Three of my happiest moments as a parent have come at our local men’s clothing store, as I have taken each of my sons to find a suit for his bar mitzvah. For starters, the trip strikes a deep chord of familiarity, as I remember shopping for a suit or a sport coat with my own father at the long since closed Ann Arbor Clothing. That’s a warm memory. For another, it has generally marked a milestone, as we don’t live in a community in which kids (or even adults) are expected to wear fancy clothes to shul. Thus, in all three cases, this was the first time they had worn something more upscale than an oxford and khakis.
That’s seemingly part of a generational shift (likely multi-generational) away from formal dress. These days my youngest will sometimes wear pajamas to school, and when I protest he just gives me the side eye. It’s as though asking him to put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt was the equivalent of ordering up a top hat and tails.
And yet clothing still makes a difference. Developing a wardrobe has been part of the young adulthood of each of my older children, and while my youngest is only 13, he is now equipped with a full line of t-shirts, sweatshirts, and sweatpants, courtesy of his friends’ b’nai mitzvah. In my own life, I find that, even when we’re not going out or having company over for Shabbat dinner, I still feel a need to put on bigdei shabbat, clothes that remind me—or, even better, help me inhabit—the spiritual zone of Shabbos. (In my case that means a white button-down shirt and dark trousers. A suit is still reserved for more rarified occasions.) To me, that’s an interesting marker, because it signifies that my clothing isn’t only about performing a role for others, but also about performing for myself and/or for the Holy One—which is a fascinating idea.
Commenting on Parashat Tetzaveh, Rabbi Avrohom Bornsztain of Sokochov (1838–1910) observes, “The priests require their special clothes, and if they aren’t wearing their holy garments then their sacred service is invalid.” Yet the Levites have no such special requirement. Why so? Because unlike the Levites, whose service was externalized through song, the spiritual work of the kohanim was penimit, internal. “For everything which is internal requires covering: The soul, when it comes into this world, requires a covering—the body. An angel that is sent to this world likewise needs to wear bodily garments.” And, he continues, this is the very notion of wearing special Shabbat clothes, “for Shabbat is itself internality.” He cites the midrash’s gloss on the story in which Naomi tells Ruth, “Wash and anoint yourself, place your garment upon you, and descend to the threshing floor” (Ruth 3:3). “Was she not already wearing clothes?” asks the Midrash. “Rather this is to tell you that she put on Shabbat clothes.” At this moment of her spiritual conversion, the Sokochover teaches, Ruth accessed a new inner life and thus required new clothing—not just physical garments, but spiritual covering. So, too, with the priests—and with all of us (“You shall be unto me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation,” as God says in Exodus 19:6).
At the same time, we can’t ignore the social dynamics of clothing. Rashi (on Exodus 28:3) notes that Aaron becomes the High Priest by virtue of the clothing he wears, i.e. if he doesn’t wear the uniform, he simply can’t inhabit the role. With spring training underway, Rule 3.03(c) of Major League Baseball comes to mind: “No player whose uniform does not conform to that of his teammates shall be permitted to participate in a game.” If a player refuses to wear the “garment,” even if it’s Shohei Ohtani hitting a 500-foot home run, they essentially cease to exist in the eyes of the game.
All of which raises questions about authenticity and a critique we hear invoked frequently these days, performativity. These questions are present for anyone, but they are more acute in the age of social media, in which it’s not always clear—even to the person posting—whether and how these dynamics are at play. Am I sharing this beautiful photo of my family because I feel good and warm and want to invite others into that sensation, or am I not so subtly saying, Look at me and my wonderful family (which, as Tolstoy reminds us, is either just like every other happy family or unhappy in its own special way)? Or, if I’m making a political statement, am I doing that because I genuinely believe it, or to conform to some expectation I sense from others to say something? (And, I might add, we can add an additional layer of questions: What, if anything, is wrong or right in either of those?)
Purim, which always follows Parashat Tetzaveh, invites us even further into these questions not only with its tradition of costumes, but in the deep ways in which Esther’s story plays with dynamics of concealment and revelation, authenticity and role-playing. Those dynamics are perhaps embodied in Mordechai’s pivotal question to Esther, “Who knows if it was not for just such a moment as this that you became Queen?” (Esther 4:14) In response, Esther not only musters her courage—that is, tends to her inner life—but, critically, puts on her royal clothing to plead for her people before the king (5:1). She would seem to be both authentic and performing at the same time, a model for all of us to study.
For Reflection & Conversation
- Noting that this can be a very intimate question for some folks, please handle it with care: When, if ever, have clothes helped you feel more “like yourself?” What changed about you as wore those clothes? How did it affect your sense of yourself?
- When, if ever, do you think about being authentic or genuine versus being performative? What, if anything, helps you to stay grounded and true to yourself?
