It is, one has to assume, no accident that Lilith Sternin (Bebe Neuwirth) of Frasier (and Cheers) is named after the biblical Adam’s mythological first wife, known in legend as a demonic, child-killing woman. Frasier Crane’s ex-wife may not snatch newborns, but she’s hardly easy to love.

Like Frasier, Lilith is a psychiatrist; an exceptionally smart woman given to a distant, highly intellectualized, unemotional way of interacting that often has her branded an ice queen by members of the Crane family. She is the image of consummate uptightness: Her hair always in a perfect bun, her wardrobe a treasure trove of pantyhose and sensible, darkly colored suits. Frasier consistently refers to her domineering ways. In one episode, he snorts, “If I had trouble taking orders from a woman, Frederick would never have been conceived.”

Even when it comes to her child, where Jewish women are generally thought of as exuding warmth and caring to a smothering degree, Lilith expresses love in unusual ways. In one episode, Frasier and Lilith become consumed with getting young Frederick into an exclusive prep school. After an initial visit at the headmaster’s house, Frasier and Lilith return repeatedly to try to butter up the fussy teacher—in one ruse, Lilith pretends to have left behind an earring given to her by Golda Meir. Meanwhile, Frederick, under the care of his grandfather and uncle, gets hit in the face with a baseball, breaks out in hives from eating anchovies, and walks into the refrigerator door. In her zeal to secure Frederick’s academic future, Lilith, the Jewish mother meant to tend to her son’s every hangnail and skinned knee, doesn’t notice his shiner and rash.

But underneath the cold, calculated, emotionless exterior runs some hot blood. Lilith is also, it turns out, a bit of a temptress. In one episode, after Lilith’s new husband has left her, she visits Seattle to turn to Frasier for emotional support. Frasier is anxious—in times of distress, he has trouble resisting Lilith, a weakness exacerbated by the short red dress Lilith turns up in. “Oh, baby,” he moans sadly when he answers the door, resigned to the certainty of his giving in to his attraction.

Despite her sexiness, Lilith retains some essential Lilithness—she greets Frasier’s brother, Niles, in a characteristically blunt way: “I’m sorry to hear your marriage ended in a shambles.” And yet, the next morning, Niles wakes up in bed with Lilith, cursing her “bewitching” ways.

So Lilith—both siren and schoolmarm—encompasses the opposing ideas that have long been the hallmarks of Jewish femininity: that Jewish women are either frigid or floozies, uptight in bed or else quite the opposite. Jewish women have long been associated with a conniving sort of sexuality; from Ivanhoe on, literature is filled with Jewesses who use their wiles to get their ways. But in a post-World War II world populated with literary characters like the prudish-but-trying-to-get-over-it Marjorie Morningstar, Jewish women became withholding shrews. It’s the attitude that led Anthony Weiner to famously exclaim last year, in what must win the honor for most romantic text message of all time, “Wow, a Jewish girl who sucks [word for penis that my mother would not approve of]! This thing is ready to do damage.”

Lilith isn’t exactly doing much to dispel the stereotypes. Vacillating between repellently repressed and bewitchingly seductive, she has it both ways, but doesn’t win any fans. Her reputation precedes her; when Frasier mentions that she is in town, Niles deadpans, “Oh, so that explains why blood was pouring from all my faucets this morning”—but still sleeps with her in the same episode. Lilith is destined to exist in the in-between world of beguiling and repugnant, in which she has both the power to tempt and the power to terrify. But Lilith might be playing the stereotypes to her advantage: Either way, she’s got the power.

Previously on Network Jews:

Neal Schweiber, the 14-year-old crotchety ventriloquist on Freaks & Geeks

George Bluth Sr., the erstwhile Jew and patriarch of Arrested Development

Fran Fine, the nasal-voiced star of The Nanny

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About a month ago, a friend told me she wanted to get a mezuzah for her new apartment, to help protect it.

“It doesn’t protect your house,” I told her matter-of-factly. “It’s a mitzvah, something we’re obligated to do as Jews. It identifies your home as a Jewish home, but it doesn’t protect it.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, it’s in the Torah, it’s an obligation. It has nothing to do with protecting your home at all. It’s something you’re supposed to do, well, because the Bible says so.”

She thought for a moment and then said, “Well, I don’t want to do it just because I’m supposed to.”

I found her assertion strange but felt I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I didn’t mean to discourage her from doing something she wanted to do, but I didn’t want her to blame Judaism if the apartment flooded and her mezuzah didn’t prevent it from happening.

I’ve been thinking about mezuzahs a lot lately, ever since I moved into a new home with my partner. She describes herself as an atheist Jew. She has no spiritual or religious connection to her Judaism, which puts me, as someone connected to Judaism both religiously and spiritually, in an interesting position. She loves Shabbat dinner because of the food, friends, and wine. But she doesn’t attend synagogue with me, and even though she’s said that she’ll consider going to High Holiday services, in four years it hasn’t happened. When people ask if I converted for her, I remind them of these things. Despite our seemingly different views on Jewish practice, though, we both want one thing—a Jewish home.

Our home is Jewish, of course, because we’re both Jews. But there are other choices that we’ll soon have to make. We’ve begun tallying up the doorposts in our home, calculating the price of placing a mezuzah on each of them. We’ve discussed the ethics of blessing our apartment as a Jewish home, when our landlord, who lives downstairs, isn’t Jewish. We’ve considered the significance behind our desire to hang a mezuzah in the first place—why it’s not just important to me, but why it’s important for her as well. Now that we’ve moved in together, we’re making decisions about our Jewishness together.

In a few weeks, we’re hosting a Chanukat Bayit, a traditional Jewish housewarming ceremony. Our rabbi, an amazing queer woman, is taking the traditional blessing and re-working it to reflect who we are as a couple. We’ve invited all of our friends, Jewish and non-Jews alike. Though the religious aspect may be of less importance to some, it’s the act of doing something Jewish as a couple that I find the most meaningful.
For me, putting up a mezuzah is not really about fulfilling an obligation as much as it is about publicly declaring my Judaism. It doesn’t “protect” my home in the way that a blue and white circular pendant around your neck promises to ward off the Evil Eye, or hanging a piece of red ribbon on your baby’s crib might protect her from Lilith. But there is a wonderful comfort in walking into a home with a mezuzah.

There are places in the world where seeing a mezuzah on every doorpost is common—in Israel, at large Jewish non-profits, or on certain streets in Borough Park—and the homes without them stand out to me. But I have a similar feeling upon finding a mezuzah somewhere unexpected, like on a building in the Financial District or a tie shop in Herald Square. By the end of the month, my apartment will join those places, and I can’t wait.

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