The chapter begins with a striking heading: “God said to Moses: Speak to the entire assembly of the Israelites and say to them: ‘Be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.’�ĝ The text lends this chapter special weight when it instructs Moses to gather the entire people to hear it, something that does not often occur in Leviticus, which is mostly directed at the priests. Indeed, many of the instructions laid down in  would, if observed, produce a society of very high standards: Respect your parents; leave part of your harvest for the poor and the stranger; do not steal, embezzle, or lie; don’t oppress your fellow man; don’t delay payment to your employees; don’t curse the deaf or trip the blind; don’t pervert justice; don’t go around bearing tales; don’t nurse a grievance, take revenge, or hold a grudge; respect your elders and protect the stranger; don’t cheat in business; and, in the middle of the chapter, the ringing and nearly impossible challenge to love your neighbor as yourself.

But the chapter doesn’t begin “Be moral, for I the Lord your God am moral” or “Be righteous, for I the Lord your God am righteous.” It begins “Be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.” Indeed, everything that surrounds  is about holiness. Our double parashah begins by instructing Aaron not to enter the most holy precinct of the Tabernacle whenever he chooses but only once a year, under particular conditions and pursuant to particular rites, subject to a penalty of death; it seems that the holy is not only an ideal state to be strived for but a force to be treated with caution. The laws of prohibited sexual relations are tied to holiness, for they are preceded and followed by the admonition: “Make yourselves holy and be holy, for I am the Lord your God” () and “Be holy for me, for I the Lord your God am holy.” Holiness seems to involve both a moral and a ritual state: it is to be pursued, in some cases; and to be avoided—or at least, treated cautiously—in others.

The dangers inherent in holiness are mentioned often in the Torah. The warning to Aaron about not entering the holy site builds on the shocking account of the death of his two sons () that resulted from their unauthorized entry into the holy place to make an unauthorized offering of incense (). The Torah does not say that God struck them down; it says that fire emerged from God’s presence—i.e., from the sanctuary itself; they were killed by a force that seemed to be triggered automatically, like an electric shock. And to drive the lesson home, God explains their death by stressing its connection with His holiness:

Through those nearest me will I be shown to be holy,
And before the people as a whole, I will be shown to be glorious. ()

Thus, the Torah commands us to be holy, but it also warns us to beware of the holy.

Our tradition has resolved the tension between the command and the warning by pointing to another meaning of the word kedoshim, the word normally translated “holy.” In many passages in the Bible, words that mean “holy” imply separating or distinguishing. Relying on this usage, tradition explains “You shall be holy” (kedoshim tihyu) as meaning “You shall be separate” (perushim tihyu) (e.g. Sifra Kedoshim 1:1). This usage can be observed in the laws of the Sabbath: when we are commanded to make the Sabbath holy, the meaning is that we are to separate the Sabbath day from weekdays through special observances.

By analogy, when we are told “Be holy, for I, the Lord your God am holy,” the meaning would be that we are commanded to separate ourselves from bad practices, such as the forbidden relations listed twice in our double parashah. The injunction could imply separating ourselves from other nations, in accordance with the heading of Chapter 19: “Do not do the kinds of things that are done in the Land of Egypt where you formerly dwelt, and do not do the kinds of things that are done in the land of Canaan to which I am bringing you.” The injunctions to be holy would imply that, as God is separate and different from the world and everything that is in it, we are expected to be different from the other nations in holding ourselves to a higher standard.

But there is another line of rabbinic interpretation. To be separate, some ancient rabbis explained, means that to be holy, we should separate ourselves, i.e., abstain, even from things that are permitted to us. The law permits us to drink wine, but that does not mean that we have license for drunkenness; the law permits us to have sexual intercourse with our spouses, but should practice it in moderation; the law does not explicitly forbid foul language, but we should avoid it out of our own sense of holiness. (e.g., Ramban) The Pharisees of antiquity were a sect of Jews who adopted stricter rules of ritual purity and obligatory gifts to the priests and Levites than those observed by most Jews. Tradition explains the name of the sect as deriving from parush, “separate,” the very word that the Rabbis used to explain kadosh, “holy.”

Pushed a little further, this idea of holiness could devolve into asceticism. The satisfaction of going the extra mile in serving God, particularly in the form of self-denial, is appealing to a certain religious sensibility and is attested in the history of Jewish religious practice. For spending thirteen years in a cave studying the Torah, the second-century rabbi Simeon bar Yoḥai has come to be considered a saint; his tomb in the Galilee is revered to this day. There were pietists in antiquity who observed a second day of Yom Kippur, resulting in a forty-eight-hour fast. Medieval European Jewish pietists imposed upon themselves extreme mortifications that were similar to those of the monks of medieval Christendom. Kabbalists since the twelfth century have undertaken extreme fasting and periods of isolation from human contact. A person who undertook such restrictions was known in Yiddish as a ��ó�������, a “separated one.” Most rabbis historically, while showing respect for persons who went beyond the law’s minimal demands, have preached moderation. But the ascetic trend in Judaism, though not mainstream, has been continuous.

Not everyone agreed that asceticism was a good thing. The author of Ecclesiastes advocates moderation even in matters of religion, saying, “Do not be overly righteous; why should you make yourself desolate?” Most of us moderns probably incline more to Ecclesiastes’s view than to the views of the ascetics. For it is not only themselves that the too-holy make miserable by choosing to miss out on so many of life’s healthy and permissible pleasures. We have all observed the tendency of the too-holy to take pride in their piety and to look down on the rest of us, even on those who strive to be merely holy. There is even an English word for the smug too-holy: sanctimonious, derived from the Latin word for holy, sanctus. They are a social type from which the rest of us are happy to be separated! Perhaps it was these extremists to whom Hillel addressed his admonition, “Do not separate [tifrosh] yourself from the community” ().

But the holiness that is enjoined on us cannot simply be an avoidance. God’s holiness radiates outward, so can the holiness that He expects of us be merely a turning away? God’s holiness is a positive; can ours be merely a negative? We are commanded not merely to avoid something but to do something. Our chapter’s injunctions to love one another and to love the stranger must be a start in the direction of holiness. But the danger that radiates from the holy suggests that something more than mere obedience, more than even fastidious obedience, more even than love is implied in the command to be holy.

God’s holiness is surely not merely a set of restrictions and requirements but the power that created and sustains the universe and that has the capacity to bring it crashing down. We cannot achieve that kind of power, of course—and woe betide the one who thinks he can! But insofar as it is compatible with our powers as human beings and the capacity of social institutions to tolerate it, we are to emulate this force by living actively, engaging positively and intensively in whatever we do, however we live, whatever choices we make.

This commentary was originally published in 2018.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Consider this scenario: you are walking through the halls at school, or at work, and someone bumps into you. There is so much room in the hall, but he bumped into you. “What a rude person!” you might think, “I’m going to bump into him next time I see him!” It’s natural for an individual to want revenge, or to want to hold a grudge for even the most trivial of actions.

Parashat Kedoshim begins by laying out dozens of mitzvot, including the prohibition against idolatry and the mitzvot of charity, Shabbat, honesty in business, honoring one’s parents, and the sanctity of life. Perhaps the best- known mitzvah is לֹֽא־תִקֹּ֤ם וְלֹֽא־תִטֹּר֙ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י עַמֶּ֔ךָ וְאָֽהַבְתָּ֥ לְרֵעֲךָ֖ כָּמ֑וֹךָ אֲנִ֖י יְ-הֹוָֽה׃ (Lev. 19:19) “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against members of your people. Love your fellow [Israelite] as yourself: I am the Lord.” Rabbi Akiva famously names this as a fundamental value of the Torah (Sifra, Kedoshim 4:12).

What does it mean to love another as oneself? Rabbi Shai Held writes in his 2024 book, Judaism Is About Love, that the Hebrew “does not say ve-ahavta et rei’akha kamokha,” love your neighbor as yourself, but instead says “‘ve-ahavta le-rei’akha kamokha,’ which translated hyperliterally [sic], would seem to mean ‘love for your neighbor as yourself’” (Held, 106).The contrast is important because God is not commanding us to love someone directly, in an interpersonal relationship, but commanding us to love others whether or not they love us, by treating people with respect, kindness, and consideration. Whom are we supposed to be loving? The verse says “your fellow,” but who is your fellow? Some scholars say that the verse means to command us to love “at a minimum, all Jews” (Held, 106). Ben Azzai, a distinguished Tanna from the 2nd Century, says that “your fellow” applies to all human beings as we were all made בִִּּדְמ֥וּת אֱ־לֹהִ֖ים (Gen. 5:1) in the likeness of God. Most religious scholars come to the consensus that the message of “your fellow” is a universal one.

Why is the commandment on love linked to not taking revenge or bearing a grudge, two principles that are the foundation for communal ethics, guiding justice and fairness in a society? It teaches that we should not act out of vengeance or hold grudges but instead respond with compassion and understanding towards others. In terms of justice, it calls for fairness, where conflicts are resolved by reconciling with others rather than perpetuating cycles of harm. Fairness is reinforced through a commitment to treating everyone with respect regardless of their actions, promoting the idea that all individuals, regardless of their status deserve to be treated with dignity.           

It’s hard to treat all people with genuine kindness, thus applying this tenet to our life can be difficult. How do you love someone when you hold a grudge? In the context of the pasuk, love for one’s neighbor may involve forgiveness. People are easily offended; for example, someone forgets a birthday, or a friend is inexplicably distant. The pasuk comes to teach that you should not retaliate. Instead of reciprocating negative actions, you should remember their birthday or reach out to your friend. Applying  לֹֽא־תִקֹּ֤ם וְלֹֽא־תִטֹּר֙ (Lev. 19:19) means choosing kindness and respect even when you are wronged.

Perhaps love for your neighbor also requires an element of self-love. The Baal Shem Tov (Israel ben Eliezer), a mystic and healer who is regarded as the founder of Hasidic Judaism, taught that loving others begins with seeing their inherent holiness, something only possible when one acknowledges one’s own worth. In the words of Rabbi Yisrael Salanter, the father of the Mussar movement—a Jewish spiritual practice focusing on character development and self-improvement—true love, or truthful and honest love, for others stems from self-awareness and growth. If a person lacks self-respect or is consumed by self-criticism, they may struggle to extend genuine kindness to others. Both perspectives—despite coming from different Jewish traditions—interpret self-love and growth as enabling factors for us in truly being able to have love for others.

Returning to that hypothetical I posed at the start, where one person holds a grudge against another person because they bumped into them in the hall, where we have become divided over trivial issues and start conflicts with one another all the time, we ought to be taking וְאָֽהַבְתָּ֥ לְרֵעֲךָ֖ כָּמ֑וֹךָ (Lev. 19:19) to heart. Major and minor conflicts can tear up communities, making people hate those holding the opposing view so much that they can’t see another way to converse with them. It can make this commandment difficult to truly apply, as it is a natural instinct for people to reciprocate what others do to them. We should start to apply this today by not treating someone the way they treat us but rather treating everyone with genuine kindness and respect. We also need to begin to look inward and to love ourselves. By committing to these forms of love, one can immediately make a positive impact on others—making someone’s day better or treating them with genuine kindness—which can hopefully encourage them to do the same for others.

It is a challenge for all of us to think this way, and I want to specifically challenge you to think about one way that you can actively embody this mitzvah in your life. When you go out in the world, embody this mitzvah and encourage others to do so as well. Finally, I would like to end with a blessing for a world infused with more love, understanding, and holiness.

Shabbat Shalom.

Many of these—“Do not sleep with a menstruating woman,” “Do not degrade your daughter,” etc.—put the emphasis on the male, not surprising given how personhood and sexuality were understood at the time (Lev. 18:19, 19:29). But these human interactions involve multiple parties. How might this section of the Torah inform the ways we today think about embodied mitzvot and the holiness of the entire community of Israel? Is there a way to hold earlier understandings of the mitzvot, the challenges of reading ancient texts about sexual ethics in light of contemporary values, and the belief that the Torah speaks to all of us at all times? 

As a feminist, observant Jew, I believe there has to be. My academic work at 91�첥 engages a disability justice approach to halakhah, using forbidden sexual relations—specifically the laws around menstruation—as a case study. ^[1] What might it mean to treat all of our bodies as holy? In reflecting on this question raised by the opening to Parashat Kedoshim, I suggest we turn to the resurgence of hilkhot niddah in liberal communities and the academic field of disability studies. 

Hilkhot niddah, like many areas of Jewish law about non-male bodies written by men, has its fair share of complications. Yet many observant Jews, including some liberal Jews, practice niddah. There are many reasons why, including a desire for halakhah to comprehensively inform our day-to-day lives. In her 2014 teshuvah, Rabbi Pamela Barmash spoke to such a phenomenon in the context of gender and obligation, writing, “Being permitted to perform a mitzvah is not the same as being required to perform a mitzvah, and women want to express their commitment to their lives as Jews by performing mitzvot on an equal basis with men.” Barmash’s assertion says as much about obligation more broadly as it does about women’s relationship to traditionally masculine mitzvot: for many of us, being fully, holistically obligated is a core part of our Judaism. So what happens when our foundational texts delineate the laws of �Ծ���岹��—or other embodied mitzvot—in a manner that does not completely align with our experiences of gender, sexuality, and/or physiology?

This dissonance offers the opportunity for a new approach. Enter the social model of disability, which understands disability as resulting from a gap between one’s embodied experience and their broader physical and social environment and attempts to close that gap through systemic change, which for halakhah would entail accounting for bodily diversity from the outset. The insights gained by individuals with marginalized bodily and sexual identities—who often navigate flawed medical systems, legislative attacks, and other societal challenges—can guide a response to the deep yearning for rituals and halakhah that resonate with our personal experiences of our bodies, especially when traditional texts seem at odds with these experiences. Integrating disability justice with halakhah provides a dual opportunity: it allows the insights of disability studies to enrich halakhic thinking and helps our communities better address diverse physical needs, affirming the holiness of the entire community of Israel.

One area of hilkhot niddah that could better account for different experiences is bedikot, the series of internal checks a menstruant^[2] performs at the cessation of bleeding to exit the status of niddah.^[3] People with pelvic health issues like endometriosis and vulvodynia may experience pain with insertion, as well as symptoms such as vulvar itching, incontinence, and discomfort when sitting or wearing tight pants. Hilkhot niddah have long taken into account the reality that some people might have difficulty with vaginal insertion, establishing cases in which someone would only have to do the first bedikah—hefsek tahara. Yet for those for whom even this one check is difficult, it is normative to seek out individualized guidance that might provide leniencies and heterim (permissions). Given that one in four people with vulvas are impacted by pelvic health issues at some point during their life, and the broader reasoning that we should proactively account for embodied difference, a contemporary approach to hilkhot niddah should see pelvic health issues as part of the normal range of menstrual experiences, not an anomaly to be dealt with if they come up.

A disability justice-informed approach to bodily diversity would see responding to one’s physical and emotional realities not as necessitating employing a leniency, but as part and parcel of what it means to seriously live a rigorous halakhic life. While not everyone perceives “leniency” to be a bad thing, it often has a negative connotation in halakhic communities, implying that someone is choosing to be “less observant.” Furthermore, in the disability community, people sometimes hesitate to use mobility aids or pursue institutional accommodations out of fear of “not being disabled enough,” and a similar line of thinking could lead people to be wary of relying on a halakhic leniency. We can affirm people by relating to halakhah in a way that does not set up a strict/lenient hierarchy but rather draws them closer to Jewish practice with, to the extent possible, halakhic language that speaks to their lived experiences.

For bedikot, expanding halakhic thinking with an eye toward disability justice might include accounting for the reality that not everyone is physically able to perform a hefsek tahara and elaborating on what this might mean for the transition to shivah neki’im—the seven “clean days” between menstruation and exiting niddah status through immersion. Alternatively, for the menstruant who observes a form of niddah that understands the entirety of niddah to be seven days and still wants to do some sort of check before going to the mikveh when night falls on/after the seventh day, it might entail discerning a rigorous way to check in with one’s body that does not cause physical or emotional distress. The halakhic approach to hefsek tahara that I wish to see is one that understands that not everyone might be able to do even a single bedikah, and that this is not necessarily a temporary situation. 

My proposal reflects a deeper, personal desire to navigate the tension between my own experience as a person sensitive to pain and a longstanding tradition. I know that, for me, taking both Judaism and my experience of my body seriously means engaging in a comprehensive religious practice, inclusive of niddah. This is not unique to people who have chronic health challenges. From pregnant people discussing how to think about fasting to trans folks writing teshuvot about whether to wear a chest binder when immersing in a mikveh, many of us are expressing a desire for halakhah to be informed by and speak to a diversity of lived experiences.^[4] Halakhah’s ability to respond to the complicated reality of human existence is part of what maintains its holiness. The extent to which we respond to the diverse embodied needs in our communities is central to answering the call for each of us to be holy.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

^[1] The “Unwell” Woman: A Disability Justice Approach to Halakhah and Spiritual Care, submitted in partial fulfillment of the Jewish Gender and Women’s Studies MA and Certificate in Pastoral Care and Counseling at 91�첥.

^[2]  When discussing biblical and rabbinic sources, I refer to “women” in an attempt to provide a translation or summation of the source that best reflects the texts’ understanding of gender and anatomy. When talking about contemporary best practices and scenarios, I use gender-inclusive language such as “menstruant.”

^[3] How this period of time is counted largely depends on one’s communities (ethnically, denominationally, etc.).

^[4] For example, see and

One of the ways in which we exercise this holiness is by making distinctions between the holy and the ordinary: in particular, through carving out sacred time in the calendars. Pirkei Derabbi Eliezer, commenting on the first-ever havdalah (after the first-ever Shabbat when Adam and Eve were expelled from Eden), notes that, “Everyone who does make havdalah, the Holy Blessed One calls them to be God’s holy treasure, and delivers them from affliction” (20:28). It then goes on to cite the penultimate verse from our parashah: “As it is said, ‘And you shall be holy to me, for I God am holy’” (ibid.). We have a responsibility to, every week, find ways to separate the holy from the ordinary. Even though the seventh day is already inherently holy, our holiness to God highlights the importance of our work in marking the end of our holy time as we enter the rather ordinary week. Havdalah itself is named after our ability to separate the holy from the ordinary—and it is that ritual act of separation that allows us to end Shabbat and begin our weeks.

However, we also can leverage our holiness to create something holy out of something completely ordinary. Exodus Rabbah (commenting on Exod. 12:2) connects the idea that we are to be holy to God, to the commandment to sanctify the new month, the very first mitzvah that the Israelites are given:

“This month shall mark for you (Exod 12:2):” One who sees the new moon—how should they bless it? At the time when Israel sanctifies the new month, there were some among the sages who said, “Blessed is the One who renews the months;” others among them who said, “Blessed is the one who sanctifies Israel,” for if Israel did not sanctify the new month, then there would be no sanctification of the new month at all. And we should not be astonished that the Holy Blessed One made Israel holy, as it is said, “And you shall be holy to Me, for I God am holy.” Because they are made holy by the heavens, that which Israel sanctifies is made holy.

In other words, we, Israel, are the ones who make Rosh Hodesh, the new month and the new moon, holy through noticing it and through our prayers and blessings—and without us doing so, then the first of the new month would just be any other day. In the present moment, we combine the two blessings mentioned in this midrash in Musaf for Rosh Hodesh, and include a blessing that ends with, “Who makes Israel and the new months holy.” This midrash also helps further bring into focus another idea: we are not just commanded to be holy (as we are at the beginning of the parashah) but we are made holy through God and in turn have the power to turn otherwise ordinary things, such as a normal date on the calendar, or the almost invisible new moon, holy.

While Shabbat is inherently holy, and our role is merely to mark its holiness through our words and rituals, the new month is different. The moon waxes and wanes on its own schedule; without us doing anything, Rosh Hodesh would not exist. Shabbat exists on its own, but we must actively create Rosh Hodesh by imbuing what otherwise be any other date on the calendar with holiness.

When the new month was established by the beit din (and not just based on the calendar, as we do it today), it was declared sacred only once it was decided that the new month had indeed begun. Witnesses would present themselves to the court, saying that they had witnessed the new month; after the court had verified the legitimacy of the witnesses, they would declare that the new month had begun and alert other communities of the new month. The process of elevating the seemingly ordinary date on a calendar and making it into something holy is what makes us unique and what it means to be not just holy, but holy to God specifically. This midrash also helps us understand something crucial about the ways that holiness and chosen-ness intersect: Perhaps we are holy because of our ability to encounter the ordinary dates on a calendar, the invisible moon, and see their holiness and elevate them above the ordinary. And just God has the ability to take ordinary things make them holy, render the invisible visible and marked through their holiness, we have that power as well. 

Our second midrash ends: “Said the Holy Blessed One: I, I am already holy, and for my own sake I make things holy. Rather, behold: I make Israel Holy, and they make me holy, as it is written, ‘And you shall be holy to Me.’�ĝ

Being holy to God is to be in the world and find new ways to make the ordinary sacred—even when it is sometimes hidden from view like the new moon—and, in doing so, we are also, making God holy. Our role is not just to take and celebrate the things that are already holy, like Shabbat, but to constantly find ways to elevate the things, the people, and their experiences that have not been seen as holy in the past. In the process, we can, in turn, make God holy as well.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

וְכִי־תָבֹ֣אוּ אֶל־הָאָ֗רֶץ וּנְטַעְתֶּם֙ כׇּל־עֵ֣ץ מַאֲכָ֔ל וַעֲרַלְתֶּ֥ם עׇרְלָת֖וֹ אֶת־פִּרְי֑וֹ שָׁלֹ֣שׁ שָׁנִ֗ים יִהְיֶ֥ה לָכֶ֛ם עֲרֵלִ֖ים לֹ֥א יֵאָכֵֽל׃

When you enter the land and plant any tree for food, you shall regard its fruit as forbidden. Three years it shall be forbidden for you, not to be eaten.

(Lev. 19:23)

But the use of the word orlah here has puzzled generations of commentators, for though it appears frequently in the Torah, it is not typically connected to trees. Indeed we primarily associate the term with circumcision. How are the two uses of orlah related? And can tracing this relationship reveal something new about the rite of circumcision itself?

Rashi interprets the expression vearaltem orlato וַעֲרַלְתֶּם עָרְלָתוֹ as opaque and sealed, meaning that the tree will be closed and unattainable. The Aramaic translation (Onkelos) uses uterahakun rahka וּתְרַחֲקוּן רַחָקָא meaning “keep away from.” In the Bible orlah appears most commonly in the context of circumcision, in the sense of flesh covering a body organ (Gen. 17:14). This meaning fits the appearance of the word in various combinations: aral sefataym עֲרַל שְׂפָֿתָֿיִם (Exod. 6:12, 30) when excess skin on the lips interferes with speech, arela oznam עֲרֵלָהֿ אָזְנָם (Jeremiah 6:10) when excess skin on the ear interferes with hearing, and figuratively, levavam he-arel לְבָֿבָֿם הֶעָרֵל (Lev. 26:41) when a cover over the heart interferes with feeling.

While etymological development seems to be from the concrete to the borrowed and the abstract; from orlat habasar עָרְלַת הַבָּשָׂר—the foreskin of the flesh, to orlat haets עָרְלַת הָעֵץ—the forbidden fruit, Midrash Genesis Rabbah flips the direction in its discussion of Abraham’s circumcision.

 The Midrash opens with a parable about a noblewoman:

“Walk before Me and be blameless,” (Gen. 17:1) Rabbi Levi said it is like a noblewoman to whom the king said. [Would you] pass before me. So, she passed before him, and her face blushed [lit. became as orange as turmeric.] She thought, what if some flaw is found on me? The king replied. You have no flaw, except an overgrown nail on your little finger. Cut it and the defect will be gone. This is what God said to Abraham: There is nothing wrong with you but this foreskin, remove it and get rid of the defect and walk before me and be blameless.

(Genesis Rabbah 46:4)

The parallel drawn between Abraham and a female figure is a creative way of including women in the idea of circumcision. But why do the rabbis need to include women? The reason becomes clear in the second part of the Midrash, where circumcision is linked to fertility. Here the rabbis discuss how Abraham knows that “the flesh of your orlah” בְּשַׂר עָרְלַתְכֶם is the foreskin. After all, orlah can be a skin or flesh that covers any body organ.

R. Hunah said in the name of Bar Kaparah. Abraham sat and pondered similar laws of inference (gzera shava גְּזֵרָה שָׁוָה). Orlah is used in reference to a human and to a tree. Just as orlah in a tree refers to the place it bears fruits, so also orlah in a human is in the place where he gives fruits (i.e. produces offspring).

To explicitly answer the question of how Abraham knew that orlah was the foreskin, the Midrash uses Talmudic hermeneutics and learns from the orlah of the tree’s fruits that circumcision should be connected to the organ of fertility. In the third part of the Midrash, Rabi Haninah Ben Pazi disagrees with his predecessors and claims that Abraham received a hint from God that circumcision is related to fertility: “I will establish my covenant between Me and you, and I will make you exceedingly numerous” (Gen. 17:2 ), that is: I will establish my covenant in the place where (in his body) he will multiply (Genesis Rabbah Ibid.).

This connection between circumcision and fertility is related to a cultural perception that the foreskin symbolizes an excess of masculinity that may threaten a women’s fertility. In this context, foreskin removal can be interpreted as creating a balance between male and female which is necessary for conception.

The link between circumcision and fertility also appears in the biblical text itself when the announcement of Isaac’s birth interrupts God’s commandment of circumcision (Gen. 17:10–14) and its execution by Abraham (Ibid. 23–27). As in the Midrash, the biblical narrative highlights that the connection between circumcision and fertility requires the involvement of the woman. Thus, in addition to the mitzvah of circumcision, Genesis includes a name change ceremony where both Abraham and Sarah receive the same addition to their name (Ibid. 15). Also, we may understand Sarah as undergoing a parallel physiological process to Abraham (which also involves bleeding) before conception (Gen. 18:11–12).

The Midrash highlights the aforementioned physiological changes that Abraham and Sarah experience simultaneously (circumcision for Abraham and renewal of menstruation for Sarah) using the image of two locks that can be repaired (so that they can be opened again) only by the same craftsman who created them (Genesis Rabbah 48:19). The Babylonian Talmud refers to this parallel infertility by calling Abraham and Sarah “tumtumin” טומטומין (Yevamot 64a), individuals whose sex is unknown because their genitalia are covered or hidden. This image represents a return to the primordial androgynous state in which man was created. The existence of both sexes in one organism brings us back to the use of the term orlah as referring to a tree as a mostly monoecious plant, i.e., having both the female and male reproductive organs.

The literary connection that the Midrash makes between the orlah of the tree and the orlah of man reveals complex cultural work that mediates between two different species. This link leads to an understanding of circumcision as connected to fertility and requiring the involvement of both sexes. We see this reflected in the broader literary activity of the biblical text and in the Midrash, which strive for a balance between Abraham and Sarah in the context of the commandment of circumcision and connect it to the announcement of the birth of Isaac. In this sense, the rabbis’ motive for connecting circumcision with fertility can be understood as an attempt to deal with the problematic lack inherent in this commandment—the absence of the woman.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

We encounter this paradox already in the first chapter of Genesis. It is a wondrous and inspiring account of the origin of life on earth. The Torah declares everything wrought by the Creator to be good, understands humanity to be fashioned in the divine image, and teaches people to take responsibility for others and for the world itself. We may read these texts dozens or hundreds of times over the course of our lives, cherishing them and gaining insight even if their central premise—creation of the Universe over the course of a week—is falsified by modern science. Like ancient starlight reaching modern eyes, the words of Torah convey wonder even when their original radiance must be refracted through a new lens.

When we reach Parashat Aharei Mot–Kedoshim the paradoxical encounter with Torah reaches a new intensity. Many of the Torah’s most powerful and meaningful ideas are found in these chapters. We learn to love our neighbor as ourselves, to dignify our elders, to respect and protect people living with disability, and to create a livable spiritual practice (vehai bahem—live through the mitzvot, Lev. 18:5). Some of its commandments such as the prohibition of incest and adultery remain compelling, and others such as the ban on mixed species challenge us with their obscurity. However, some statements found here are foreign and hurtful to contemporary readers.

When the Torah prohibits sexual intercourse between two men, calling their lovemaking an abomination, there is no avoiding our discomfort and increasingly our disagreement with this ancient text. The Rabbis gifted us with techniques of non-literal interpretation, and modern readers have offered more acceptable approaches to these verses. For example, they might be read to prohibit only cultic, or coercive, or unloving, or incestuous sex between men. Still, the most honest and useful approach is to admit that these verses have been understood for millennia to condemn sexual intimacy between men. Today we understand this ban to be hurtful and oppressive. What is to be done?

Every year thousands of Jews present essays and speeches struggling with these texts, using them as a foil for our own evolving understanding of gender and sexuality. This itself is a redemptive response, but we also need to revise communal norms. Within Conservative Judaism we have tried different approaches, some effective but none entirely satisfying. Fifteen years ago, I joined with two other rabbis in composing that placed the Torah’s heteronormative assumptions in tension with its own teachings about human dignity and the value of intimate partnership in life.

We argued that the Torah’s declaration that “it is not good for a person to be alone” (Gen. 2:18), its commandment to love one another as ourselves, and its warning to avoid humiliating and harming others were all in tension with the ban found here on gay sex. So too with the expansions added by the Rabbis on sex between women: the cultural assumptions of their time undermined some of the Rabbis’ most beautiful teachings about respecting and protecting one another. The ancient Rabbis said, “So great is human dignity that it supersedes a negative principle of Torah” (BT Berakhot 19b and elsewhere). As modern rabbis we applied this powerful idea to our contemporary reality and to protect the dignity of all people in our day.

I would like to take this opportunity, nearly fifteen years later, to appreciate the positive impact of our responsum, and to revise some of its less beneficial claims. On the positive side, almost immediately after our paper was approved in 2006, Jews and other people of faith began to discuss sexuality through the lens of dignity. The tone of the discourse changed, certainly within our own denomination, and so did the policies. Synagogues, schools, and camps changed their rhetoric, and queer youth, adults, and families were gradually, and then suddenly, embraced as dignified members and leaders of their communities. Our seminaries in New York and Los Angeles quickly shifted to admitting gay and lesbian applicants, as did our school in Jerusalem five years later. Dozens of remarkable rabbis and cantors who openly identify as LGBTQI+ now lead our communities, and we have benefited from a richer and more diverse covenantal community.

It is hard to remember just how different things were fifteen or twenty years ago. Encountering ancient text on matters so intimate is always difficult. Sometimes a text from only fifteen years ago can feel ancient, and I admit that this is true of my own work.

We used the word “homosexuality” in our title to signal a scholarly and unbiased approach that might convince skeptical readers, including fellow law committee members whose votes we needed. But for many readers that term already felt passe and even hurtful in its clinical tone. We should have been consistent in using the language preferred by gay and lesbian Jews, for whose benefit the paper was intended.

Our core halakhic claim was that sexual orientation is a fixed feature for many people, and that the prior demand that gay and lesbian people suppress their sexuality and try to pass as straight was demeaning, cruel, and futile. As such, it violated the rabbinic principle of human dignity, causing shame and suffering, which are themselves biblically forbidden. In passing, we commented that for bisexual people it might be difficult but not impossible to restrict themselves to the ancient heterosexual norms. This comment was problematic at the time, and has caused pain and anger, which I deeply regret. Bisexuality is its own identity, often misunderstood, that deserves respect and protection from hurtful comments and policies. Our paper should either have included bisexuals in its conceptual framework, or left their questions for a different responsum, much as we left transgender issues for a different project.

The interpretation of Torah is an evolving and expanding activity. For millennia male rabbis argued that only men were obligated to study Torah, and they fought to preserve their monopoly on the spiritual inheritance that rightfully belongs to all Jews. Men built this patriarchy, and men may be partners in the task of dismantling it. But it is the scholarship and activism of women that have been the driving forces in this change. The same is true of LGBTQI+ Jews who have emerged from being objects of rabbinic interest to subjects and authors of Jewish discourse. The prior closeting and oppression of these Jews is an ongoing source of pain and shame; the new era of openness and gay pride is the beginning of a holier and greater stage of Jewish history.

As I approach the end of my term as a 91�첥 dean, I am inspired and thrilled by the diverse identities of our students and alumni. Many of our wisest and most prominent teachers today have identities that were recently excluded from leadership. This is true not only for sexual and gender identity, but also for Jews of Color, and those living with disability. As a straight white male who was raised Jewish, I recognize how privileged my position has been. I have committed myself to removing barriers so that the Torah can be enriched by diverse perspectives, and our communities can rise to their potential. Much more work remains to expand the palace of Torah so that its paradoxes can become constructive challenges. Only then may we fulfill the Torah’s most expansive command, “You shall be holy, for I Adonai your God am Holy.”

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

In , Howard Gardner and Katie Davis argue that the frequency with which one uses Facebook significantly shapes his or her perceptions of other people’s happiness, arguing that teenagers “spend hours looking at the achievements of peers whom they know only through Facebook and that this voyeuristic activity makes them feel both competitive and vulnerable.”

Frankly, the authors could just as easily be talking about anyone who uses social media, the great force multiplier of status anxiety. What I am describing is not a surprise, at this point; any moderately informed person knows that it is chic to criticize social media, as if digital tools are the cause of depression and social disfunction, to say nothing of racism, anti-Semitism, and political vitriol.

However, part of me feels that the conventional wisdom about social media lets people off the hook too easily. In reality, social media is a tool, and we decide how to use it. We may take the easy path and make a laundry list of every way these devices can hurt our world, and yet, in a time where most of us are confined to our homes with no end in sight, it makes those critiques seem quaint, almost naive. Furthermore, a close read of this week’s parashah reveals that the sanctity of something is much more in our hands than we would like to believe.

Chapter 19 of Vayikra opens with God’s command that Moses speak to the Israelites and say, “You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy” (Lev. 19:2). When our Medieval commentators examine this verse, Rashi and Ramban debate whether or not this verse should be read narrowly or broadly. Rashi writes:

“You shall be holy”: abstain from forbidden relations and from sin. [The concept of] holiness always accompanies the laws of sexual relations . . . .

Rashi’s commentary asserts that the statement “You shall be holy” must be connected to the forthcoming prohibitions of illicit sexual relationships, associating the broad principle with the specific laws that the Torah lists. If we read the verse from our parashah narrowly, we can see the appeal in Rashi’s interpretation, as it limits the principle of “You shall be holy” to that which immediately follows it.

However, when the Ramban examines the same verse, he argues that Rashi construes the verse too narrowly, and ignores the broad principle that is explicated through this entire passage. The Ramban states:

In my opinion, this “separation,” is not, as Rashi holds, confined to separating from forbidden sexual relations, but rather that which is referenced throughout the Talmud with its adherents called Perushim [i.e., abstemious, saintly]. This is so because the Torah forbids certain relations and foods, and permits intercourse with one’s wife and the consumption of meat and wine . . . .Therefore, after outlining absolute prohibitions, we are given a general command of restraint [even] from things that are permitted.

According to the Ramban, the purpose of this commandment is command people to exercise restraint even when something is permitted. For example, while the Torah prohibits specific sexual relationships, the Torah also states that it is a mitzvah to procreate. Similarly, while Torah describes that the nazir must completely abstain from alcohol, the Torah does not completely prohibit alcohol consumption. In each case, the Ramban argues the verse from this week’s parashah provides a powerful lesson about creating holiness through restraint.

Applying these commentaries to social media, we are free to limit our digital consumption at all costs, yet for most of us this is neither practical nor desirable. Instead, most of us are more likely to take the Ramban’s approach, where social media is permitted and ubiquitous, and those who use it wisely are those who use it with restraint.

Mircea Eliade of the University of Chicago was one of the most important religious thinkers of the twentieth century, changing how we understand what it means to call something “sacred.” In The Sacred and the Profane, he writes:

“By manifesting the sacred, any object becomes something else, yet it continues to remain itself . . . A sacred stone remains a stone . . . nothing distinguishes it from all other stones. But for those to whom a stone reveals itself as sacred, its immediate reality is transmuted into a supernatural reality.”

According to Eliade, anything can be made holy if we imbue it with sanctity. However, anything holy can also be made profane, if our actions serve to deny the sanctity of that same item. As such, the choice to sanctify or not sanctify something lies with us.

Attempting to provide a paradigm for how to utilize social media, Gardner and Davis argue that we must use social media in an “enabling spirit,” enhancing our collective accomplishments and understanding, and resist the temptation to use social media in a “dependent spirit,” leading ourselves on a path that causes us to assume that perceived presence in cyberspace is the only barometer of professional and personal success.

Watching social media over the past month, when most of us are confined to our homes, shows how that enabling spirit is possible, and not just in moments of crisis. My happiest moments living in this era of unprecedented connectivity occur when I found a Jewish text I needed by simply posting the question to my Facebook friends; watched people who would never set foot in a brick-and-mortar synagogue attend a virtual minyan; or watched hundreds of people help raise money for a dear friend going through cancer treatment: moments when technology allowed us to achieve collectively what we could not achieve alone.

Someday, and hopefully soon, we will return to a pre-COVID-19 world, and will not be confined to our homes and our screens. Will we use these powerful tools as we do under duress, or will return to the world where they represent the worst of the human condition? That choice is ours, and ours alone.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).