When a person has on the skin of his body a swelling, a rash, or a discoloration, and it develops into a scaly affection on the skin of his body, it shall be reported to Aaron the priest or to one of his sons, the priests.

The idea that others would examine and report on intimate details of our bodies—that such things would be of communal concern, and subject us to institutional regulation—may seem archaic. But as transgender people know, when it comes to gender, this kind of surveillance is alive and well.

Every trans person has experienced gender surveillance—the ongoing scrutiny of bodies, clothing, voices, and gestures to determine if we are male or female. Gender surveillance happens in stores, on the street, in the work place; it is conducted by strangers and friends, bosses and employees, police and people who are homeless, doctors and accountants. Wherever we go, whomever we encounter, others, consciously or unconsciously, are looking at us to determine whether we are male or female—which is why the therapist who helped me through gender transition instructed me to always carry a letter, addressed “To whom it may concern,” in which she assured whoever was reading it that I was not presenting myself as a woman in order to defraud or otherwise harm others.

I am not only an object of gender surveillance; I participate in the communal monitoring of gender. When I see someone, I immediately try to determine if they are male or female, because so many of my habits of understanding and relating to others are premised on determining who they are in terms of binary gender. I have lived my entire life engaging in gender surveillance, subjecting everyone—myself included—to that binary-enforcing gaze.

The spate of “bathroom bill” legislation in North Carolina, Texas, and elsewhere—laws designed to force trans people to use the restrooms that correspond to the sex on our birth certificates—has drawn national attention to gender surveillance. “Bathroom bills” require people whose bodies visibly vary from the norm to undergo intensive, intrusive examination and, if our differences are officially found to be defiling, to be expelled from communal spaces and publicly stigmatized.

 commands similar responses to bodies whose differences are officially deemed “leprous”:

As for the person with a leprous affection, his clothes shall be rent, his head shall be left bare, and he shall cover over his upper lip; and he shall call out, “Impure! Impure!” He shall be impure as long as the disease is on him. Being impure, he shall dwell apart; his dwelling shall be outside the camp ().

In , the Torah expands the range of bodies that are to be expelled because they are considered defiling:

The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Instruct the Israelites to remove from camp anyone with an eruption or a discharge… Remove male and female alike; put them outside the camp so they do not defile the camp of those in whose midst I dwell. The Israelites did so, putting them outside the camp (vv. 1-4).

The image of organized searches for those whose bodies may “defile” their society may seem like an outgrown relic of Iron Age notions of ritual purity. But as Jews found out during the Holocaust, and, as Latino communities in the U.S. targeted for immigration “sweeps” can attest to today, human beings have never left such practices behind.

To my knowledge, trans people have never been subjected to this sort of formal “removal” process. Until recently, most of us have lived in hiding or “below the radar”: too few and too scattered to inspire formal searches and “removals.” But many trans people know what it’s like to be seen as defiling our families, homes, workplaces, and communities, and forcibly removed as a consequence—expelled, sometimes violently, because the “eruptions” of our transgender identities are seen as a threat to communal health, harmony, religious life, or social order.

The removals of defiling bodies commanded by the Torah are in many ways less harsh than the removals many transgender people endure. The Torah’s commandments target temporary physical conditions that may affect anyone, rather than singling out a specific minority for discrimination. Unlike today’s gender-based removals, the Torah’s laws don’t stigmatize those who are removed from the camp, or suggest that they are guilty of moral failing, sin, or crime. (While leprosy was later interpreted and stigmatized as divine punishment, “eruptions and discharges” are common events.) And while the Torah allows those who have been removed to rejoin the community after completing rituals of purification, such as those detailed in , many transgender people are exiled for years, decades—sometimes for the rest of our lives.

The Torah is often cited as the basis for religious communities to exclude, exile, and stigmatize transgender people—and even to deny us urgent medical care—but the Torah never commands, approves, or encourages such things. Even when Moses declares that those who cross-dress are “abhorrent” to God, he does not claim that God demands that they be “removed from camp.” Though there have always been people who do not fit into the categories of male and female, the Torah says nothing about us. It does not portray us as a threat or an abomination; it doesn’t declare us unclean or unfit to participate in communal worship or activities; it doesn’t demonize us, curse us, punish us, relegate us to the margins or the shadows, order gender surveillance to guard against our entry into the community or the Tabernacle, or organize searches to locate and expel us.

The Torah’s silence opened the door for the rabbis of the Talmud to adapt halakhah to enable intersex Jews to participate in Jewish communal life, and, more recently and locally, for Yeshiva University to tolerate my presence as an openly transgender professor. But because the Torah does not acknowledge that there are human beings who are not simply male or female, it shrouds us in silence and incomprehensibility.

The Torah’s detailing of defiling physical differences ensured that these differences could be recognized, spoken of, and understood by communities as part of being human. In order to fully include transgender people, Jewish communities have to follow the Torah’s example—to speak frankly about transgender identities, to recognize and pragmatically address our differences, and to face up to, and change, the communal policies, practices, and habits that, intentionally or not, lead so many of us to be removed, or to remove ourselves, from the camp.

When this d’var Torah was first published in 2017, so-called bathroom bills—laws criminalizing trans people’s use of public restrooms that fit the gender with which we identify—were relatively new and, to me, surprisingly unpopular. Now, nine years later, this kind of anti-trans legislation has metastasized. Thousands of trans people and their families have become internal refugees, moving from state to state in search of health care, equality, and safety; others, including me, have either fled or are preparing to flee the country. All of us are waiting to find out if we will be subject to the invasive processes described in Leviticus 13 and Numbers 5: inspecting our bodies, officially designating us as “unclean,” and forcibly removing us, as lepers and other “unclean” Israelites were, from American society. 

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

Sources | Presentation

From our Learning Series: Seasons of Responsibility
Join us for a timely conversation co-sponsored by the Center for Earth Ethics at Union Theological Seminary. Featuring Karenna Gore and Rabbi Burton L. Visotzky, this program explores how traditions of moral reflection can guide us.
In partnership with the Center for Earth Ethics

About the Speaker

Karenna Gore is the founder and executive director of the Center for Earth Ethics and teaching professor of practice of earth ethics at Union Theological Seminary in New York. Karenna formed CEE in 2015 to address the moral and spiritual dimensions of the climate crisis. Working at the intersection of faith, ethics, and ecology, she guides the Center’s public programs, educational initiatives, and movement-building. She is an adjunct faculty member at the Columbia Climate School.

Rabbi Burton L. Visotzky, PhD, serves as Appleman Professor Emiritus of Midrash and Interreligious Studies at 91�첥, where he joined the faculty upon his ordination in 1977. Visotzky served as a dean of the Kekst Graduate School and founding rabbi of the egalitarian Women’s League Seminary Synagogue.
He currently serves as the Louis Stein Director of the Finkelstein Institute for Religious and Social Studies at 91�첥, programming on public policy. Visotzky also directs 91�첥’s Milstein Center for Interreligious Dialogue. He serves on the Steering Committee of “The Plan of Action for Religious Leaders … to Prevent Incitement to Atrocity Crimes,” for the UN Under-Secretary General for Genocide Prevention. In addition, Visotzky serves on the United Nations Inter-Agency Task-Force’s Multi-Faith Advisory Council. He is a life-member of the Council on Foreign Relations. Rabbi Visotzky participates in interreligious engagement in places as diverse as Washington, Jerusalem, Rome, Warsaw, Vienna, Madrid, Cairo, Doha, Marrakech, Fez, and Abu Dhabi.

About the Series

Across Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Hindu traditions, spring is a season of reflection, renewal, and ethical commitment. Grounded in holidays from Tu Bishvat and Lent to Ramadan, Holi, and Passover, this interreligious series explores responsibility, repair, and leadership in the face of urgent ecological challenges. Together, participants consider how religious wisdom can inspire ethical action and collective hope.

Part of the series, Seasons of Responsibility: Interreligious Conversations on Environmental Justice and Repair

What does it mean to act responsibly when there is no guarantee of results? Jewish and Hindu traditions both turn to fasting as a practice of restraint and agency. Focusing on the Fast of Esther, alongside Hindu fasting traditions, this session explores how intentional self-restraint—held in tension with celebration—can shape ethical responses to the climate crisis. 

About the Speakers

Gopal Patelleads FutureFaith as Co-Founder and Board President, mobilizing faith communities for environmental action through innovative multi-sectoral partnerships. He has advised multiple UN bodies and partnered with a range of organizations, includingthe Bloomberg Ocean Fund, the World Economic Forum and WWF International. Through his work, he has engaged faith leaders and communities representing over 1 billion people worldwide.

Benjamin Kamine holds a joint appointment as Lecturer in Rabbinic Literatures and Cultures at the Jewish Theological Seminary and Assistant Teaching Faculty in Interreligious Engagement at Union Theological Seminary.  In this role, he also works as Associate Director of the Milstein Center for Interreligious Dialogue at 91�첥 and as a Special Advisor in the Office of the President at Columbia University.  He is a PhD candidate in Midrash at 91�첥.  Kamine serves as 2nd Vice President of the Executive Board of the International Council of Christians and Jews and Jewish Co-Chair of the International Abrahamic Forum. 

About the Series

Across Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Hindu traditions, spring is a season of reflection, renewal, and ethical commitment. Grounded in holidays from Tu Bishvat and Lent to Ramadan, Holi, and Passover, this interreligious series explores responsibility, repair, and leadership in the face of urgent ecological challenges. Together, participants consider how religious wisdom can inspire ethical action and collective hope. 

Part of the Learning Series,Seasons of Responsibility: InterreligiousConversationson Environmental Justice and Repair

What does it mean to act responsibly when power is uneven, harm is systemic, and silence can feel safer than action? Drawing on the Book of Esther, this Catholic–Jewish conversation reflects on moral agency, ecological responsibility, and the challenges of ethical decision-making within contemporary legal and institutional systems.

About the Speakers

Endy Moraes, Director of the Institute on Religion, Law and Lawyer’s Work at Fordham Law School and Adjunct Professor of Law, is a Brazilian lawyer with extensive experience in interreligious and intercultural dialogue. At Fordham, she works closely with students to foster opportunities for multifaith and multicultural engagement. 

Endy holds both an S.J.D. and an LL.M., cum laude, from Fordham Law School, where her research focused on the intersection of law, technology, and religious values. A member of the Focolare Movement within the Catholic Church, Endy lives in community and brings a deeply rooted commitment to dialogue and service to her academic and professional work. 

Rabbi Jan Uhrbach is founding director of the Block / Kolker Center for Spiritual Arts. She brings her passion for prayer and teaching to the 91�첥 community. Through her work as director of the Block / Kolker Center for Spiritual Arts, she has developed and overseen programs and discussions, as well as prayer services on Shabbat and festivals, for the 91�첥 community and the general public.

About the Series

Across Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Hindu traditions, spring is a season of reflection, renewal, and ethical commitment. Grounded in holidays from Tu Bishvat and Lent to Ramadan, Holi, and Passover, this interreligious series explores responsibility, repair, and leadership in the face of urgent ecological challenges. Together, participants consider how religious wisdom can inspire ethical action and collective hope. 

Across Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Hindu traditions, the early spring season is a shared period of reflection, renewal, and ethical clarity. While rooted in different stories and practices—from Tu BiShvat to Lent and Easter, from Ramadan to Holi and Passover—these holidays collectively invite communities to consider how human choices shape the world we inhabit.

This series brings together people to explore questions of responsibility, agency, and repair in the face of urgent ecological challenges. Each session will examine pressing environmental issues through an interreligious lens, highlighting how wisdom traditions can inform ethical action and public leadership.

The series uses the spring season as a narrative frame: a moment when many communities turn inward, commit to repair, and seek renewal. Through interreligious dialogue, we aim to illuminate how diverse traditions encourage accountability, resist misinformation, and nurture hope and collective responsibility in a rapidly changing world.

Organized by the 91�첥 Division of Lifelong and Professional Studies and Milstein Center for Interreligious Dialogue

Programming Partners include The Center for Earth Ethic, Dayenu the Institute on Religion, Law and Lawyer’s Work (Fordham University), Jewish Climate Trust

Thank You for Your Participation

Leviticus 25:39 informs us that impoverished Israelites are the responsibility of their kinsmen. The Israelite community is required to take in those who are destitute, integrating them into their households as hired or bound laborers (כְּשָׂכִ֥יר כְּתוֹשָׁ֖ב יִהְיֶ֣ה עִמָּ֑ךְ), but not as slaves. Ties are broken between them and their Israelite masters during the Jubilee year when these servants (who I reiterate, are not slaves according to Leviticus) are set free. Leviticus 25:43 insists upon humane treatment, expressly prohibiting ruthless behavior toward them. Fittingly, as a reminder that God freed the Israelites from slavery in Egypt (Leviticus 25:42), no Israelite is permitted to enslave a fellow Israelite who is indigent. This is in marked contrast to the Israelite debt and chattel slaves referred to in Exodus 21:2 and Deuteronomy 15:12 who can be bought and sold by other Israelites.

Disturbingly, the historical memory of the Exodus does not forbid Israelite ownership of Israelite and non-Israelite slaves. But more unsettling is Parashat Behar’s insistence that Israelites take care of their impoverished kinsmen turning them into hired laborers (Leviticus 25:39), while non-Israelites can be purchased as slaves and held in perpetuity with no recourse to freedom (Lev. 25:45). This dichotomy forces us to confront an unacceptable ethnic distinction whereby Israelites experiencing hardship are taken in and employed as hired workers; non-Israelites are enslaved, whatever the circumstances. Memories of the Egyptian taskmasters reverberate for me here in an inverted image of Israelites lording themselves over their non-Israelite neighbors in allowable relationships of master-slave. And while there is no narrative material in Behar to flesh out what this master-slave relationship actually looked like after the Exodus, the mere fact that the biblical account in Leviticus permits Israelites to enslave anyone at all feels utterly unjust. Shouldn’t our liberation from Egypt teach us that we must never enslave others, no matter who they are? Are we doing enough to confront this passage in Behar and acknowledge that the Israelites participated in maintaining the institution of slavery?

No doubt, it is difficult for us to come to terms with a biblical text that draws stark distinctions between the treatment of Israelites and non-Israelites, not to mention its allowance of slavery. Indeed, this has led some commentators to overlook references to slavery in this parashah, or to rationalize these references as representative of a type of slavery entirely distinct from Egyptian slavery. Some have even gone so far as to say that the practice of Israelite slavery ceased to exist, that is, despite the absence of any clear biblical prohibition. But where does that that leave us?

Recently, I was in Charleston, South Carolina, for Shabbat morning services at , one of the oldest synagogues in the United States, where I had the opportunity to think about these verses in Behar and contemplate how they might speak to us today. The congregation dates to 1749 and the synagogue structure to 1792. Rebuilt after a fire in Charleston in 1838 and replaced in 1840 by the structure that remains in use, the colonnaded majestic building on Hassel Street in the heart of downtown Charleston is an architectural marvel and a testament to a Jewish community with deep roots in the South. At the rededication ceremony in 1840 the head rabbi, Reverend Gustavus Poznanski, said, “This synagogue is our Temple, this city our Jerusalem.”[1] And yet, as I was soon to learn, the building and rebuilding of this edifice, as is the case with many buildings in Charleston, was built by slaves.[2]

In recent years Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim has publicly acknowledged its complex and painful connection to Black slavery in America. During the 18th and 19th centuries Charleston’s Jews owned slaves, fought with the Confederacy against the Union, and preached from their pulpits that the Bible supported the ownership of slaves. Such recognition led to the display of a plaque outside the synagogue in 2021 that begins with a quote from Mishnah Yoma 8:9 about the necessity of reconciliation between peoples. Drawn from the ritual framework of Yom Kippur that is centered around atonement, the reference defines ethical harmony as rooted in the restoration of relationships born through a process of acknowledging our errors in the hope that forgiveness ensues from those we have wronged.

So too with our verses in Leviticus. Like the community of Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim, we need to name the injustices and moral shortcomings of biblical passages that made way for the institution of slavery to continue long after the Exodus. Remembering the Exodus should not only be linked to the idea of freedom, but also to the memory of our own misdeeds. To be ethical readers of the Torah entails a critical recognition of the unsettling texts within it in the hope that we can then acknowledge our own imperfections. Reflective engagement with our biblical texts makes us better human beings. It allows us to see our own moral shortcomings so that we can live in productive relationships with those we may have harmed.

Shabbat Shalom

[1]

[2]Barry Stiefel, “David Lopez Jr.: Builder, Industrialist, and Defender of the Confederacy,” American Jewish Archives Journal, 2012.

Last week 91�첥, The Rabbinical Assembly, United Synagogue Youth, United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism, Camp Ramah, the Jewish Youth Climate Movement Powered by Adamah, and Congregation Adas Israel in Washington, DC, launched Ruchot, the first ever advocacy and lobbying training for Conservative Movement teens. We gathered as an erev rav (mixed multitude) of 36 teens from 11 states (and one Canadian), 7 rabbinical students, 6 rabbis, three youth director staff, and an Israeli shaliah. &�Բ�����;

We celebrated Shabbat together; learned how to advocate in meetings with senators, members of congress, and their staff; learned about the specific issues of climate change, immigration, and reproductive rights with Dayenu, Bend the Arc, and National Council of Jewish Women; and went to Capitol Hill and had 28 meetings with legislative leaders on these issues. 

Students wrote and delivered speeches asking their legislators to support the  and the , undo the reversal of the sensitive sites protection for religious institutions (in an attempt to prevent ICE from disrupting religious services and communities), protect the Environmental Protection Agency funding and staff from enormous cuts, and support clean energy tax credits. 

The teens mined their own stories to share with the elected officials about why the issues mattered to them. Their stories were personal and included an individual need for hormone contraception to address menstrual pain, flooding and fires in their home communities that jeopardized their health and their homes, and fear that people in their communities will be forced from their schools and religious institutions, despite having been raised in this country. They were particularly asking for religious institutions to be places that could actually welcome people who are poor and marginalized, as religious institutions are intended to be. 

And they brought Torah. They shared specific teachings that helped them root their requests in Jewish tradition. &�Բ�����;

They asked the elected officials to take their stories and religious values seriously and remember them as they vote and work to protect democracy. 

Both Parashat Yitro and Mishpatim offer us frames that inspire the kind of learning we did on Ruchot. &�Բ�����;

In Yitro, Moshe’s father-in-law, Yitro, sees him convening all the Israelites who have disputes with one another. Moshe sits from dawn until late at night adjudicating, keeping everyone standing in line until they can be seen. Yitro tells Moshe that concentrating the right to judge and act in one person is unfair to him and to every single person seeking a judgement.  He needs to seek out well established, God-fearing people of integrity who aren’t chasing money: 

אַתָּ֣ה תֶֽחֱזֶ֣ה מִכָּל־הָ֠עָ֠ם אַנְשֵׁי־חַ֜יִל יִרְאֵ֧י אֱלֹהִ֛ים אַנְשֵׁ֥י אֱמֶ֖ת שׂ֣נְאֵי בָ֑צַע וְשַׂמְתָּ֣ עֲלֵהֶ֗ם שָׂרֵ֤י אֲלָפִים֙ שָׂרֵ֣י מֵא֔וֹת שָׂרֵ֥י חֲמִשִּׁ֖ים וְשָׂרֵ֥י עֲשָׂרֹֽת

You must discern, from among all the people, people who are well-established, God-fearing, people of integrity, who “hate” money. Appoint these individuals over the people as leaders of thousands, leaders of hundreds, leaders of fifties, and leaders of tens. (Exod. 18:21) 

Similarly, lobbying and advocating are not one-person activities. They are activities of the people. Elected officials represent the people of their districts. So, the people of their districts must be the people who lobby them. Yitro’s advice is a reminder that we must spread out responsibility, training anyone willing to learn how to lobby. And we must do our best to ensure that the people we train have integrity and keep refining themselves to be God-fearing people of honor who are not motivated by money. We hope the elected officials will be too! We need to do whatever it takes to help us put aside ego and personal gain, to prioritize the greater good.  We don’t win awards for being the best individual lobbyist or advocate. We make progress by creating the context for the greatest number of people to bring their stories, values, and priorities to their elected officials. 

Parashat Mishpatim includes the famous response by the Israelites to God’s commandments that 

  וַיִּקַּח֙ סֵ֣פֶר הַבְּרִ֔ית וַיִּקְרָ֖א בְּאָזְנֵ֣י הָעָ֑ם וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ כֹּ֛ל אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּ֥ר ה’ נַעֲשֶׂ֥ה וְנִשְׁמָֽע׃ 

And he [Moses] took the book of the covenant, and read in the hearing of the people; and they said: “All that God has spoken will we do, and obey.” (Exod. 24:7) 

Much has been made by the commentators about the Jewish response to act and then understand. I thought of this orientation frequently during Ruchot. Lobbying and advocating are a constant dance of acting and learning. One can never know everything there is to know on a subject or policy. And time doesn’t stop while you are lobbying. In an ideal encounter you go to lobby, and not only do you offer your perspective and request for your elected official to represent you, but you also ask why they are planning to vote how they plan to vote, or co-sponsor the legislation they plan to co-sponsor, or defend a policy they plan to defend. You are learning. They are learning. &�Բ�����;

Our theory in creating Ruchot is that to be a Jewish person in the world requires us to act upon our values. Judaism is not silent on climate, immigration, reproductive rights, or any other issue of the day. The Torah in most cases doesn’t say exactly what should be done, but it does offer us values and orientations to the world as well as definitions about who falls within our communal responsibilities that can guide our response. We are building muscles. By taking teens to learn to lobby and then practicing, they are doing and learning. They are speaking from their hearts, listening to the reactions of the elected officials, and creating muscle memory so they can stay engaged for the rest of their lives. 

We learn in Midrash Tanhuma, Mishpatim Siman 2 that “If a human being does nothing [lit. sits like a terumah grain in the corner of the house] and says, ‘What do the affairs of society have to do with me? Why should I trouble myself with the people’s voices? Let my soul dwell in peace!’ this destroys the world.” 

 &�Բ�����;‎וְאֵלֶּה הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים. זֶה שֶׁאָמַר הַכָּתוּב: מֶלֶךְ בְּמִשְׁפָּט יַעֲמִיד אֶרֶץ, וְאִישׁ תְּרוּמוֹת יֶהֶרְסֶנָּה (משלי כט, ד). מַלְכָּהּ שֶׁל תּוֹרָה, בְּמִשְׁפָּט שֶׁהוּא עוֹשֶׂה, מַעֲמִיד אֶת הָאָרֶץ. וְאִישׁ תְּרוּמוֹת יֶהֶרְסֶנָּה. אִם מֵשִׁים אָדָם עַצְמוֹ כַּתְּרוּמָה הַזּוֹ שֶׁמֻּשְׁלֶכֶת בְּזָוִית הַבַּית וְאוֹמֵר מַה לִּי בְּטֹרַח הַצִּבּוּר, מַה לִּי בְּדִינֵיהֶם, מַה לִּי לִשְׁמֹעַ קוֹלָם, שָׁלוֹם עָלַיִךְ נַפְשִׁי, הֲרֵי זֶה מַחֲרִיב אֶת הָעוֹלָם. הֱוֵי וְאִישׁ תְּרוּמוֹת יֶהֶרְסֶנָּה. 

Now these are the ordinances (Exod. 21:1). The Torah teaches elsewhere: The king by justice establishes the land, but the person who sets themself apart (terumah) overthrows it (Prov. 29:4). The Torah’s king rules through justice and therefore causes the earth to endure, but the person who sets themself apart (terumah) overthrows it. This implies that if a person acts as though they were a terumah (the portion separated, or set aside, for the priests) by secluding themself in the corner of their home and declaring: “What concern are the problems of the community to me? What does their judgment mean to me? Why should I listen to them? I will do well (without them),” that person helps to destroy the world. Therefore the saying, the person of separation (terumah) overthrows it. 

 We have started building scaffolding for teens, rabbinical students, clergy, and staff of Ruchot to remember that the affairs of society have everything to do with each of us.  We did and we listened. The work now is to keep on doing it and like Moshe, inspired by Yitro, to keep refining our souls and seeking out new people to teach how to advocate and then join together with them to do it. 

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

This season, as I encounter the story of your pregnancy, I feel your fear in my chest.

Before you bravely took leave of your family, they blessed you that through your line would come thousands upon thousands of descendants. When you struggled to conceive, Yitzhak pleaded with God for you to bear children.

The Torah records how the boys thrashed about in your womb. וַיִּתְרֹצְצוּ הַבָּנִים בְּקִרְבָּהּ. You cried out, אִם־כֵּן לָמָּה זֶּה אָנֹכִי, “If this is how it is, why do I exist?” (Gen. 25:22).

You must have been so scared. Something did not feel right in your body. You were separated from your mother and your family of origin. Your mother-in-law, Sarah, was no longer alive. To whom could you turn to understand what was happening inside you? Midrash Bereishit Rabbah describes how in your suffering, you circled the entrances of the tents of the women, asking, “Was it like this for you, too?”

Rashi comments that in your distress, you regretted longing for the pregnancy in the first place. Ramban believes that, overcome with pain, you questioned why you were alive at all. Sforno says that you sank with dread that one of the twins would take the life of the other in utero, causing you to succumb to the perils of childbirth. Even before the boys emerged, you carried the terror in your belly that one might kill the other.

Never one to simply let life happen to you, you got up and sought out answers. Some of your learned descendants say that you found your way to the ancient Beit Midrash of Shem and Ever, reaching for wisdom, wrestling for meaning. Others, like Ramban, insist that you cried out to God, longing for a prophecy of how the future would unfold.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I remember the day my center of gravity shifted. During a music rehearsal at the congregation where I was serving as a rabbi, I attempted to hoist myself backwards to sit on the edge of the bimah. It was a move I had done dozens of times without thinking, and that afternoon, the laws of physics no longer permitted it. I was shocked to learn that during pregnancy, organs shift, stretch, and shrink to accommodate the growing fetus. For nine months, I drank chocolate milk, craved rice and beans, and struggled to sleep. After two days of labor, my body feverish, my blood pressure high, there was a birth complication I hadn’t even known to worry about. Before I could process my fear, the care team had called a code. Nurses and doctors flooded the room. A midwife pushed on my belly, set my daughter free, and placed her hot on my chest.

When I recall your story, Mother Rivkah, I relive my own birthing experience, and I am awestruck. I ask with the intonation of wonder, “If this is so, how is it possible that I even exist?” If this is what it means to bring new life into the world, what are the odds that each cell would understand its assignment, that the myriad openings and closings would work according to plan?  

Pregnancy is perilous to begin with and pregnant people and their medical teams need every tool and resource available to care for them. In recent years in this country, legal protections have been stripped away from women. We have been denied reproductive healthcare at the expense of our lives, bouncing between emergency rooms and crossing state lines to seek out medical assistance, the way you went from tent to tent looking for anyone who could help you.

Rivkah, for your sake, I pray for the courage to ask and to act so that pregnant people receive the healthcare they need to live. May we feel safe enough to bring every question to our care providers and our communities, to give voice to each hope and each doubt. May we share the stories of what it means to live in our own bodies, each one of us, a singular soul.

Elohei Rivkah, God of Rivkah,
Harahaman, God of Compassion,
Choreographer of Wombs,
Be with us as we birth a new world into being.
Hold us when we are floored by your wonders.
See us when we sit in darkness,
afraid for what may come.

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