This Shabbat we learn from Rabbi Rachael Pass. I’ve known Rabbi Pass since before she was a rabbi – in fact, Rachael, I think I read the essay you were working on when you were applying to school? Anyway, I have been a longtime learner of this Jewish force and today, I invite you to join me in witnessing her wisdom.
Love, Meg
The following was delivered in part to T’Shuvah Center:
I tell the story of my abortion often. It happened in my second year of rabbinical school when I first moved to Manhattan. I got pregnant on Rosh Hashanah while leading my first ever high holiday services as a rabbinical student and I dealt with the consequences while attending school full-time, working and teaching in three part-time jobs. That time in my life was tumultuous as I was struggling with my mental health, PTSD, chronic depression, seasonal affective disorder, undiagnosed generalized anxiety, and the regular challenges that come alongside being a graduate student in a new city living with roommates. I wanted a child. I still want a child. And I knew that it wasn’t the right time in my life.
When I decided to get an abortion I learned a lot about what it means to inhabit one’s body and to make a choice. When I peed on that pregnancy test and the little pink line showed up, the first thing I did was say “Asher Yatzar,” the blessing for one’s body. “Asher yatzar et ha’adam b’chochmah,” blessing God who created my body with wisdom. The wisdom to know early that I was pregnant, the wisdom to know my options as a pregnant person in New York City and in America, and the wisdom to make the choice that was right for me and my life.
But it took much much longer, many years in fact, to move from having the knowledge in my body and making the choice to having a voice around the story. It was two years before I told my story in any public fashion, before I told most of my family or friends, and before I felt able to take action using my voice and my story to support others seeking abortion care. When I told my story for the first time, through an article on a modern Jewish Tanakh commentary website (929.org) and shared on my Facebook page, I wrote the following: My abortion was a blessing, and my Judaism embraces blessing.
Jewish tradition is inherently pro-choice. In this week’s torah portion, Parshat Mishpatim, we read that “when two men fight and one hits a pregnant woman resulting in miscarriage the man shall be fined for damages.” But if the woman herself were to die, the man who hit her would be put to death, because the woman is considered as having a “nefesh,” a soul, while the fetus does not yet have that status. The loss of the fetus results in a fine, while the loss of a living, breathing, human, one with a nefesh, results in death, as our text says, “a life for a life…”
Our Mishnah, a second century code of law based on the Torah, teaches in Ohalot 7:6 that, if a pregnant person is “mak’sha leiled,” having a difficult labor, that “we cut up the fetus in her womb,” because “chayeiha kodmin l’chayyav,” because life of the pregnant person takes precedence over that of the fetus. It is written clearly: the person’s life comes before the fetus.
The text does not clarify what “difficult labor” means and many Jewish legal writers attempt explain or interpret what a difficult labor might be, to the point that even one halachist, Mordecai Winkler, argues that a difficult pregnancy or difficult labor can be understood not only in terms of the person’s physical needs but also her mental health needs. Meaning that our Jewish law has precedent to support abortion in the case of the mental health of the pregnant person.
But, as a queer feminist liberal rabbi in 2022, I don’t really care what men writing 100 years ago, 70 years ago, 1000 years, 2000 years ago have to say about my bodily autonomy. I’m glad that they support my decision, but my bodily autonomy does not hinge on their approval. I believe that God endowed me with divine wisdom and therefore I can make a choice and I can use my voice.
Rabbi Emily Langowitz, a colleague and contemporary of mine as well as a friend, wrote her rabbinical dissertation on an ethic of reproductive choice. She interviewed Jewish cis women, trans men, and nonbinary individuals with uteruses, and created five ethical categories deeply rooted in Jewish tradition based on their experiences of choosing abortion. Creation as something evaluative (God saw the light and saw that it was “good”); Hospitality as a metaphor for bodily integrity; L’dor vador, the transmission of values as opposed to genetic material; Choice (lo bashamayim hi, the Torah is no longer in the heavens, and therefore we have the capacity and the obligation to interpret it in our own day with our own wisdom); and tzedek, tzedek tirdof, the pursuit of Reproductive Justice (a term coined and popularized by Black women of the community Sistersong). These ethics - creation, bodily integrity, transmission of values and wisdom, choice, and reproductive justice - are rooted in Jewish text, tradition, and thought and promote each individual person’s right to make decisions about their health and their own body.
I continue to use my story today for two reasons: one, mentioned above, that telling my story is a way to make space for others to share their stories and to gain support, care, compassion, and love - no matter if their story is about abortion or addiction or anything else that society imposes shame upon. And, two, I tell my story because telling my story empowers me. This is my body. This is my choice. And this is my voice.
In telling my story, I am heard.
When I am heard, I am seen.
When I am seen, I am loved.
When I am loved, I can love in return.