How to Be of Earthly Good: How to See Jewish Observance Through An Affirming Lens
by Nasiyah Isra-Ul
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When I was young, I never really understood the stories found in Leviticus. Its complexity, depth, and bloody details never really resonated with me. It was easy to understand the stories of creation or Abraham’s call, but not so much animal sacrifices and sudden deaths as a result of mistakes made inside the Mishkan. So, I grew up with both a sense of reverence for God’s kindness and a fear of God’s anger. But over the years, I decided to try finding God on my own terms, in a way that spoke to me. In the process, I found myself. Now, as an adult and rabbinical student, I’ve finally returned to read Leviticus once again and see if I could find new meaning in the text that resonated with me.
For some parts of Leviticus, this is easy. For other parts, like this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Shemini, a lot is going on here that’s not so easy to explain. From observation, it can be very easy for various sections of the Torah, including Leviticus, to be used to justify ableism in the name of ritual observance. Especially with the stories found in this portion, including the strange death of Nadav and Avihu and the strict dietary code instructions, the more intense ritual aspects of Torah can carry a unique weight for disabled Jews like myself.
It leaves me to wonder, sometimes, can God understand when I can’t do all He has asked? In this portion, I found my answer.
Too Close for Comfort: The Mistake of Over-Commitment in Spirituality
We’ve all probably heard the story before. It’s one of the most controversial stories in Leviticus. Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, offer “strange fire” to God in the Mishkan, and they die almost immediately after. Sages have debated for centuries why they died. The most common speculations are that they came into the Mishkan intoxicated and ruined the offering, that they offered a new kind of incense that was not what God specified, that they never married, or that they jumped ahead of Moses and Aaron’s approval before entering the Holy of Holies.
All of these reasons still make the story extremely challenging to contend with. Two young men, the sons of Aaron, died because of a simple mistake?
On the surface, the God described here in this story seems like a raging man in the sky, the very image many people imagine when they think of God. From this view, Nadav and Avihu died simply because God didn’t like what they did. It leaves readers to question, What stops God from feeling the same way about any of us? It can leave people who mean well thinking God feels the same way about others they think aren't “Jewish enough” or “observant enough.” It can create a cycle of judgment and fear of mistakes that feels impossible to escape. What if my mistake makes God angry?
But there is a chassidic teaching in the Holy Ohr Hachaim that gives this story an entirely different meaning. According to this text, Aaron’s sons didn’t sin in a literal sense. Their sin or misstep was more spiritual or mystical than anything else.
Nadav and Avihu took their roles seriously. Very seriously. Back in Exodus, they were found dining with God at Mount Sinai alongside Moses and the elders. An astoundingly spiritual feat that very few could claim to have experienced at that time. And according to the Midrash in Vayikra Rabbah 20, they never married because they didn’t think any woman would meet the expectations of their bloodline, and they sometimes remarked that they couldn’t wait until it was their turn to run the Mishkan after Moses and Aaron died.
So, according to Holy Ohr Hachaim, Nadav and Avihu’s sin was wanting to be so close to the Divine that they stopped living life in the now. They became obsessed with being the very best at performing the rituals, committing everything they had to the Mishkan, and having such a deep desire to be one with God that, when they lit the foreign fire, their souls literally couldn’t remain entrapped in their bodies any longer. They had fought so hard to escape embodiment, divest from material things, and avoid life in the here and now that they got exactly what they asked for. They used religion as a form of escape from life in the present, and that ended up being their downfall.
With this explanation in mind, God goes from being a raging mystic being looking for mistakes to a God who had to grant what Nadav and Avihu asked for, even if it wasn’t what He wanted. It was dubbed the Divine Kiss, and the burning desire of the soul kalot ha’nefesh. Their story then provides an example of how over-commitment to God is both possible and dangerous, providing a different lesson on religious commitment entirely.
Mindful Living: The Hidden Purpose of the Dietary Code
In the midst of all this understandable grief and confusion, Parashat Shemini is also where the laws of Kashrut are introduced. God gives Israel a long, extensive list of animals and plants that should and shouldn’t be consumed. Simply put, shellfish, birds of prey, most bugs, and pork are all off the menu, and veggies, antelope, some birds, and beef are on the menu.
For some of us, especially myself as someone with ARFID, our relationship with food can be unique. The laws of Kashrut defined here remind us that being intentional with what we eat is an act of holiness. Moreover, something unique to notice about the dietary laws is that a significant number of laws in Leviticus have a severe punishment, such as death or banishment, associated with them, but the laws surrounding kashrut do not. You’re labeled as unclean for a few days, and then life returns to normal. It’s as if these laws were intended as much for honoring our own bodies as honoring God. Kashrut introduces, for the first time, a grounded understanding of safe foods, healthy diets, and intentional, mindful eating practices for an entire nation of people.
Yet, throughout history, Kashrut has been one of the most contentious topics in Jewish halachic discourse, and even more so now in most modern Jewish spheres, because people have grown to judge others’ Jewishness based on how much of the kosher rules someone follows at home and in public. Kosher-style often gets pitted up against the strictest variations of kashrut, and people from different denominations debate eating each other’s food because of these discrepancies. Everyone argues over what the real standard is for keeping kosher.
Again, this too can be a source of shame and a challenge for many disabled Jews, including myself. As someone who cannot keep a kosher kitchen the way I want to, thanks in part to limited finances and my disabilities, I often find myself wanting to defend my commitment to Judaism and overcompensate in other areas of ritual practice. There’s a level of guilt that exists there. How can I say I love God and struggle so deeply with carrying out the fundamental aspects of His laws?
I’ve heard stories of rabbis saying, “Just start with the basics,” but those “basics” were not very basic at all for the individuals being addressed. People have an assumption due to privilege that keeping kashrut is easy, and that it's an all-or-nothing scenario. For some, this mentality serves as a barrier to even trying to keep any level of kashrut. I have come to believe this outlook is harmful, and another hidden way that ableism can taint our honest commitment to halacha. Instead, looking at kashrut through the lens of safety and mindful eating, we can honor every level of commitment to keeping kashrut as symbolic and powerful, as well as those with whom keeping kosher does not resonate at all.
How It All Comes Together
Nadav and Avihu’s deaths come first in this portion. The dietary code comes after, describing a very material, physical system of responsibility that is ordained by God. Why? It’s as if God is making a statement that physical actions of responsibility and mindfulness, or accepting the limitations of embodiment, are the most sacred parts of being holy.
As disabled Jews, we are often reminded in society every day that we are not enough as we are. Somehow, we need to change ourselves, mask our differences, overcompensate using our strengths, and try to exceed the limitations of our specific embodiment. Jewish practice, when not provided through an affirming lens, can further this outlook, emphasizing a hyper-spirituality and commitment to God at the expense of our dignity, mental health, or physical well-being. But that was never the point of Torah.
Nadav and Avihu tried to exceed the bounds of their physical embodiment, neglecting the joys and responsibilities that come with the human, physical experience. That was their mistake. When we are asked to do the same as disabled Jews, to shrink our humanity and aim for perfection rather than happiness, we offer “strange fire” of our own. God does not want us to get so caught up in trying to meet Him, serve Him, honor Him, that we neglect ourselves, our communities, and our purposes here on earth. We miss out on the present. There’s a spark of the Divine in each of us. By getting to know ourselves and each other as we explore Torah’s meaning in the modern world, we are getting closer to God. It was never about avoiding mistakes, an all-or-nothing outlook on halacha, or judging each other by our observance levels. It was about mindful, intentional works of the heart that show just how sacred and mystical the mundane really is.
Nasiyah Isra-Ul (they/she) is an autistic and multiply-disabled self-advocate, writer, public speaker, entrepreneur, rabbinical student, content creator, and policy professional working in the fields of education reform and disability justice. They are the founder of the Mishpacha Rising Collective and the creator of Living Confident with Nasiyah. Their ultimate aspiration is to be a rabbi and Jewish educator, using their experiences to create inclusive spaces for people of all abilities and backgrounds to flourish. When they are not working, volunteering in their local community, or traveling across the country for speaking engagements, they enjoy baking, business coaching, crafting, singing, and taking care of their beloved leopard gecko.
