A Torah I Cannot Carry: Disability, Holiness, and the Divine

by Mat Wilson

My mobility began to change significantly during my first year of rabbinical school. It was slow but progressive, and over the years, I have watched some of my abilities become increasingly limited.

Toward the end of that first year, I participated in a workshop designed to help my peers and I grow in our comfort with handling a Torah scroll. We practiced lifting it, passing it to each other, sitting, standing, and walking with it. We learned how to roll it, to navigate its sacred space. It was an empowering experience, one that made me feel deeply connected to the physicality of Torah.

And then, months later, I realized I could no longer handle a Torah that way, with that level of independence. The thought crept in, steeped in internalized ableism: How can I be a rabbi if I can’t carry a Torah? And then, an even harsher thought: Who wants a broken rabbi?

I had internalized an idea of a rabbi as someone self-sufficient, someone who could literally stand on their own. Confronting my own limitations led me to question whether I could truly step into this role. Intellectually, I know this is unfounded, I deeply value the disabled rabbis and Jewish leaders in my life. And yet, I continue to wrestle with these ingrained beliefs about worth and independence in the face of needing support.

One place I find both comfort and strength is in the teachings of Rabbi Julia Watts Belser and her conception of a disabled God. Rabbi Belser writes:

“The suggestion that God may be glimpsed in part through a disabled life flies in the face of the way many of us imagine the divine. Classical theology has often emphasized God’s omnipotence and independence. To many, a disabled life highlights the weakness, vulnerability, and dependence that characterize the frailty and fragility of human flesh. But vulnerability is a shared human experience, not something particular to disability. Disability culture is marked by a lively spirit of adaptability, creativity, and resilience—not to mention a vibrant sense of delight.”

I often wonder if it is heretical to imagine a God who needs help. It certainly can challenge the image of an all-powerful deity. But Jewish tradition is full of moments where God seeks partnership. If human beings are created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God (Genesis 1:27), and if human beings are inherently diverse, limited, and interdependent, then the image of God must necessarily include those qualities as well.

In this week’s Torah portion, Shmini, we are taught, "I Hashem am your God: you shall sanctify yourselves and be holy, for I am holy” (Leviticus 11:44). This verse raises profound questions about the nature of both human and divine character. Traditionally, holiness has been understood as a state of separation, being set apart from the ordinary or profane.

In this instance, the call to holiness appears in the context of dietary laws, the distinctions between pure and impure animals, and the regulations that shape communal eating practices. Holiness, in this framework, is not about moral purity or spiritual transcendence alone. It is about the embodied, daily choices that govern how people interact with the physical world, particularly through food.

Medieval Torah commentator Ibn Ezra interprets this verse to mean that holiness is not simply a state to be attained, but a process of alignment with the divine essence. He writes that “when [one] sanctifies [oneself] a little, the additional amount of sanctity supplied for [them] from the heavenly regions is many more times this.” Holiness, then, is not achieved through individual effort alone. It is a reciprocal process, where human beings take the first step, and God meets us there, amplifying and deepening the sanctity we have initiated.

The opening chapters of Leviticus lay out the complex system of sacrifices and ritual purity required to maintain holiness within the Israelite camp. In Leviticus 9, Aaron and his sons begin their priestly service, carefully following the detailed instructions for the sacrifices. Aaron does not act alone; Moses guides him, the people participate by providing the offerings, and God's presence is revealed only when this network of interdependent actions is complete (Leviticus 9:22–24).

The moment when fire comes forth from God to consume the offering (Leviticus 9:24) is not presented as an act of unilateral divine power, it follows human participation. God’s presence becomes manifest in collaboration with human effort.

Just as disabled people navigate the world through adaptive strategies, communal support, and mutual care, a God who invites human participation in holiness reflects a model of divinity that includes those same qualities. Further, a disabled God is not a God who lacks power, but rather is a God whose power is expressed through relationship and response. 

So, is it heretical to say that God needs help? Perhaps not. If holiness includes accommodation and relationship, then a God who “needs” human beings is not a diminished God but a relational one. Disabled people often encounter narratives, sometimes from within ourselves, that frame our need for support as weakness or failure. But Leviticus offers a different model: holiness emerges through structured interdependence. If human beings reflect the divine image, then the need for support is not a deviation from holiness, it is central to it.

A disabled God is not a broken God, just like a disabled rabbi is not a broken rabbi. A God whose holiness includes need and relationship is a God whose strength emerges through connection. Holiness is not about overcoming vulnerability, it is about creating space where vulnerability is held. If God’s holiness includes the fullness of human experience, then human need is not a flaw, it is holy.

Mat Wilson (they/them) enjoys board and video games, road trips big and small, and any opportunity to be in water. They discovered a love for Torah study through the art of source sheet creation, and are now using writing as a way to explore their lived experiences with disability. Outside of their free time, Mat is a student at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, and is pursuing a Master’s in Nonprofit Leadership at the University of Pennsylvania.