Jewish tradition teaches deep reverence for the human body. The Torah’s creation story posits that Elohim, the form-loving aspect of divinity that created the world and all the life forms that populate it, made the human being in its own image — b’tzelem Elohim.
Though we’re taught that the divine does not have a body or any physical manifestation, the temptation to anthropomorphize the deity proved too much for many Jewish poets and mystics. Moses himself tells the Israelites that God “took us out of Egypt with a strong hand and an outstretched arm.” The prophet Ezekiel envisions the divine throne with something “like the appearance of a man upon it.”
In a powerful teaching about the value and sanctity of human life, the Mishnah, a second-century compilation of early rabbinic teachings, contrasts the creation of human beings with the stamping of coins from a mold. For the sages, to be created not in but with God’s image (the Hebrew preposition b’ can be translated either way) meant that the original human was formed by means of God’s tzelem, a cosmic mold or stamp. But unlike the metal coins stamped by humans, which are all the same, each person on earth is utterly unique and therefore irreplaceable.
In an alternate biblical story of creation, God forms the human (adam) from the dust of the earth (adamah), blows into its nostrils the breath of life, and the human becomes a living soul (nefesh). The 20th-century biblical scholar and Semitic philologist Johannes Pedersen posits that the ancient Israelites didn’t separate body and soul, but rather experienced each living being as a body-soul, a totality inclusive of appearance, manner, ways of moving and speaking, vocal quality, lineages and past actions. To be a nefesh was to be enlivened by a divine essence, yet stamped with unique individual characteristics. Even after a person has died, no matter their station or deeds in life, Jewish law enjoins us to honor their body, the sacred remnant of what was once a distinctive living nefesh, with swift and respectful burial.
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Before I became a rabbi, I was a dancer and then practiced for many years in the field of somatics, the exploration of the human body from the inside, as lived experience. Similar to the way the creation story imagines the mysterious sound of God’s voice speaking the world into being, Bonnie Cohen, my primary somatic teacher, explains that from the moment of conception, each developing embryo crystallizes a particular sound vibration, what she calls our unique “drone.” Subliminally, we come to recognize ourselves by that essential vibration, the song of our own being, and respond to the subtle vibrations of others.
My somatic training brought me into exquisite, conscious relationship with my own bones, muscles, organs, the “tiny vessels and inner spaces” that are spoken of in the Asher Yatzar prayer. No longer simply a fleshly receptacle I could take for granted until it malfunctioned, my body, reknit with mind, soul and feeling, became more alive and present as a vehicle to express the love that birthed this cosmos.
Now I’m wondering how to stay human and humane in this heartbreaking moment. Somatic awareness makes me even more permeable to the devastating images of death and injury that flash across my screen and sear my consciousness. With governments willing to rack up mounting civilian casualties as the inevitable price of safety and control, human life, it seems, has become expendable.
In Southern California, citizens who have taken to the streets to protest the administration’s immigration policies have been met by troops and police in full riot gear. It strikes me that these uniforms — the face shields, masks and body armor — serve not only to protect, but also to blot out the individuality of the officers, making it hard for them to feel their bodies or express their unique humanity, much less perceive the living, breathing, unique souls opposite them. Suddenly, like the coins in the Mishnah, they all look alike, robotic. Masked and armored, it must be easier to see the people opposite them as less than human too.
In such a time of fear and trembling, it becomes daunting to remain open-hearted and ensouled, to remember and uphold the sacredness of all human life. But that is perhaps our most essential task right now, the practice that can lead us most directly and effectively into hopeful action and toward a more peaceful world. Theologian Frederick Buechner wrote: “Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.” I hear in his wisdom the echo of Hillel’s famous teaching, “In a place where there is no human, strive to be human.” That is my prayer, my mantra for this moment.
If only more of us could live that grace, remembering that we are all b’tzelem Elohim. If only more or us would take time to know and honor the miracle of the breathing body — the sturdy splendor of our own bones, the faithful rhythms of our hearts, the preciousness of every iron-rich blood cell, each salty tear or drop of sweat — how unthinkable it would be to attack, injure or snuff out the whole miraculous, sacred world that is another breathing being, each one of us a miracle of cosmic energy, alive with movement, intention and potential.
This article initially appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Shabbat newsletter Recharge on June 21, 2025. To sign up to receive Recharge each week in your inbox, click here.
