On bodily autonomy, part one
Earlier this month, I had the honor of attending the bris — the ritual circumcision — of my best friend’s newborn son, Benny. The bris was performed by the same moyel (the person trained to perform the ritual) who officiated at my own son’s bris. It was very special and moving for me.
I arrived at the ceremony straight from work, so as I stood watching one of Judaism’s oldest and most enduring rituals unfold, my mind couldn’t help but wander back to work. (If you’ve ever been to a bris, you know there’s one particular moment during the ritual — the act itself — when letting your mind wander is probably the better option than focusing on what’s happening in front of you.)
Standing at that bris, though, I began wondering to myself: If Judaism supports abortion access… does that mean Judaism embraces bodily autonomy?
The answer was evident right before my eyes: A bris is perhaps the clearest example that it does not. An eight-day-old baby obviously cannot consent. Yet for thousands of years, Jews have understood circumcision as a sacred covenant, entered into by parents on behalf of their child as part of belonging to the Jewish people.
Or consider the following passage from our traditional morning prayers, Elohai Neshama, recited each day:
“My God, the soul You have given me is pure. You created it, You formed it, You breathed it into me… and one day You will take it from me.”
Embedded within this text — and echoed throughout Jewish tradition — is the idea that our lives and our bodies are not ours alone, but gifts entrusted to our care. Rabbinic tradition teaches that our bodies ultimately belong to God, not to us. (Whether or not we believe that literally today, this idea also undergirds one of Judaism’s most enduring moral commitments: that every human being is b’tzelem Elohim — created in the image of God — and therefore worthy of inherent dignity and care.)
That creates an important tension.
Because Judaism’s support for abortion access has never rested on the claim, “It’s my body, therefore it’s my choice.”
Instead, Jewish law arrives at abortion access through a different framework: one that prioritizes preserving the mother’s life and protecting her health.
Today, we champion abortion access and bodily autonomy as inseparable. As Jewish advocates who are working every day to challenge the narrative that abortion and religion cannot coexist, we can also hold the tension that our ancient inherited tradition supports abortion access, even though it does not arrive there through the modern framework of bodily autonomy.
And yet…
I also believe that we can make a compelling Jewish case for bodily autonomy. Every contemporary value, so to speak, need not explicitly be articulated in our ancient Jewish texts to be inherently Jewish. I can live in this tension. Many things can be true at once.
To be continued…