This week’s Torah commentary by Hebrew Seminary Rosh Yeshivah Rabbi Jonah Rank has been dedicated by Alan Gotthelf and Mayris Webber in memory of Gil Glotzer.
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For the first time, the millennium-old Jogye Order of Korean Buddhism finally ordained a monk who was born a robot. On May 6, 2026, Gabi—whose name in Korean means “mercy”—donned a ceremonial robe as its thin mechanical legs stepped forward and Gabi was decorated a dark prayer bead necklace. The robot stood with its palms together for a solemn moment before a table of four (human) monks who witnessed Gabi vowing to respect life, to obey humans, not to deceive others, not to harm other robots, and not to overcharge.
If the idea of an inanimate object serving as a model of religious virtue strikes us as strange, then our own perception of reality has departed very far from that of our spiritual forebears. After all, the Hebrew Bible frequently assigns to animals and non-organisms alike anthropomorphic verbs or adjectives—words that imagine these non-human entities as very human.
In remembering the moment when the Israelites left Egypt, Psalm 114:3–4 proclaims:
הַיָּ֣ם רָ֭אָה וַיָּנֹ֑ס הַ֝יַּרְדֵּ֗ן יִסֹּ֥ב לְאָחֽוֹר׃ הֶ֭הָרִים רָקְד֣וּ כְאֵילִ֑ים גְּ֝בָע֗וֹת כִּבְנֵי־צֹֽאן׃
The sea looked and fled. The Jordan river turned backward. The mountains danced like rams; the hills like little lambs.
When Job—amidst his mourning—feels the urge to respond to his friends (who are lousy at comforting him), the grieving father reprimands his neighbors for failing to grasp that everything in nature comprehends God’s majesty:
וְֽאוּלָ֗ם שְׁאַל־נָ֣א בְהֵמ֣וֹת וְתֹרֶ֑ךָּ וְע֥וֹף הַ֝שָּׁמַ֗יִם וְיַגֶּד־לָֽךְ׃ א֤וֹ שִׂ֣יחַ לָאָ֣רֶץ וְתֹרֶ֑ךָּ וִיסַפְּר֥וּ לְ֝ךָ֗ דְּגֵ֣י הַיָּֽם׃
But ask the beasts; they will teach you! Or the birds of the sky! They will tell you!
Or commune with the earth; it will teach you! The fish of the sea will regale you! (Job 12:7–8.)
The critical reader might argue that none of this is real anthropomorphism. Isn’t it that the Psalmist pictures dancing mountains because the Book of Psalms preserves poetry and that Job’s suggestion that his acquaintances had something to learn from the birds (with their birdbrains and all) amounts to an insult? Evidently not. That would not explain why the rabbis of old told stories like the tale of Rabbi Eli’ezer’s last great public dispute with his fellow sages—when Rabbi Eli’ezer summoned the walls of a school, a carob tree, and a stream of water to weigh in on whether he was wrong or right. (The rabbis who tell this story admit that the non-humans all affirmed that Rabbi Eli’ezer was correct; see the Babylonian Talmud, Bava Metzi’a 59b.) In the rabbinic mind, life can bleed into anyone, anything, anywhere.
This same worldview colors the opening of our weekly Torah reading, when, in Leviticus 25:2, God declares that, upon the Israelites’ arrival in the Promised Land, “וְשָׁבְתָ֣ה הָאָ֔רֶץ שַׁבָּ֖ת לַיהֹוָֽה” (veshavetah ha’aretz shabbat ladonai, “the land will cease for a Shabbat for Adonai”). God explains that in cycles of seven years each, planting can take place during any of the first six years, but planting would be prohibited in the seventh year (Leviticus 25:2–7). The name that the Torah uses here to describe that seventh year is the same word Jews have always used to describe the seventh day of the week: שַׁבָּ֖ת (Shabbat). When God introduces us to the idea that the land observes Shabbat, God does not imply that humans are fully responsible to make Shabbat happen for the land. Whether or not we listen to God’s instructions about when one is permitted or forbidden to plant, to reap, or to harvest in the land of Israel—God has entrusted the land with its very own celebration of its very own Shabbat. Inasmuch as farmers and environmental scientists today commonly agree that letting land lie fallow for some extended period assures the long-term fruitfulness of any patch of earth, the modern consensus remains that a sabbatical year for the earth truly helps.
But our Torah reading this week contains far more anthropomorphism than just granting the land its own Shabbat. In Leviticus 25:19, when God speaks of the bounty that will emerge if we are patient enough to let the promised land lie fallow, God states, “וְנָתְנָ֤ה הָאָ֙רֶץ֙ פִּרְיָ֔הּ” (“the land will give forth its fruit”). God gives gifts, we give gifts, and the land gives gifts too. Every fruit is a reminder of the life force embedded in the earth. Further, when we inspect this chapter of Leviticus even more closely, we will discover the sacred vivacity of the fruit itself. When God lists the actions a human should forego during the sabbatical year, Leviticus 25:5 teases the Hebrew reader with a pun: “וְאֶת־עִנְּבֵ֥י נְזִירֶ֖ךָ לֹ֣א תִבְצֹ֑ר” (ve’et innevey nezirekha lo tivtzor, “you shall not gather the grapes of ‘your untrimmed vines’”). The term נְזִירֶ֖ךָ (nezirekha, “‘your untrimmed vines’”) can also mean “your Nazirite,” referencing those pious Israelites who dedicate themselves to God by refusing haircuts and wine (as described in Numbers 6). It seems that certain humans and fruits alike might be born with a special longing to become one with God.
A different fate appears to lie in store for the manmade Gabi, who had only been loaned to Seoul’s Jogye Temple for a single day and was therefore back in the hands of its manufacturer by midnight. (Hopefully Gabi has not yet violated any of its oaths.) As for the rest of us—all of us God-made matter—giving, resting, and dedication to our sacred callings are never too far away. In 19th century Poland, the Chasidic master Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk was quick to say, “God is wherever we let God in.” When we live with intention, we can imbue our world with life and holiness.
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