Confronting Exclusion: Centering those on the Margins

by Hannah Greenberg

What does it mean when a Torah, a guidebook on how to live, appears to mandate exclusion? Near the start of Parsha Naso (Bamidbar 5:1–4), the Israelites are commanded to send outside the camp those who are ritually impure: those afflicted with tzara'at, those with bodily discharges, and those who have come in contact with the dead. This directive is rooted in the ritual framework of the Mishkan’s sanctity, but immediately raises discomfort when reflecting on how ritual spaces like the Mikvah (ritual bath) or shul can often become places that exclude simply based on physical aspects. 

Reading through a lense of Disability Torah invites us to see these verses as an opportunity to interrogate what kinds of “impurity” our own communities push to the margins. In the ancient camp, someone who was sick or visibly different was physically removed. Today, those with disabilities are often excluded more subtly: through lack of access, through silence, through absence from decision making. 

So Parshat Naso, which does not end its exploration of marginalization with ritual impurity alone, continues with two complex and deeply emotional rituals: the Sotah and the Nazir. Both provide us a way to think about how to create access, listen to marginalized voices, and promote inclusion in decision making.

The Sotah ritual (Bamidbar 5:11–31) describes a woman suspected of adultery, brought before the Kohen (priest) and subjected to a humiliating ordeal involving bitter waters. Much has been written about the troubling nature of this ritual. But through the lens of marginality, it exposes a deeper theme: the vulnerability of those without power. The Sotah is silenced in this process; she is spoken about, judged, and tested by the men around her. Her body becomes a site of suspicion. 

For many people living with disabilities, particularly women with disabilities, this resonates deeply. Being disbelieved, subjected to invasive scrutiny, or being made invisible is common and prevents solutions or accommodations to be made. Questioning one’s need for a voice, makes it seem that one is unwanted and is being pushed aside. This is why nothing about us, without us, is so essential to the disability narrative. It gives a voice and allows for power in a space that often does not think of accessibility needs. When confronted with one in a vulnerable place, it is the community’s responsibility to listen and partner with those made vulnerable by unjust systems to create a structure liveable for all of us. 

The Sotah is only given a voice by the Torah to respond to the kohen (priest) after being forced to drink the mixture and having gone through the ritual. But the two amens she utters, according to Sforno, a 16th century Italian commentator, acknowledge her situation and give agency in her identity. This small interlude between the Sotah and the kohen begins to provide a textual structure for listening to and including those deemed “impure” or “unworthy.” Sforno insists that the Sotah’s voice is important even if just to offer a few words.

And then comes the Nazir (Bamidbar 6:1–21): the person who voluntarily takes on abstentions of no wine, no cutting hair, and no contact with the dead in a personal quest for holiness. At first glance, this seems empowering, a choice to come closer to God. But Chazal (our sages) are divided on whether this is praiseworthy or problematic. Is the Nazir holy or is the Nazir fleeing from the world, rejecting community in favor of isolation?

Here too, we can see parallels to modern disability experience. How often do some of us view individuals who live “outside the norm” with fascination or judgment? How often do some of us valorize the person who is “inspiring” while ignoring their basic need for access, dignity, and community? The Nazir is alone, and while their vow may be spiritually motivated, they must bring a sin offering when it ends. Why? Perhaps because separating from the community, however noble the intent, carries a cost. We  must learn to ask, when do we exclude ourselves due to our disability as opposed to fighting for our needs? 

I have learned to check-in with myself, do I have the capacity to repeatedly advocate for my needs? At times, being repeatedly rejected or told that the accommodations I have requested go beyond the scope of an event create hidden costs which prevent me from fully being part of a community. Such barriers to accessibility create physical, emotional, and spiritual isolation and send the message that I am not wanted.

The Nazir reminds us that there are times when a person may seem engaged but there are underlying complexities that cause a sometimes unseen separation between them and community. Communities can create unintended barriers, creating isolation instead of accommodations, which shows a preference of who they desire in their community even if unintended. So, communities must take time to reflect and create ways of identifying potential barriers and work with all members to remove them. Communities must look at choice of space, use of language, receptiveness to feedback, allocation of funding, and representation & leadership. [1]

And the Torah doesn’t leave us questioning how to remove the barriers. If one goes back to parsha Tazria- Metzora, the Torah describes the exact ritual one must go through to become tahor (spiritually pure) and rejoin the camp. Rabbanit Tanya Farber, quoting the Ibn Ezra (12th century Spanish commentator), points out the parallels between the anointing of the kohen and the cleansing of one who has tzaraat. These parallels hint at how everyone has the ability to connect with the Divine and be an integral and necessary contributor to all communal aspects. 

These three figures—the impure person, the Sotah, and the Nazir—are each pushed to the margins of communal life in different ways. Yet, Naso doesn't simply mention them and move on; it centers them. They are not invisible in Torah—they are named, described, held in ritual space. This reminds us that Torah does not ignore the vulnerable; the Torah invites us to engage and reimagine our community to include everyone regardless of ability.

Through a disability Torah lens, we are challenged to ask: Who do we exclude, and why? Whose voices are missing from our sanctuaries, schools, and rituals? And what would it take to center the margins—not as a temporary act of charity, but as a sacred obligation of communal wholeness.

So perhaps it is then only fitting that directly after talking about these identities we encounter one of the most known moments in the Torah: the Birkat Kohanim, or Priestly Blessing (Bamidbar 6:24–26):

יְבָרֶכְךָ ה’ וְיִשְׁמְרֶךָ׃       

May God bless you and protect you.   

יָאֵר ה’  פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וִיחֻנֶּךָּ׃     

May God’s face shine upon you and be gracious to you. 

יִשָּׂא ה’  פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם׃

May God’s face be lifted toward you and grant you peace.

At first glance, it might seem like a gentle aside: a spiritual moment between more procedural and ritual sections. But in truth, this blessing is a radical theological and communal statement. It is not only a message from kohanim (priests) to people, but from God to each individual. It reveals a core principle of inclusion: every person is worthy of blessing.

Prior to blessing the people, the kohen recites God “Who commanded us with the sanctity of Aaron and commanded us to bless the people of Israel with love.” A friend of mine who is a kohen shared that whenever he performs this ritual, he makes sure to look around the congregation before finishing this blessing, making sure he will truly be able to love every member of the congregation, to offer the blessing to everyone with love.

The Disability Torah lens reminds us that being part of those blessed is not reserved for the “able,” the “pure,” or the socially integrated. This blessing is for everyone. No conditions, no exceptions; it’s no wonder there is a tradition of blessing one’s child with it every Friday night. The “face” that God turns toward us is not about worthiness in the eyes of society; it is about divine presence seeing each of us fully, without any separation. In the eyes of one’s parents and in the eyes of God, every person is deserving of this blessing.

The repetition of “face” in this short blessing is particularly striking: “ya’er Hashem panav elecha-יָאֵר ה’  פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ” (may God’s face shine toward you) and “yissa Hashem panav elecha- יִשָּׂא ה’  פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ” (may God’s face lift up toward you). It is about being seen, acknowledged, recognized. Thinking back to the “impure”, the sotah, and the nazir, we encounter how our identities force us to at times to separate and face others before one is able to join in. We are also reminded that regardless of ability one is valid and one is able to feel God’s face upon them. 

For those of us with disabilities—especially those whose needs are often overlooked or whose presence is frequently made invisible—this kind of “panim el panim-פָּנִים אֵל פָּנִים” (face-to-face) recognition is transformative. To bless someone is to declare: I see you. You matter. You belong here.

And it is not just the kohanim who have this power. The Rabbis teach (in Sotah 38a) that all of Israel has a share in the Birkat Kohanim, to be included in this face to face conversation. The Talmud states explicitly: 

תַּלְמוּד לוֹמַר: ״אָמוֹר לָהֶם״, לְכוּלְּהוּ…תַּנְיָא אִידַּךְ: ״כֹּה תְבָרְכוּ״ — פָּנִים כְּנֶגֶד פָּנִים

The verse [prior to Birkat Kohanim] states “You shall say to them,” meaning to all of the Jewish people… [and] It is taught in another baraita (rabbinic teaching): “So you shall bless,” face-to-face. Inclusion is a communal responsibility. We are all charged with lifting our faces toward one another—with seeing, acknowledging, and blessing each other.

Inclusion is not a favor done for people with disabilities. It is a sacred obligation to make blessing real—to mirror God’s gracious and peaceful presence in the way we construct our communities. Communities must engage in inclusive decision making so they can begin to restructure priorities and listen to voices that were previously written off. Therefore, when a Mikvah has an accessible entrance and prep rooms, when a school or camp selects an accessible field trip, and when a shul installs a ramp, offers sensory-friendly services, or uses inclusive language, it is not merely being “accommodating.” It is offering a form of priestly blessing: a recognition that every person is a reflection of the Divine and deserves to feel that their face is turned toward—not away.

[1] Crossroads Ministry IL: Adapted from original concept by Bailey Jackson and Rita Hardiman, and further developed by Andrea Avazian and Ronice Branding; further adapted by Melia LaCour, PSESD.

Hannah Greenberg, originally from Bucks County, PA, is a Maharat rabbinical student and a Jewish educator in NYC who specializes in working with students with disabilities. Hannah holds a Master’s in Education in Exceptional Children and Youth with a concentration in Autism and Severe Disabilities from the University of Delaware and holds a certificate in advanced Judaic studies from the Pardes Institute. Besides teaching, you can find her learning Talmud and can follow her Daf Yomi Instagram: @dafyomiadventures. She has also had the honor of being published in Feeding Women of the Talmud, Feeding Ourselves (2023), At the Well Blog (2023), and spoke at Sefaria’s Masechet Eruvin siyyum (2020). Hannah additionally enjoys exploring and finding accessible ways to navigate NYC.