Beyond Access: A Sanctuary for Thriving (Kol Nidrei 5787)

What do our biblical ancestors Jacob, Isaac, Moses, and King Saul have in common?

In modern terms, every single one of them lived with a disability.

Isaac lost his sight in his old age. Jacob walked with a distinct limp for the rest of his life after wrestling with the divine messenger. Moses lived with a heavy tongue—a speech impediment, perhaps a stutter. And King Saul wrestled with profound, overwhelming waves of depression.

In our most sacred texts, in our Tanakh, disability is not a rare exception banished to the margins. It is woven directly into the fabric of leadership, covenant, and holiness.

While we often treat disability as a minority experience, the reality is that disability touches every single family. According to public health data, one in four adults in the United States lives with a disability—a number that rises to two in five among adults over sixty-five (CDC, 2022).

As our beloved congregation ages, more of us will experience changes in our mobility, our vision, our hearing, our cognition, and our energy. Disability is not a separate story belonging to “other people”—it is the human story. It is our story.

Over the past year, our community undertook a major physical transformation. We rebuilt our building to make it ADA-accessible. That work matters deeply. Removing physical and remote barriers honors the sacred command in Leviticus: “You shall not place a stumbling block before the blind” (19:14).

But tonight, on Kol Nidrei—the night when we reset our vows and examine our highest aspirations—I want to ask us a radical question: Is physical accessibility where our work ends, or is it where it begins? 

In her work Loving Our Own Bones: Disability Wisdom and the Spiritual Subversiveness of Knowing Ourselves Whole, Rabbi Julia Watts Belser (2023) points out the profound difference between accommodation and thriving. Accommodation asks: “How can we alter our structure just enough so you can get through the door or watch the stream?” Thriving asks: “How do we build a community where your whole self is honored, celebrated, and essential?”

Rabbi Belser contrasts two prophetic visions in our tradition. The prophet Isaiah envisions a redeemed world by declaring: “Then the eyes of the blind will be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame will leap like a deer” (35:5–6). To many, these words sound like hope. But as Belser notes, for those of us living in disabled bodies, Isaiah’s vision can feel like erasure—suggesting that our value depends on our bodies being “fixed” to match a non-disabled norm.

She shares a story about a Deaf child in a religious school whose teacher promised, “One day, in the world to come, you’ll be able to hear.” The child looked back and replied, “No. In the world to come, God will sign.”

The prophet Jeremiah offers us an alternative promise. Jeremiah envisions God gathering the people home—not by erasing their disabilities, but by gathering “the blind and the lame among them… a great assembly returning on a level road where no one stumbles” ( 31:8–9). Jeremiah’s vision is not about fixing bodies; it is about reshaping the world so everyone can travel together.

This distinction is not academic for me. It is the lived truth of my daily life.

Many of you know—though some may not—that I live with a neuromuscular disease called Charcot-Marie-Tooth, or CMT. Walking takes a bit more effort for me, and I’m grateful that my leg braces make walking easier for me.

For many years, like so many people in a culture steeped in ableism, I was trained to view my physical reality through a lens of deficit—focusing on what my body couldn’t do, or the extra energy required to navigate spaces designed for a single type of body.

During my sabbatical last year, I had time to reflect deeply on work, productivity, and rest. Our TBO President at the time, Wanda Bresnick, reminded me that sabbatical is meant to be regenerative, not productive time. That insight struck at the core of how ableism operates. In a culture driven by relentless output, we are conditioned to believe our worth is tied strictly to what we produce or how much we do.

Laura Hershey—a pioneering disability activist and poet who spent her life fighting for independent living and dignity—put it this way: “Remember, you weren’t the one who made you ashamed, but you are the one who can make you proud…You get proud by practicing.”

When we practice disability pride, we realize that living with a disability is not a tragic flaw to overcome. It shapes how we understand ourselves, how we practice patience, and how we care for one another.

This brings us to the heart of our congregation. We are a warm, vibrant, volunteer-driven community. We pride ourselves on showing up, cooking meals, setting up chairs, and driving committees. Giving of our time is a mitzvah. But when a community measures belonging solely by doing, it accidentally creates a new stumbling block.

There are seasons in every human life when we cannot cook the meal, chair the committee, or carry the heavy load. There are seasons when showing up—whether in a seat in this sanctuary or joining us online via our livestream—is your entire contribution.

I want to give every person in this room and watching from Zoom explicit permission tonight: Your presence alone is a gift to this community.

You do not need to “produce” to earn your seat in this sanctuary. You do not need to hide your fatigue, your braces, your walker, your anxiety, or your illness to be whole in the eyes of God or in the eyes of this community.

Shabbat teaches us this every week: our holy value is in our being, not our doing.

So, what does it actually look like to move from an accessible building to a community where everyone thrives?

First, it broadens how we welcome one another. When someone joins our congregation—or when we check in with a longtime member—we often ask, ‘How would you like to help?’ That matters, but we also need to ask: ‘What do you need from us to truly thrive here?

Second, it means expanding our understanding of what it means to show up. It means making it completely normal to sit during prayers, to step out when your body needs rest, or to join us on the livestream without feeling like a second-class participant. It means honoring our limits instead of pushing past them to perform.

And finally, it means being a sanctuary of real solidarity. In a time when public support systems and funding for disabled individuals are under constant strain, our synagogue must be a secure haven—a place where we protect one another, advocate for one another, and stand together.

On this night of Kol Nidrei, as we release ourselves from false vows and expectations, let us release the lie that any human body or mind is broken.

Our renovated building gave us physical ramps, and technology gave us open channels. Now, let us build Jeremiah’s level road in our hearts—a community where no one has to pass as non-disabled, where no one has to apologize for their limits, and where every single one of us is celebrated as an image of the Divine.

May we all be sealed in the Book of Life, exactly as we are.