The Verses We Frame, and the Ones We Flinch From
Love Your Fellow / Stone Him? The Torah’s Hardest Conversation
This week we read a double portion: Acharei Mot and Kedoshim—two of the Torah’s most revered, and most troubling, chapters.
In Acharei Mot, we encounter the well-known prohibitions around forbidden sexual relationships: no incest, no bestiality, and yes—no homosexuality.
“Do not lie with a man the way you would lie with a woman—it is an abomination.” (Leviticus 18:22)
And in Kedoshim, we read the associated punishment:
“The two of them shall be put to death; their blood is upon them.” (Leviticus 20:13)
It’s important to say: this is not some divine punishment from above—it is a judicial sentence, issued by a human court. A sentence that, halachically, would require two eyewitnesses, prior warning, and private knowledge of the act—which is to say:extraordinarily unlikely to ever be enforced. But the message about the seriousness of the transgression is clear.
And between those two statements—we are given:
“Love your fellow as yourself.” (Leviticus 19:18)
The most quoted verse in the Torah. Etched on synagogue walls, printed on tote bags, and taught to preschoolers as the heart of Jewish values.
How are we meant to live with both of these verses in the same breath?
We want to separate them. One we teach with joy. The other we barely whisper. But the Torah doesn’t let us skip. The beauty and the pain live side by side, and our tradition demands we stay with both.
🌀 A Tradition That Expects Us to Wrestle
The Torah does not aim to make us comfortable. It seeks to make us grow. It doesn’t flatter us by confirming our instincts—it stretches us to become more just, more kind, more holy.
So when we encounter verses that disturb us, we are not meant to avert our eyes. We are meant to wrestle. To study. To bring the fullness of our modern conscience into dialogue with the fullness of our ancient tradition.
The sages understood this. The Mishnah tells us that capital punishment was nearly theoretical—rarely enacted, the bar for conviction nearly impossible. The courts were designed not for vengeance, but as guardians of justice and mercy.
Still, the verses remain. They confront us. And we cannot pretend otherwise.
🔥 The Ritual That Endures
Before any of these difficult laws appear, Acharei Mot opens with something else: a vivid, almost cinematic description of the ancient Yom Kippur ritual.
Aaron, the High Priest, dons sacred garments. He offers sacrifices—for himself, for his household, for the nation. Two goats are chosen. One is offered to God. The other, bearing the people’s sins, is sent into the wilderness.
“He shall go out to the altar that is before God and atone for it: he shall take some of the blood of the bull and of the goat and apply it to each of the horns of the altar.” (Leviticus 16:18)
And then:
“This shall be for you a law for all time… on the tenth day of the seventh month, you shall practice self-denial… for on this day, atonement shall be made for you.” (Leviticus 16:29–30)
This is our Yom Kippur. Still. Juxtaposed against the ancient ritual. We no longer send goats over cliffs—but we fast, repent, and return.
Here, we see Torah’s living nature: some rituals lie dormant. Some evolve. And some remain nearly unchanged.
⚖️ The Living Tension of Relevance
Not every law in this double portion has aged the same way.
We read at the end of Kedoshim:
“If a man or woman has a ghost or familiar spirit, they shall be put to death.” (Leviticus 20:27)
It sounds foreign now. But it wasn’t always. In I Samuel 28, King Saul seeks out the ghost of the prophet Samuel. Consulting spirits was once part of Jewish life—and this law was a boundary.
But not anymore. Most of us don’t wrestle with ghosts.
Contrast that with another law:
“When you reap your harvest, do not cut the corners of your field… leave them for the poor and the stranger.” (Leviticus 19:9–10)
For centuries in exile, this mitzvah was irrelevant. But today, in Israel, organizations like Leket Israel collect the corners of harvests and distribute food to the hungry. A once-silent mitzvah is alive again.
🌱 Torah Evolves—Because We Do
This is the Torah’s power. It is not frozen. It moves with us.
Some verses grow quieter. Others rise again. And some stay steady, calling us to rise with them.
The laws about forbidden intimacy are still here. Still debated. Still deeply felt. Not relics. Not ghosts. They remain part of the conversation—because people are still struggling to reconcile them with dignity, identity, and belonging.
The Reform movement has explicitly rejected these prohibitions. The Conservative movement, in a landmark 2006 paper, permitted same-sex relationships while limiting certain acts. Within Orthodoxy, the halachic stance remains largely unchanged—but the conversation continues, with growing calls for compassion, dignity, and honest struggle.
That’s what makes this week’s reading so raw. It’s not history. It’s us—trying to figure out what it means to live Torah in our time.
Struggle is not failure. It is human. It is the act of caring enough to stay.
✡️ Reader Challenge: A Two-Verses Meditation
Take 10 minutes this Shabbat. Find a quiet place. Sit with these two verses side by side:
“Do not lie with a man as with a woman.”
“Love your fellow as yourself.”
Ask gently:
What does each verse demand of me?
Where do I feel resonance? Where do I feel resistance?
What would it mean to be honest about both—and still seek holiness?
Close your meditation with this kavannah (intention):
I am part of a people who wrestle with our tradition—and in that struggle, I seek holiness.
🌟 Conclusion: Kedoshim Tihyu
There’s something about reading these parshiot that reminds us: Torah is more than a set of laws and stories—it’s a mirror to our history.
Across time, some verses have fallen silent. Others have returned to life. Some rituals faded in exile and are now practiced again in the land. Others, once central, now feel distant. In these words, we don’t just find laws—we find our history.
To study Torah is to trace the arc of a people: who we were, what we struggled with, what we cherished, and how God asked us to change.
As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote:
“We are heirs to a story that inspired a hundred generations of our ancestors and eventually transformed the Western world. What you forget, you lose. The West is forgetting its story. We must never forget ours.”
So I invite you: take up your part in the story.
Stay with the tension. Sit with it. Let it stretch you. Let it teach you how to grow.
And take up the promise offered in these words:
קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ — You shall be holy.
Because if Torah only confirmed what we already believed—it wouldn’t be Torah. Torah is not what changes—it’s what changes us.
Shabbat shalom.
🕯 Discussion Questions for Your Shabbat Table
What’s a verse or ritual from the Torah that has shaped you —or stayed with you —for reasons you may not fully understand?
Where do you see your story reflected in the evolution of Jewish tradition?
What part of the Torah feels hardest for you to love—and what would it mean to stay in relationship with it anyway?