On Spirituality, Trauma, and Emotion in the Lives of Animals

I believe that animals possess a kind of spirituality. Not like humans—with temples and scriptures and words. But something deep. Something sacred. It shows up in how they look at us, how they sing, how they stay silent, how they respond to the world around them. Even creatures without a brain show responses to pain, to touch, to light, to presence. That, to me, is already a sign of a spark. Of presence.

The Torah says animals have a ‘nefesh’—a soul of life. Humans have ‘neshama’—a soul of awareness. But this doesn’t mean we are better. It means we have more responsibility. More capacity to feel, to respond, to act with compassion. And that’s what it comes down to: if we have one more soul, then we must use it to take care of those who can’t speak. Who can only feel.

The covenant that God made with Noah was not just with people, but also with the animals. That’s not a poetic flourish. That’s a verse. They are part of the divine agreement. They are part of what God wants to save. And if they matter to the Creator, they must matter to us.

When we look at those whom God chose in our tradition—Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David—we see shepherds. People who cared for flocks, who noticed the weak, the lost, the injured. Who led with gentleness, not force. Even Adam—he was not a shepherd, but he named the animals. That act—naming—is sacred. It means seeing. Recognizing uniqueness. Blessing.

Solomon, son of David, was not a shepherd, but he understood the language of animals. That too is a kind of shepherding—of spirit, not of body. Again, we see a pattern: the greatest prophets and sages were close to animals. This is not a coincidence. Through it, the Creator shows us the kind of people He wants us to be. Gentle. Attuned. Loving.

There is a midrash that tells us when Moses carried a lost lamb on his shoulders because it was too tired to return on its own, God said, “If you show such mercy to one sheep, you are worthy to lead My people.” Leadership begins in compassion. Real strength is in kindness.

When I go to events, I often look for someone in the room who reminds me of young David—a simple, quiet person with a good heart. Not flashy. But sincere. That’s the kind of person God chooses.

I remember when I was in first grade, I got hit by a car. I was scared. I ended up in the hospital. My father would often stay with me at night, holding my hand so I wouldn’t be afraid. Just his presence calmed me. That too, now I realize, was chaplaincy. He didn’t need to preach. He was simply there. And I will always be grateful.

That’s what chaplaincy is. For people. For animals. To be there when someone is hurting. To hold space. To listen. To sit in silence if that’s what’s needed. To hold a paw, or a hand, or simply give breath and warmth.

We need to understand trauma, not only by what happened, but by how we respond. Sometimes trauma is silence. Sometimes withdrawal. It lives in bodies, not just in stories. And it affects animals too. Especially those who have no way to explain what they feel. We must learn to recognize the signals. In others. In ourselves.

Society teaches us to smile through pain. To hide grief. To pretend. But chaplains are those who stay. Who don’t run. Who whisper, “I’m here.” And healing begins.

When I read Marc Bekoff’s chapter, I saw a scientist—but more than that, I saw someone who deeply loves animals. He writes about wolves, dogs, elephants. He tells stories that don’t leave you. He makes the case that animals have emotions. Joy. Grief. Play. Fear. Sadness. All of it.

One part that stood out to me—the ‘shiny’ part—was when he described play behavior in wolves and dogs. The bowing, the chasing, the joy. It felt pure. It made me smile. But the ‘prickly’ part was when he spoke about suffering—factory farms, lab animals, lives of quiet despair. That was hard to read. But necessary. Because once you know, you can’t un-know. You must act.

And that’s what Animal Chaplaincy is. Not a job. Not a title. But a way to fulfill the will of the Creator. To live as those who do not turn away. Who see the spark. And respond.