The World through the Eyes of Others: Reflections of a Rabbi and a Student of Animal Chaplaincy Training

Sometimes God teaches us not through thunder, but through silence. Sometimes — through what comes later, when you are left alone with the lesson, your reflections, and your own soul.

On October 11, 2025, I missed one of the Animal Chaplaincy Training classes because it was Shabbat. The program is open to people of all faiths and traditions, but what I especially value is that my path as a rabbi is respected there. Reverend Sarah Bowen, our teacher and mentor, has always treated my observance with kindness and genuine understanding. She said to me gently, “Watch the class when you can, but before November 8. Then you and another student who missed it will discuss it together and complete the exercises — some in pairs, some on your own.”

I began watching the lesson on October 19, continued on the 20th, and today, October 21, I finally reached the end — though I may listen again. The class lasted three and a half hours, but it wasn’t just a lecture. It was a journey. You move slowly, pause, think, and realize that the lesson continues inside you — as if the words themselves begin to breathe with you.

Sarah spoke about Umwelt — the inner world of perception. Every living being experiences its own world. A bee sees ultraviolet light, a bird feels air currents, a dog lives in a world of scents, while humans see only a fragment and assume it’s the whole. Sarah said that a true chaplain learns not to judge, but to understand — not to make another world resemble their own, but to accept it as a mystery, as the breath of God in another form. And then I thought: that’s the essence of Torah itself.

In Bereshit it is written: “And Adam gave names to all the living creatures…” (Genesis 2:19). To name something is to feel its essence. To understand it is to see with the heart. Adam didn’t just assign words — he listened to the soul of every being. In that moment, he became the first animal chaplain, the first human to communicate with creation without speech. The Talmud teaches, “Whoever shows mercy to living beings will receive mercy from Heaven” (Shabbat 151b). And Kabbalah adds: animals possess nefesh — the breath of life, while humans possess neshamah — the soul of compassion. But compassion awakens only when a person learns to hear those who cannot speak.

And this made me think of the Kanaani cat — a breed that means so much to me. The Kanaani was born in Jerusalem, on the Holy Land. And even if we cannot know for certain whether it comes from the cats of the Garden of Eden, one thing is beyond doubt — it comes from Jerusalem, from Israel, from the land where the air itself breathes prayer. That already makes it special. Our sages taught that Jerusalem bordered the Garden of Eden. And if any creature remains on earth closest to that first cat who roamed Eden, it must be the Kanaani.

For thousands of years, wild desert cats — Felis lybica, the African wildcat — lived on those lands. They were always there. Alongside them lived the Jerusalem street cats — also always there, because where else would they go? Over time, the daughter of the desert and the cat of the city met, and from that encounter came the Kanaani — the cat of the Holy Land, carrying within her the breath of Eden.

When I look at a Kanaani, I see not just an animal, but the memory of the land itself. In her eyes live both tenderness and ancient freedom. Sometimes I think this is the very gaze Adam saw when he first met a living creature and understood it without words.

The Talmud also teaches that animals hold wisdom. Rav Papa once said that when Jews lived in Egypt, it was safe to enter any house where cats lived — because there were no snakes or scorpions there. And in those words lies more than practical advice. It is a parable of deep spiritual truth. Cats do not only destroy snakes and scorpions — they defeat evil. Their presence cleanses space, making a home safe from dark forces. Yet Rav Papa added that one should still enter wearing shoes, because even if the cat killed the snake, its bones remain — thin, sharp, like the memory of evil, which never disappears completely. Step on them barefoot, and you will be hurt. Evil, even conquered, leaves traces. The victory over it is real, but never absolute. One must remain watchful — not out of fear, but out of wisdom.

Cats remind us of this. They embody attentiveness, quiet dignity, and subtle awareness. The Talmud says that if we had no natural understanding, we would learn modesty from the cat, diligence from the ant, and loyalty from the dove. Cats teach not only silence but also boundaries. They know when to come close and when to step back. Perhaps that is why they are so near to the Divine — because they understand balance in freedom.

The world is full of eyes that see differently — the eyes of a bee, a bird, a Kanaani cat. Together they weave the great fabric of Creation. When we learn to see through the eyes of others, we become softer, more human — and, perhaps, closer to God.

I am deeply grateful to Reverend Sarah Bowen, who teaches us to see, and to the Kanaani cats, who remind us that Eden is still near.

— Rabbi Mikhail Salita