Parshat Shemini
Leviticus 9:1–11:47

By Torah Blogger, Jen Smith

Parashat Shemini is a Torah portion full of contrasts, joy and grief, purity and danger, and divine presence and human frailty. It begins with one of the most transcendent moments in the Torah: the consecration of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary tabernacle. After months of preparation, the Divine Presence finally appears through fire before the Israelites, and the people fall on their faces in awe. It’s a spiritual climax – a moment of collective connection with the Divine.

But almost immediately, tragedy strikes. Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, bring what the Torah calls “esh zarah” – a strange fire – that God had not commanded. As a result of their error, a heavenly fire consumes the brothers, and their moment of innovation becomes a moment of devastation.

At first glance, the story seems harsh. Why didn’t God reward the spiritual passion that inspired the offering?

The Zohar, Judaism’s foundational mystical text, teaches that Nadav and Avihu were not punished for wickedness, but rather because they were overwhelmed by a longing for unfiltered Divine union. According to mystical commentary, Nadav and Avihu were so taken by the moment – the presence of God filling the Mishkan and the sacredness of the ritual – that they were spiritually overcome with ecstasy. Their desire was not necessarily selfish or rebellious or inspired by mal intent. However, it was out of balance. They wanted a direct, immediate union with God – without boundaries, without the structure that protects and contains that energy.

In mystical terms, they tried to “return to the Light” without grounding their action in the vessel. They bypassed the divine channels of ritual and acted on impulse and desire rather than on obedience and humility.

Nadav and Avihu essentially said: “We no longer want separation. We want to be absorbed back into the Infinite.” But to do that without preparation, permission, or protection is spiritually dangerous.

Their souls, yearning to dissolve into the Infinite, bypassed the vessel of sacred service. Instead of channeling their passion within the structure God had given them – via service in the Mishkan and embarking on the sacred rituals – they leapt too far too quickly when consumed by the raw fire of spiritual ecstasy.

Kabbalah often speaks of the need to balance “Ratzo v’Shov” – the run and the return. We are meant to reach toward heaven (ratzo) but also to come back to earth (shov) to do the work of the world: feeding the hungry, showing kindness, honoring life. The rabbis teach us that the soul’s longing must be tethered to the material world, to the commandments, and to sacred discipline. Without this grounding, even the holiest desire can become dangerous.

Nadav and Avihu’s mistake wasn’t yearning – it was acting without listening, leaping without anchoring, and burning without boundaries.

In our own lives, how often do we act with good intentions but forget to pause and consider whether our actions align with our higher values? How often do we burn with passion for justice, truth, or spirituality only to discover that in our zealotry, we may have overlooked the impact of our actions on others?

Shemini reminds us that structure and process matters and that intent alone is insufficient unless it is paired with humility. Maybe more importantly, Shemini reminds us that holiness is not to be found in escaping this world and our earthly responsibilities, but that true holiness is found when we infuse the mundane elements of an earthly life with meaning.

Aaron’s response to the death of his sons is also haunting. We read “Vayidom Aharon” – And Aaron was silent.

In that silence, we uncover another mystical truth. There are moments when words are simply not enough. In a world that moves too fast and speaks too loudly, silence can be a form of surrender, presence, and a deep connection to the Divine beneath the chaos.

Aaron’s silence is not disengagement – it’s sacred stillness. Sometimes the most profound faith is the faith that yearns only for connection, not answers.

Shemini invites us into the mystery of what it means to live a spiritual life that is both fiery and faithful, mystical and mindful.  Let your fire burn but not consume. Be passionate, but not reckless. Let your yearning for God flow through the channels of mitzvot, community, and compassion. Find holiness in the details. The second half of Shemini details laws of kashrut – what we eat and how we elevate the physical through spiritual consciousness. The sacred is found not only in ecstatic moments, but in our everyday choices.

May Shemini remind all of us that spirituality isn’t found in the extraordinary alone. It is built into the rhythm of our ordinary days, when passion meets purpose, and holiness lives in the details. In a world that can often seem too loud and chaotic, Shemini invites us to become vessels of sacred fire; grounded, humble, and alive with purpose.

Parashat Vayikra
Leviticus 1:1 – 5:26
The Quiet Call to Bloom

By Torah Blogger, Jen Smith

“Vayikra el Moshe…”
“And [God] called to Moses…” (Leviticus 1:1)

This calling takes place not in a palace or a grand sanctuary, but from the Tent of Meeting – a simple, portable structure in the wilderness. And the Hebrew word “Vayikra” – “He called” – is written with a small Aleph at the end, a mysterious scribal tradition that has sparked conversation for centuries.

Why shrink the Aleph, the very first letter of the Hebrew alphabet? The mystics suggest that this small Aleph represents humility, the kind of quiet ego that makes room to hear a sacred call. When the world is noisy – full of announcements, alerts, and opinions – Vayikra reminds us that some of the most powerful callings are gentle, subtle, and intimate.

Our friend, Moses, who was first hesitant to lead because he was slow of speech, is now the one who receives the call. He has grown into his leadership – not through force, but through deep listening. And maybe that’s the message for us: each of us is called, in our own way, in our own time – and we hear that call best when we quiet our egos and open our hearts.

Parashat Vayikra often falls during early spring. Nature is beginning to awaken – tiny buds on trees, longer stretches of sunlight, the occasional warm breeze that hints at what’s to come. In the Jewish calendar, this season holds profound meaning: the month of Nisan is approaching, the month of Pesach, our festival of freedom and renewal. Just as the earth stirs from its dormancy, so do our souls.

The Torah portion introduces us to the world of sacrifices – korbanot – which can seem distant or even uncomfortable for the modern mind. But here’s something remarkable: the Hebrew root of korban – karov – means “to draw near.” These offerings were not about appeasement; they were about relationships. A person who brought an offering wasn’t checking off a religious box – they were saying, “I want to come close.”

We may not bring animal offerings today, but the desire behind them still burns in the human heart: the desire to connect to something bigger, to something deeper. And the desire to connect with one another and to God. The question is not “What do I have to give up?” but rather, “What can I bring of myself that is real?”

This is where the values of volunteerism and service come in.

In our time, volunteering can feel like a kind thing to do – an extra, a bonus. But in Jewish tradition, service to one’s community is holy. The Talmud teaches that All of Israel is responsible for one another (Shavuot 39a). The mystics go even further, suggesting that each soul has been infused with a unique spark of the Divine. When we lend our hands, our time, our hearts to others, we are performing a sacred act. When we perform a mitzvah, not only do we bring ourselves closer to the people we help, but even more importantly, to the Divine itself.

Today, our sacred offerings take a different shape, morphing into the teen who shows up to tutor a younger student, the retiree who delivers meals to the homebound, a busy parent who volunteers at the synagogue, or the person who quietly ensures that everyone feels welcomed and valued.

None of these acts will ever make it into the Torah – but every one of them is recorded in the eternal scroll of the human heart. These are the offerings that still rise upward, like the ancient smoke of the altar – not to the heavens, but into the spaces between us, where holiness is born.

Vayikra describes fire on the altar that was never allowed to go out – Esh tamid tukad al hamizbeach, lo tichbeh (Leviticus 6:6). The Chasidic masters interpreted this fire as the inner fire of the soul – a yearning to do good, to serve, to connect. But just like any fire, this spark needs tending if it is to thrive.

Spring reminds us that even after long winters – literal and emotional – growth is possible. The same sun that warms the earth can warm our spirits. Vayikra invites us to notice the divine whisper that calls us to act, to help, to heal, to be present.

And the beauty is: you don’t have to be Moses to hear the call. You just have to be yourself – with your quirks, doubts, talents, and compassion. The small Aleph is a reminder that greatness doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it volunteers, at times it comforts, and at other times, it just simply shows up.

As we stand at the beginning of Vayikra, may the blooming of the season inspire the blossoming of our hearts, drawing us ever closer so we can deliver ourselves fully, honestly, and lovingly, as sacred offerings to one another.

Pekudei
Exodus 38:21 – 40:38 

By Jen Smith 

This week we read Parashat Pekudei, the final Torah portion in the book of Exodus. On the surface, it appears rather dry – full of detailed lists, materials, measurements, and inventories related to the construction of the Mishkan (tabernacle), the portable sanctuary built by the Israelites in the wilderness. Gold clasps, dyed wool, silver sockets, priestly garments – it’s all accounted for in Pekudei. 

It is tempting to skip over these verses, dear readers, but if we slow down to read through the details, we find a message that is both deeply spiritual and profoundly relevant. 

The Torah tells us that the Israelites completed “all the work of the Mishkan” just as God had commanded before Moses inspects the work, sees that everything was done properly, and blesses them. This isn’t just ancient project management – it’s a model of accountability, integrity, and sacred purpose. Moses doesn’t assume – he verifies; and the people don’t cut corners, they follow through. 

The Hebrew title of the parsha, Pekudei, can mean “records” or “accounts,” but it also comes from a root meaning “to remember” or “to be noticed.” In other words, these details matter because they fulfill a sacred task, but that is not all – they matter because they are visible to Moses, the Israelite community, and ultimately, by God. 

The idea that holiness can be found in the details is something we often forget in our modern, fast-paced, globalized world. However, Judaism has long taught that we are able to transform the ordinary into the sacred when we infuse our actions with intention. Whether it’s how we treat our coworkers, show up for a friend, support a parent, or care for our children, the seemingly “small” choices accumulate to form a life enriched with deep meaning. 

Jewish mystics, especially the kabbalists, saw the Mishkan as more than an earthly tent of meeting – it was a mirror of the universe, a veritable microcosm of creation. Each piece of the Mishkan corresponded to an aspect of either the cosmos or the human being. The Mishkan wasn’t just a dwelling place for God – it was a structure that aligned heaven and earth, creating a channel or a meeting point between the realms of the spiritual and the physical. 

The message is clear: when we build with care and act with sacred intention, we create space for the Divine to dwell – not just in ancient structures, but in our lives, our homes, and our relationships. 

We’re just weeks away from Passover, a holiday that, much like the Mishkan, is steeped in ritual, detail, and symbolism. From cleaning chametz (leaven) from homes to the layout of the Seder plate, Passover reminds us that freedom isn’t free – it requires preparation, memory, and a voice to breathe life into ritual. 

Just as every piece of the Mishkan had its place and purpose, so does every element of the Seder. The bitter herbs, the four cups of wine, the hiding of the afikomen – all these rituals are sacred building blocks. These are not just nostalgic traditions – they are tools for transmitting identity, generations of collective memory, and reaffirming our place in the world as Jews. 

In today’s world, we may not build physical sanctuaries like the Mishkan, but we build emotional and spiritual sanctuaries all the time within our homes, our families, and our communities. Pekudei reminds us to keep asking: are we building them with care, accountability, and with holiness? What are the “details” in our lives that matter, but that we also tend to overlook? How can we make our homes a sanctuary of peace, curiosity, and deep connection? Most importantly, Pekudei invites us to consider whether we are passing on the values of our story – or if we are just passing the matzah and maror. 

In many ways, every Seder table is a modern-day Mishkan – a portable sanctuary where the presence of God dwells in our conversations, the questions, and the laughter of generations gathered to remember the greatest story ever told – our story, the origin story of the Jewish people. 

Parashat Pekudei teaches us that holiness is not found in grand gestures, but in steady work, clear intentions, and community trust. As we head toward Passover – a holiday of liberation, memory, and storytelling – may we remember that our freedom isn’t just about our dramatic escape from Egypt. It is also about the details of our everyday lives, how we treat others, and our ability to make room for the Divine in our ordinary human lives. 

May we each take time to build and care for the sanctuaries in our homes, within our relationships, and our hearts, confident that the “Divine is in the details.”