Shemini 5784

Shemini
Leviticus 9:1-11:47
Ezekiel 45:16-46:18

Who wants to hear another drash about strange fire?

I sure don’t feel like giving one. So let’s talk about something else instead.

Being raised by a parrothead, I often look at life through the late Jimmy Buffett’s lyrics. He had a witticism that was both honest and profound, and something I continue to enjoy to this day. It might be a song lamenting being away from home and missing it while engulfed in the hubbub of a big city, which I might recycle this reference for the next time I speak about Jonah. It could be a song about desiring what you’re denying yourself for your own good, which I could tie to some Pirkei Avot. Today it’s a small line: “The right word at the right time… that’s the difference between lightning and a harmless lightning bug.”

A description starts off as one thing, and then turns away to become something else.

In chapter 11, we learn which mammals are kosher and which aren’t. And each description of the mammals starts off with the positive sign that it would be kosher. The camel, hyrax, and rabbit all bring up their cud. The pig has a cloven hoof. But after each of them is introduced, the disqualifying attribute is listed.

There is a thought in the Midrash which I like. If you’re looking at this, you might think the kosher qualifier for these animals is not important, because it’s immediately negated by the disqualifier. And, of course, Torah is concise, except when it has a point to make. So there’s a point to be made here.

The Midrash points out that even when G-d is telling us how something is not fit for consumption, it still has positive attributes. These attributes are not something we necessarily care about in our day to day life, but it’s something G-d cares about, and if they say we should care about it, we should take note. A pig has a cloven hoof, good, but it doesn’t take up its cud, so it’s unclean for eating.

This parashah also talks about other forms of purity. Purity of action, and purity of body.

Again let’s look at Midrash. Aaron’s sons “each took”, which indicates joy, “their own fire pans” which tells they did not consult each other. They also didn’t talk to Moshe nor did they honor Aaron. This was of their own volition because they were so excited. But their excitement was outside the bounds of the commandments, and G-d killed them for violating it.

Their intentions were right but their execution was wrong. Just as cooking a meal for a loved one is a good intention, cooking it wrong can be disastrous. And of course we are a religion and people of action, not of intention.

Wait, am I giving a drash on strange fire now? Oops.

Nadav and Avihu could have easily avoided death if they had just talked with Moshe or Aaron before, to try and get permission. Instead they were swept up in excitement and it permanently changed their families.

Finally we talk about purity of contact. Of a carcass touching a water vessel, touching seeds and grains, touching water, and touching bodies. Water has a special place in Judaism. Moshe was discovered in a river and he did not enter Israel because of an outburst brought about by water. Soon we’ll have a seder which recounts how the Nile turned to blood.

Water is important. And I feel like I got a special insight as to how important it is last year. Finding stretches of 30+ miles without water in 90 degree heat. Not knowing for certain if a water cache would be open. Scooping snowmelt out of a shallow puddle with a swollen Jerusalem cricket in it just so you can filter it and have a drink for the first time in 10 miles. This story is for a different time, though.

Water is important. And Torah obviously emphasizes the importance of flowing water instead of still water. Of course we aren’t supposed to speculate on the reasoning behind what Torah says, but I’d be remiss to ignore how flowing water is less likely to harbor bacteria and other disease vectors than standing.

Water is so important that we are able to extrapolate the mikveh from this parashah. This is our final purity, the one of body, of touch. Washing is important to us and, indeed, it has saved us through history.

Our laws on how to handle trash saved our shtetls during the Plague. Laws of bathing put our hygiene centuries ahead of society, even before soap and germ theory. And laws on what is clean and unclean after touching things have helped protect us since before cross contamination was a phrase.

Our existence has always been labored. We have had to fight for every scrap of progress, of safety, and of autonomy. In the lands and societies we’ve gone into, some of us have assimilated, some have integrated, and some have refused to do either. Regardless, I would argue that any one of us who made these decisions did so with a pure heart, with pure intention, and with the desire to live our best Jewish lives as best as we can. And we continue to do so today, with alarmingly few people willing to raise their voices with us and willing to march with us.

This seems an appropriate parashah, to be speaking of cleanliness two weeks and change before Pesach, when we cleanse our houses of chametz. When we recount how we left Egypt to serve G-d with a clean slate, with pure intentions. When we dip herbs in salt water. When water cleansed Pharaoh’s army from the land.

May we find the good, notable things in what is ultimately unsuitable for us. May we find these with passion, with clarity, and with fervor. And may we always find our way back to cleanliness, to integrity, and to righteousness. Shabbat shalom.



5784, Terumah

Exodus 25:1-27:19 

Here we have another parsha that is less narrative and more instruction. And I like that. Just as we have four children and different answers for them during the Passover seder, we have different narrative styles for different people and different emphases on what we need to do as part of our family to exist.

We have instructions instead of storytime. Instructions on how to build the holiest artifacts we ever had. Instructions on who was to build them. Instructions on how they should look, where they should be placed, and what they should be composed of. Everything from inside to outside, the supports, the textures, the materials, the fibers, anything you can think of.

What stood out to me about this was the description of the menorah, specifically its organic inspirations. It’s described as branches from its sides, each ending in a cup, like a flower, surrounded by petals with a calyx underneath it, with the cups resembling almond blossoms.

Is this a surprise? Considering our Torah is our etz chayim, our tree of life. Considering our multiple holidays around and immersing ourselves in nature, including tisha b’av and Sukkot. Considering our commandments to feed our animals before we eat, not to salt fruit fields, and the myriad others to protect earth and reduce cruelty. Even our first prophet was lead to G-d by a plant. With all this, we could just as easily be called “people of the land” as easily as “people of the book.”

I want to talk about plants, specifically sage.

After moving back here in September, I picked up something that’s difficult to maintain while traveling and impossible to maintain while walking. A plant. Well, a bunch of plants. I picked up an aloe vera, a lavender, a lipstick sage, and a Jerusalem sage. What can I say, I love fragrant plants. One of my favorite hedonist pastimes is smelling every plant I can. Creosote and sages in the desert, different pines in the forest, every bright flower from manzanita to lupine. Different dirts have different scents and I loved each of them. Even air, walking along a mountain ridge and smelling clouds as they swirled over a rock outcropping around me.

There are at least 24 kinds of sage in the land of Israel, among them Salvia dominica, pungent sage; Salvia hierosolymitana, Jerusalem sage; and Salvia verbenaca, or vervain sage. The name “salvia” comes from the Latin “salveo” meaning “I save”. Unsurprisingly, these cousins of the mint family have been used medicinally for millennia.

Yes, Jews used plant medicine. And why wouldn’t we?

But beyond the medicine, many of these sages resemble the menorah. They have flowers at the top and come off a branch in multiple straight lines. Many of them have leaves below the stems, leaving them looking like a menorah when flattened out. Salvia judaica might be the most striking example, with broad leaves at its base, striking dark stems branching up from the central stalk, and vibrant lilac flowers lining those stems.

Plants, just like us, rely on much to exist. We need lessons, community, and knowledge to survive. Plants have different instructions encoded. They have physical triggers embedded in their seeds which, when set off properly, cause an eruption of life from soil. Soil is often not dead, though. There’s a vast network of mycelium, or fungal, networks helping support many seedlings, juvenile, and mature plants. There are insects, bacteria, birds, and any number of influences that prop up plant growth. 

It’s appropriate that our symbol might be modeled after a plant. Just last week Daniel Nyman said not one person can fulfill all the mitzvot, and I think it’s up to us as a people to fulfill them all. Not one organism can produce fruit, but a network of them can produce an orchard. We have Torah and Talmud and Pirkei Avot and modern thinkers, some of whom we agree with and many whom we don’t. All of it is important to sustain us and keep our lamps lit.

But what do we do with plants? What do we do with this botanical inspired menorah?

We place it next to the most ornate, valuable, heavy object we could conceive of making. An object of solid gold, heavy acacia wood, and fine materials possibly representing different elements of earth and nature. Again, with the nature. And we place these together, along with an altar and other important pieces inside our most holy room.

Can you even be surprised that many of us enjoy having houseplants when we have a menorah that looks like our desert plants inside the sanctuary? We have a special value for plants and, now that we’re no longer wandering, we can bring them inside with us. We can cultivate them. Plants are as much a part of civilization as our people, our laws, and our animals. Plants are so important to us that our prayer for Israel relates it to a plant:

Avinu shebashamayim, tzur Yisrael v’goalo. Barekh na et m’dinat Yisrael, reyshit tz’mikhat g’ulateynu.

Our father, who is in heaven, Rock and Redeemer, bless the state of Israel, the first sprouting of our redemption.

Thursday, in a profound example of bigoted cowardice, the Rialto Theater here in Tucson canceled a show by Pennsylvania musician and rapper, and Zionist Jew, Matisyahu. The Rock, a smaller venue, called up Matisyahu, and offered him a space to perform, for free. Word quickly got out that the show was on, and I was able to attend, along with a few other members of this synagogue. This show was amazing, Jews showed up for Jews, and we overcame.

This brings me back to the delights we can find in this parsha. As we are fashioned in G-d’s image, we are to fashion objects in images resembling the world we interact with. As a sagebrush fills the air with its complex perfume of spice, and earthy ground, and sweet; the menorah fills the room with light; and we must do the same with each other. Just as one branch on a plant can’t sustain the whole organism, one branch of a menorah cannot fulfill the mitzvah, and one person cannot sustain the community. But together, with all of us, we are the organism, we are the people Israel, we are the community, all of us, together.



5784, Vaera

Exodus 6:2-9:35

There’s much I can say to this parasha. The idea of escaping the corruption of the city for wilderness especially speaks to me. But today I want to focus on something else.

We learned last week that Pharaoh intentionally made the Israelites’ work more difficult by not supplying hay for bricks but keeping their quota the same. The hay was traditionally supplied by the Pharaoh’s state, allowing the workers to form the bricks faster. Forcing them to gather their own hay and keeping their quota the same is unnecessary and serves only to break their spirits.

We know what happens when people try to break our spirits.

This week, Moses, selected by G-d; and Aaron, selected by Moses, are to implore Pharaoh to free the Israelites so they can serve G-d. Pharaoh, who enjoys free labor, as many in power do, doesn’t want to lose it. Also, just like many in power, he doesn’t just want free labor, but to show off his power. This week it results in the first six, out of 10, plagues. If we’re breaking up 10 plagues, why six and not five? That’s a different drash.

Instead my question is this: what happens when oppressors try to show off their power to us, today? We have Iron Dome, we have the IDF, we have associations and organizations to advocate for us. We are no longer dhimmi, the status the Ottoman Empire gave us, rendering us legally powerless.

What happens when Pharaoh tries to show off his power to us, then? We have G-d, Moses, and Aaron.

It took me longer than I care to admit, which is Thursday, to understand why Pharaoh’s sorcerers replicated the plagues at first. It was to say “big deal, we can make plagues, too.” It was a play to invalidate the power of G-d.

What’s the difference then, between the plagues that Moses directed from Hashem, and the spells Pharaoh’s sorcerers cast? There is, of course, the source. One is divine, one is from mortals. Just like the difference between human ingenuity and AI, one creates, the other is diminutive.

Humans have the amazing ability to create ideas and art. Whether we paint a fresco depicting a wonder or write a melody which leaves us speechless, our hands, our minds, our mouths, and even our entire bodies are able to drive an emotion, story, or thought. This might be for ourselves in the privacy of our space or publicly, for an audience.

AI doesn’t have this ability. It can only take in data, mix it up, interpret it as data instead of emotions, and put out something that incorporates elements of everything else put in. It doesn’t create, it just reassables.

We’re made in G-d’s image. We can create. We have breath, just as G-d has breath.

Back to plagues versus spells. Hashem creates, sorcerers cast. The only thing sorcerers can put out is what is already in the nature that G-d created. On the other hand, the depth of plagues is vastly deeper than anything mankind can direct or conjure up.

Okay, so I’ve talked about plagues and the power that the sorcerers ultimately found lacking against G-d. Let’s talk about something else.

There’s an idea called “‘b’ eating crackers”. The ‘b’ is a diminutive word which rhymes with “ditch” or “stitch”. This phrase is for when you have such a deep loathing of someone that even something as innocuous as them eating crackers will drive you mad. This is, obviously, hardening one’s heart.

And we’ve all experienced the ‘b’ eating crackers. When we’re sitting at the airport or on a plane and can’t stand the person sitting next to us. Or when we’re on the bus. Or when someone says something and we just can’t stand it, that’s the ‘b’ eating crackers phenomenon.

Pharaoh didn’t like us standing up for ourselves. Does that sound familiar?

In her 2021 book, People Love Dead Jews, Dara Horn writes about how people love Jews when they’re dying, but hate the idea of us standing up for ourselves.

I don’t want to get too deep into current events because we all know too much about what’s going on. We all know the insipid, antisemitic response of the UN and the Hamas enabling UNRWA. We all know about how the UN’s commission on human rights is headed by some of the world’s most egregious violators of human rights.

Please bear with me as we take a detour, for context.

Pharaoh hardened his own heart against us during the first five plagues. Moses cast his staff and G-d enacted a plague. Pharaoh’s sorcerers cast their spells and Pharaoh said “see, you’re not special” for the first two plagues. At the third plague, the sorcerers couldn’t create lice. And suddenly they understood their limitations.

At the fifth plague, the sorcerers deeply understood that Hashem, the source behind the nature they used for spells, was out of their influence. During the sixth plague, the sorcerers were afflicted like all their kinsmen. They were unable to recreate the boils because they were in too much pain from their own.

Pharaoh relented, after the swarms of insects, and said he would allow the Israelites to go out of his city to sacrifice and serve G-d. However, as soon as it became convenient and he wasn’t under pressure, he reneged. We were about to escape the corruption of the city to the purity of the wilderness, something I’m deeply familiar with, when Pharaoh decided he didn’t want to let us have respite, after all.

Pharaoh had taken the one thing that those who would oppress us don’t have: he had taken our autonomy.

Let’s come back to eating crackers and hardening hearts.

It was only after the fifth plague that G-d started hardening Pharaoh’s heart. During the first five, Pharaoh made his own choices. He made the decision to hurt us. After that, G-d demonstrated the error of his ways to ensure he couldn’t do it again.

We have entire groups of people who’ve been quietly advocating against us for years. We also have groups of people and countries who have been vocally advocating against us. Both silent and loud people conspiring against us.

Finally, after October 7, for a reason that can only be attributed to the world’s oldest hatred, we were perceived to be eating crackers when we were just standing up for ourselves. All these groups of people who hardened their own hearts should be starting to realize their sorcerers, their advisors, their allies are against something they haven’t been able to imagine.

Then, as Ezekiel, in this week’s Haftarah said
“Thus, said G-d,
“I’m going to deal with you Pharaoh
“Who said ‘my Nile is my own, I made it for me.’”
We have people claiming a river, the Jordan, just as Pharaoh claimed the Nile, is for them, when it’s for all of us. And today, the Jordan River, just as with the Nile, we will not allow it to slip from us.

Somehow, despite the vocal antisemites in academia, despite the vocal antisemites on social media, despite the antisemitism latent in governments, and despite the antisemitic bent in so much media, support for Israel is up. We still have a long way to go, but what we’re up against is not unprecedented. 

The danger may not be unprecedented, though luckily we’re able to take unprecedented care of ourselves. Instead of stealing aid meant for others to line our pockets as Hamas does, we invest in each other and ourselves. We strive for a civilization, which takes care of each other, while those who would see us gone fight within each other while fighting us.

Hashem gave a corrupt leader plagues upon his people. We did not suffer these plagues, and I believe deep in my soul that it’s because we operate as a people and as a nation, not as an oligarchy or dictatorship. We’re here for each other and we continue to be.

Only by being here for each other can we get through this. Hashem gave us each other, and we are a nation, as one, alone.

Am Yisrael chai and Shabbat shalom.



D’var Torah: Vayechi 5779

Vayechi 5779
December 22, 2018
Genesis 47:28-50:26

The last time I spoke about Vayechi was in Tucson, Arizona, at Congregation Bet Shalom. I talked about how despite our multitude of tribes, we had more accountability to each other than we ever had before. That the blessings Israel gave to Ephraim and Manasseh affected each tribe of our people. Those blessings did not dilute with time nor distance, rather they multiplied through generations as the numbers of our tribes increased.

This is especially poignant for me today, though I am reading Vayechi through a different lens. Today’s lesson, for me, is colored by the past two years since I last presented this parashah to a congregation.

Ivan and Rabbi Meltzer gave me the honor of today’s drash as a thank you note for my time here.

I’m Eddie, and I’ve been in San Diego since August. My girlfriend, Jalisa, is a travel nurse, and she’s been gracious to have brought me along with her as she travels the country on her assignments. We’ve spent the last year in Southern California, first in Palm Springs, then El Centro, and finally here, in San Diego. When we arrived here I had no idea how deeply I’d fall in love with this city and with this synagogue. I even already had a connection to Ohr Shalom — I photographed your Torah covers for the woman who created them. She’s from my home town of Tucson.

Our time here in San Diego is ending the first week in January, and I am going to miss you all. We’ve had l’chaims, laughs, and tears. We’ve shared triumphs and trauma. I feel closer to this synagogue and so many of you than I have felt with a community in years. For this I cannot thank you enough.

The relationships I’ve made here, the friendships, the ideas, and the love I’ve felt with this impending departure is what is coloring my interpretation of this parashah today. Vayechi is about the death of Yaakov while being titled “and he lived”, and this speaks to me today.

Looking at Torah is never straightforward for me. I’ve always looked at it like studying poetry. We see what we want to see. It’s often influenced by others, by circumstances, be knowledge and science, or any other factor that feeds into our mind and our heart.

I feel what we pull out of Torah reflects on us and what we need more than it reflects on anything else. We say that Torah is truth, and the biggest truth is what we see looking back at us, in the mirror.

Today we read about Jacob preparing his family for his death and his final plan. His desire is to be buried in the graveyard his predecessors made. He doesn’t want to be buried in the place he made home in his later years, but to be with his emotional and spiritual origins.

There’s a lot that plays into this, as his death and the blessings he gives are directly related to many events that lead up to it. He continues the theme of the younger child receiving the larger blessing, as he had done when he supposedly tricked his father in his youth. He condones and condemns the actions of his children. All of these are tied into previous parashot and many events stemming from this event are covered in later portions.

Jacob was a man who was uprooted, who thought he lost his favorite son, who was betrayed by his other children, and who got what he missed most back. He was a man who relocated to help his family and his community. Jacob suffered immensely and ended up springing a nation of people who were that much more prepared for the hardship of the world.

What inspires me and gives me hope every time I read this is that it’s called “and he lived” as he dies. The most notable part of Vayechi, for me, is that Jacob dies. And Torah always makes a deal out of distinguishing Israel from Jacob.

Of course there’s the basic scholarly view: Yaakov or Jacob’s name is what dies. When he works or acts in the interests of the future tribes or for Hashem, he is called Israel. Jacob dies. Israel doesn’t. Oddly, it’s also Jacob who blesses his children, whose descendents will become Israel. Perhaps it’s because blessing ourselves is a faux pas. Perhaps it’s because it’s the father’s duty to bless his children. I think it’s because Jacob, as a man who helped put the material world in the hands of the scholars rather than the plunderers, as a man who brought nuance to what was originally a straightforward dissemination of birthrights, was especially qualified to perceive how his progeny would take up their roles in the world.

Today is the end of many things. It’s the end of the book Bereshit, it’s the end of Jacob, and it’s the end of my time here at Ohr Shalom. While each son of Jacob plays a different role in the nation of Israel, each of you has touched me in a different way. There is not one person here I have not learned from. There is not one person here I have not enjoyed the company of.

My prayer this Shabbat is that while my time here, as this book, and this forefather ends, the impact you’ve had on me will live and flourish. That you and I have been mutually inspired and enriched. I hope and pray that when we part ways, we are all better for our interactions and clearer on our paths in this world.

Ohr Shalom, and every person here, thank you for becoming my tribe and thank you for being wonderful. Shabbat shalom.



Balak 5777

Balak 5777
Numbers 22:2-25:9
Micah 5:6-6:8

In my adolescence my dad had a condo in Rocky Point. We would go there, hit up the fish market, buy incredible fish and produce, go deep sea fishing, and cook up a storm. Honestly, there is no better ceviche than the one that I can make from a trip to that beautiful city. And it is beautiful.

One day, I was maybe 14 or 15, we were driving down there and my dad was trying to find a new place, something one of his friends had told him about. This was when GPS units were large and expensive, not part of ubiquitous pocket sized computers, so we didn’t have one. Heck, even if we had it was a dice roll for the destination in that town to even be listed.

My dad made a turn down an empty street, and I noticed immediately that all the parked cars were facing the wrong way. I knew this was a one-way street and wanted to speak up.

Now, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m kind of a black sheep. I used to be ashamed of this status, though now I embrace it. When you’re a shy early teen with a history of being bullied and a family so wrapped up in their issues that yours are consistently pushed aside, you keep your head down and your mouth shut.

Sure enough, right after he turned down that street, flashing red and blues from a motorcycle cop came on. Dad got pulled over in Mexico. I caught bits of the conversation — he didn’t know it was a 1-way street, though that could have been posturing to get out of a ticket.

One harsh rebuke and $40 later, we were back on our way.

Perhaps that’s something I have in common with another Eddie — relating too well to a donkey. Balaam’s donkey stopped when she saw a hinderance in the path, and was beaten for it. This isn’t a d’var Torah about beating those with silent advice, though. This is about the majesty of the black sheep and the fear they inspire in others.

This entire portion is about the leaders of a people trying to curse the young nation of Israel about to enter their own promised land. They’d heard stories about their fierce and blessed military campaigns and about their esteemed status with a god above all others. Can you imagine that? The G-d of this people is one god, more powerful than the myriad gods of the polytheistic nations.

We were the original black sheep, the ones who transformed religion as this world saw it. And the leaders, Balak and Balaam, knew our power and our potency. Balak tried to curse us and stop us, working his way down to smaller and smaller numbers, trying to bypass and skirt the prohibition on cursing us that Balaam conveyed. Balaam became a mouthpiece of Hashem and conveyed blessings upon Israel and a curse on Balak.

Two leaders acted out of fear in this story. One acted with violence, the other curiosity. One acted with a lust for power, the other acted with a thirst for knowledge. Let’s even look at Balaam’s transportation: a donkey. Not a horse. He rode a work animal, not a majestic steed, a lowly pack animal. Balaam is a man of pragmaticism, probably frustrated pragmaticism, but still pragmatic. He knows what needs to be done and does it.

The biggest thing I’ve learned in my life so far is how to turn being a black sheep into an advantage. How it sets you apart from the rest in everything you do, so people come to expect uniqueness from the get-go. It keeps people on their toes, and expectations shift from typical to atypical. If you leverage yourself as a black sheep, atypical can become extraordinary.

That’s what I think we need to learn at this time.

“How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel!”

This isn’t just a blessing put into Balaam’s mouth. This is what we should aspire to. A tent is more than a place to sleep; it is shelter and it is protection. Our love of each other and acceptance of each other will protect us, shelter us, and keep us secure.

We live in an era where white supremacy is coming back, not silently, but loudly and with pride. New hate groups are emboldened and we, as Jews, are receiving hate from both sides of political parties. We need to remember that our few decades of peace and quiet in the US do not make us white — we are still a minority and we are still blamed for things not our doing.

We are not white. We are minorities. We are black sheep. And we are extraordinary. We need to be at the forefront of being extraordinary and we need to back each other up. Whether it’s a small community of Lubavitchers in New York with their ultra-Orthodox ways or egalitarian ultra-Reform Jews with questionable conversions, we need to embrace Jewry in its vast, glorious, and extraordinary nature. We are a nation of people, which means we will have dissent, debate, and fights. We cannot, though, forget that we are still the other, so we must lift each other up and elevate what we have in common: belief in G-d, G-d alone.

My prayer this Shabbat is that we remember who we are. That we are not white. That we can acknowledge the glory of all our schools of thought, even those we vehemently disagree with. Each of us can be a different shade of dark in our wonderful flock of black sheep. Shabbat shalom.



Emor, 5777


Emor
Leviticus 21:1-24:23

There’s much to ponder in this parashah. Whether it’s the outlining of the festivals or the responsibilities one has when damaging another’s property; whether it’s the outlining of the priestly duties, or the suitability of animals for donations or sacrifices, there’s much to sift through.

I’m going to focus on a few relations here, starting with chapter 22, verse 23. “As for an ox or sheep that has mismatching limbs or uncloven hooves you may make it into a donation, but as a vow, it will not be accepted.”

There’s much to learn from this, and I feel it’s the crux of this parashah and a good tip for managing one’s life.

We’re looking at two different uses for the same animal under different circumstances.

The first is any ox or sheep in optimal condition: no blemishes, with matching limbs, and no problematic quirks, being used as a vow or a donation. This is an animal that can be used as a sacrifice offering or a vow.

The second is that an ox or sheep with physical problems can be used as a donation, something to help a synagogue or family, but not to fulfill a vow or as a sacrifice.

Let’s talk about vows in Torah. Vows go beyond promises. A promise in Torah is not taken lightly, a vow is even stricter. We go so far as to have prayers during Kol Nidre to ask for absolution from broken vows. Some people add “b’li neder” to their promises to remove any insinuation that it might be a vow, rather than a promise.

Our vows are held to a standard even higher than our promises.

Let’s look at this again: a sacrificial animal with physical deformities which do not detract from its healthfulness can be used as a donation, but not to fulfill a vow. Only the animals most desirable can be used to fulfill the oaths held higher than promises.

What does this mean? We are not allowed to shortchange or skirt around our oaths.

Furthermore, I believe this is why the Kohanim have so many stipulations. They are the ones who are allowed to mediate the tasks between Israel and Hashem that have been prescribed. They are the human vow of action to Hashem.

Let’s look at this today. We can see times when leaders make promises and give leftovers. Whether it’s promising to bolster education with a tax increase, and instead using that revenue to pay for contractors, or promising to support minorities and instead oppressing them: it’s endemic.

I get produce every other week or so from a group that rescues produce which is slated to be thrown away. Sometimes what they put out is moldy, slimy, and otherwise inedible. Sometimes it is perfectly glorious, crisp and fresh. They take the minimal cost for each box of produce and give it to various causes — which is good. Their inconsistency is not good.

Is there any wonder we have so much cynicism toward charities, leaders, and even each other? It seems that we live in a time when our word is taken lightly and the people brokering transactional promises are beneath the quality of our neighbors. I’m not accusing any of these being bottom of the barrel, but simply not as good as what we know we deserve. Again, I make no specific assertions of a leader being the worst ever, I am just stating that we deserve better.

Whether it’s cancer foundations cutting funds for companies that screen for their particular type of cancer, hate groups disguised as social movements, or companies looking to exploit both their workers and tax code, we have been made aware of long-standing traditions of deceitful promises.

Are we at an impasse? Are we, as decent humans, as those who want to help each other up and bolster our communities, silly for expecting our representatives to be better than us? I don’t want to be the smartest person in a room. I don’t want to be the most successful person in a group. I don’t want to be the best fencer on the strip.

I want to learn. I want to be better. I want to have someone to look up to.

This is why business coaches have business coaches. Vocal teachers have vocal teachers. Peer groups support and nurture each other with each member’s individual strengths.

That was the point of the kohanim. They were a group of priests who were there not only to broker our vows. They built up our religion through service. Service of ideas debated. Service of promises kept. Service of oaths and vows respected. They were to be looked up to, though we are not to be subservient to them.

What do I want to learn from this parashah? It’s not the minutiae of what we can eat, what we can offer, or who can take what. That’s a different lesson for a different day. Today, I want to learn that we not only can, but should, expect to see what we wish to be in those who represent us.

We were made in G-d’s image. Each of us is a tiny reflective iota of her being. Just as we put our best face forward in daily life to try and inspire ourselves to live up to our own desires, should we not do the same with those we delegate power to? Should we not demand our leaders be the icons we wish to, ourselves, be?

My prayer this Shabbat is that we find the wherewithal as a people to support our own potential by not shortcutting our vows to ourselves, our community, and our planet. My prayer is to bring people into our fold who not only inspire us, they kindle growth. There is an idiom: be the change you want to see in this world. Why don’t we not only embody that change, but demand it from the people we give the honor of representing us? Shabbat shalom.