Vayikra: Drawing Near

We’ve long spoken about the bond between a mother and child. But just the other day, I learned that scientists studying breast milk were surprised to find that the composition of the milk changes throughout the day. The mother’s body responds to what the child needs — adjusting in ways that support growth, health, even sleep.

We can describe the biology. But that doesn’t make it less remarkable. If anything, it makes it more so. Because what we are really witnessing is a kind of communication — deeply attuned, operating at a level deeper than conscious thought.

Here, science is beginning to support something human beings have long known and trusted: that this kind of connection can be powerful, and deeply responsive, even when we do not fully understand how it works.

And this goes further than the bonding between a mother and child. Haven’t we all had the experience of feeling tied to someone even when they weren’t physically present? A child, a partner, someone you love — you can feel them. You can sense them. Something about that relationship is tangible, even if you can’t quite explain it.

Experiences like that tap into something we rarely stop to think about: Closeness doesn’t always require proximity…or words…or explanation. Sometimes it is simply something we feel — something we trust as real, without questioning.

Even modern physics, in what is often called entanglement, suggests that relationship itself may transcend distance in ways we once assumed.

Think about the ocean. Every drop of water can appear separately, and yet it is all part of one body. Or the air we breathe — invisible, shared, moving between us constantly.

And if that is true of the world around us, we might ask: are we ever as separate as we think we are?

For some people, moments like these open up a deeper awareness — a sense of being bound not only to one another, but to something greater than ourselves.

And that is exactly the language the Torah uses.

This week we begin the book of Leviticus — Vayikra — a book many people find difficult. It is filled with detailed descriptions of sacrifices and rituals that can feel distant, even uncomfortable.

But at the center of it all is one word. The Hebrew word we translate as “sacrifice” is korban. And korban doesn’t actually mean sacrifice. It comes from the root karov — to come close, to draw near.

So the purpose of these rituals was not simply to give something to God, but to create a moment of nearness — a way of entering into relationship, of strengthening a bond.

But how do you draw near to something you cannot see?

The Torah’s answer is not philosophical. It is experiential. It engages all of the senses: seeing fire and rising smoke, smelling incense, hearing bleating animals, tasting a shared meal, and physically placing hands on the offering.

The Torah makes clear that God does not need these things. As we read in Psalms: “If I were hungry, I would not tell you.” So if not for God — then for whom?

The rabbis answer: for us.

These rituals were meant to awaken awareness — to make a person present, to help them feel, in a deep and embodied way, the bond between themselves, their lives, and something beyond them.

In a world where people raised their own animals, where life and death were not hidden, bringing an offering was a visceral experience. Nothing was abstract. It was a moment that demanded attention — emotional, physical, spiritual.

And maybe that is the point. Because we live in a very different world. Most of us don’t see where our food comes from, and we rarely pause to consider the life that was taken in order for us to eat. So much is packaged, processed, and distant.

And as a result, it becomes easier to move through life without noticing — without pausing, acknowledging, or feeling any sense of connection at all. We are too often oblivious to the bonds that are already there.

And yet, while we may not offer sacrifices anymore, in our own way, we still seek moments of nearness — moments that deepen our sense of connection. Our way is through prayer, study, rituals and acts of kindness. Moments when something shifts — even slightly — and we feel more aware, more present. Moments when the invisible bonds we live within become just a little more visible to us.

And perhaps those moments are not creating something new but revealing something that has been there all along.

The human need to draw near — for meaning, for presence — remains. The question is not whether that nearness exists. The question is whether we allow ourselves to notice it.