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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.

 

Terumah — Reflections of Light

Years ago, I remember standing at a wedding reception watching a disco ball turning slowly above the dance floor. Nothing extraordinary about it — just a silver sphere hanging from the ceiling. But when the light hit it, the entire room changed. Tiny points of light scattered everywhere — across walls, faces, tables, even the ceiling. The room itself seemed to come alive.

And what struck me was this: the disco ball doesn’t create light. It reflects it. Hundreds — maybe thousands — of tiny mirrors, each angled slightly differently, each catching the same beam of light and sending it somewhere new. And if even one section is broken, you might not notice immediately — but something is missing. The light becomes thinner. The whole effect weakens. The beauty depends on every small reflection doing its part.

Watching it, I found myself wondering whether something similar might be true about people — whether what gives a community its brightness is not any single source of light, but the countless ways individuals reflect something larger than themselves.

The Torah teaches that we are all made b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. We often imagine that to mean we must resemble something grand or perfect. But maybe it means something simpler. Maybe each of us is one of those mirrors. We do not generate divine light. We reflect it — through our talents, through our character, and through the particular abilities and sensitivities  that we spend a lifetime learning how to use in service of others.

Some people reflect light through kindness. Some through wisdom. Some through humor. Some through building, organizing, teaching, listening, encouraging. Each reflection is small. But together, they illuminate a world.

In this week’s Torah portion, Terumah, the drama of the Exodus and the giving of the law at Sinai are over. The people are settling into their new life. And suddenly they are given instructions for construction: wood beams, fabrics, clasps, measurements, donations. God says, “Make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.” Not among prophets. Not among the extraordinary. Among them — all of them.

The Mishkan, the portable sanctuary, will not be built by Moses alone. In fact, Moses barely builds anything himself. The sanctuary comes into being because everyone contributes what they can.

And perhaps this is what the Torah is showing us through the building of the Mishkan. Former slaves become artisans. Some bring gold. Some weave cloth. Some carve wood. Some simply give what their heart moves them to give. Holiness, the Torah suggests, is not created by greatness. It is created by participation.

And so, like a disco ball, the Mishkan only shines when many reflections work together. And this may be why the Torah emphasizes voluntary giving — gifts offered by those “whose hearts move them.” Because you cannot force reflection. A mirror shines only when it turns willingly toward the light.

There is a Hasidic story about Rabbi Zusya of Anipoli. As Rabbi Zusya lay dying, he began to cry. His students tried to comfort him, saying, “Surely heaven will not ask why you were not like Moses.” But Rabbi Zusya said, “They will not ask me why I was not Moses. They will ask me why I was not Zusya.” In other words, the question of a life is not whether we shone more brightly than someone else. The question is whether we reflected the light that was ours to reflect.

And here is where Terumah becomes deeply personal. A community is strong not because everyone is the same, but because everyone is present. If one mirror withdraws — if one person believes their contribution no longer matters — the light diminishes. Not dramatically. Quietly. A reflection disappears that no one else can replace.

And perhaps this teaching asks us to widen our understanding of who belongs within the circle of light. Many of the people who help sustain our communities — who care for children, heal the sick, build homes, prepare food, and strengthen neighborhoods — arrived here as strangers. Jewish memory knows that story well. When people who come seeking safety or opportunity are able to share their gifts, the whole community shines more brightly. When fear or exclusion dims those reflections, something sacred is diminished for all of us.

Which means holiness depends not on perfection, but on showing up with what we have.

Maybe that is Terumah’s deepest teaching. We are not asked to become Moses. We are asked to polish the mirror we were given — slowly, imperfectly, over a lifetime — and to turn it outward. And when enough reflections meet, a sanctuary appears. And God dwells among us, like light scattered gently across a room, each reflection helping the others shine.