Have you ever been in the middle of a “pay it forward” chain reaction? This occasionally happens in line at the local coffee drive-through, when the car ahead of you pays for your coffee, and then you pay for the car behind you. On Sunday mornings, when there’s no ALIYAH and I have no meetings, our family occasionally goes to our local coffee kiosk to grab coffee for the adults and hot cocoa for the kids. When the weather’s nice, we even walk. These mornings have been made extra special a few times when the car in front of us has paid for our order. The kids get super excited when this happens, and of course we then pay for the car behind us, and the chain of kindness usually continues on. There’s something contagious about a simple act that inspires others to help other people. 

When did you last experience a chain of kindness like this? It’s not limited to coffee shops. Whether it’s people taking turns holding the door open for the next person to walk through, or a Hebrew school class adding tzedakah to a class fund to donate, there are plenty of examples of chains of kindness. It might surprise you to learn that this action of inspiring kindness in others actually comes from this week’s Torah portion. 

This week we read Parshat Emor, and we once again find ourselves deep into the commandments surrounding Jewish practice. Parshat Emor focuses on the rules and regulations for the priests, along with the obligations of the Israelites. It covers the observance of certain holidays, including mentions about the holiness of Shabbat, other holidays we are to celebrate throughout the year, and the ways in which we are to treat one another and even animals. The majority of these rituals are meant to be done in public, with the entire community a part of them.

In the midst of these commandments, God offers a gentle reminder that our actions are often noticed by those around us. At the end of chapter 22, we’re warned against profaning God’s name in the “midst of the Israelite people.” Why this extra warning about how we behave in public?

Multiple commentaries reflect that public shaming, public abuse of power, or even public misrepresentation of tradition can be fairly damning and misunderstood by the masses. Nowhere does the Torah forbid us from being upset with, disagreeing with, or even arguing with God. Instead, we’re cautioned against doing so in public because of the repercussions to the individual, as well as the people they might be representing. This, we understand, could lead to the opposite kind of chain reaction: one of harmful rhetoric or misjudgments.

“A Jew is asked to take a leap of action rather than a leap of faith.” Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s words remind us that it’s our actions that make a difference and can influence others more than our faith. For better or worse, how we act is the clearest representation of ourselves, and who knows how far your chain of kindness will go?

Life is about experiences, and some stick with us so vividly that certain smells, tastes, and even sounds can take us right back there. In fact, the sense of smell is known to have a big connection to memory. Sometimes I get a whiff of something like my father’s cologne at times, and it’s as if he’s visiting me somehow. And smells like chicken soup and chocolate chip cookies will thrust me right back into my mother’s kitchen preparing for Passover. In those moments it’s like I’m literally feeling the memory of warmth, an embrace, and family togetherness.

On the flip side, there are times when I am desperate to relive a memory and can’t find a way to evoke that tight connection. Those are the moments that make sad, and feel as if that familiarity is gone forever. 

Many of the experiences described in the Torah are also the kind that evoke memory long after the moment has passed. The sacrifices we learn of produced an array of aromas, and the sound of all of Israel gathering at the mountain and then hushing must have provided quite a contrast. Parshat Emor reminds us of all of this and more. We begin with the specific rules and regulations of the priests, as well as the laws about what we’re supposed to put into our bodies. The text continues with an in-depth look at the laws of our holidays and special times and concludes with the punishments that would be brought to those who break the mitzvot of trust in relationships. With the laws about the priesthood comes one of the defining mitzvot of Jewish community. 

In chapter 23, verse 24 we receive the laws of Rosh Hashanah. The holiday that now begins our year was actually the first day of the seventh month. The Torah describes the festival as a day of complete rest, a sacred occasion commemorated with loud blasts. You shall not work at your occupation (clergy excepted of course) and you shall bring a gift to God. Sounds pretty much like how we celebrate Rosh Hashanah today. We stop what we’re doing (which feels a bit like resting on Shabbat) and we blast the shofar, nice and loud.

However, this verse is also how we learn that we can’t blow the shofar on Shabbat. Why? Because Shabbat is a mikrah kodesh, a holy commemoration of its own, so there is no need for the additional sound. According to the Talmud, on this occasion we’re supposed to remember the sound of the shofar in our hearts, and since that sound is so vividly ingrained, we don’t need both.

The shofar pierces our ears and often our hearts with its loud and startling blasts, but memory is so strong, even the mitzvah of hearing those loud blasts can be fulfilled by recall if it happens to be Shabbat. 

What an important message this is about how we celebrate Jewishly, especially during a pandemic, when we might not be able to celebrate in the same ways as usual. Our memories are strong enough that we can recall the sound of the shofar, the sight of the Purim costumes, or the smell of kiddush lunch at shul, and it’s like we’re there.

If I close my eyes, I can still bring myself back to the parking lot of the local Caribou Coffee on a Friday night. It was filled with Jewish teens from all different youth groups meeting up to end their week together and make weekend plans. This wasn’t a formal program, just the universal gathering place. We’d all meet there around 8 p.m. to hang out (and sometimes flirt), make plans and enjoy the scene as it were. I remember begging my parents to let me go out on a particular Friday night, and the only place they’d relent to was this parking lot because it was in fact a Jewish experience.

I know what you’re thinking. How is hanging out in the parking lot of a coffee shop on Shabbat a Jewish experience? First, rest assured spending money was not an issue. I was there so often the servers knew me and let me prepay for drinks (interpret loopholes how you will). Second, I was surrounded by an entire community of young Jews gathering to celebrate the end of a week, relax together, and build relationships. That, to me, is the definition of a Shabbat experience. It was our natural ritual to gather, and it mirrors the ritual the Torah presents us with this week.

As we read Parshat Emor, we once again find ourselves deep into the commandments surrounding Jewish practice. Parshat Emor focuses on the rules and regulations for the priests, along with the obligations of the Israelites. It covers the observance of certain holidays, including mentions about the holiness of Shabbat, other holidays we are to celebrate throughout the year, and the ways in which we are to treat one another and even animals. The majority of these rituals are meant to be done in public, with the entire community a part of them.

Chapter 23 begins the discussion of a calendar of sacred time. We receive the laws for Shabbat, and then Passover, Shavuot, Sukkot, Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. It’s at these times of the year when everyone would gather together in the same place to check in spiritually. With each set of laws we are reminded that we are to take the pilgrimage to the central shrine and connect in community with God and with one another.

Our modern-day synagogues have replaced the ancient Temple in Jerusalem as gathering places. And in a way, I would argue the Caribou Coffee of my youth played a similar role. These moments of connection served to bring people back together after a hectic week (or month or year), and the Torah suggests that in doing so, we create a deeper, richer, more balanced Jewish life for ourselves.

There is a famous classroom activity/demonstration that is used to teach decision making and prioritization of goals and resources. The teacher shows the class a glass jar full of ping-pong balls and asks the class if the jar is full. Most students answer that it is. The teacher then pours beads into the jar, which fill in the gaps around the ping-pong balls. Now is the jar full? The class acknowledges it is. The teacher adds sand, filling in all the visible empty space between the beads. Now is the jar full? Some students might still agree, and others are starting to catch on. Finally, the teacher adds water, which soaks into the sand.

Here’s the usual breakdown that comes with the visual. Ping-pong balls represent the big, important aspects of life like family and friends. The beads are the smaller necessities like education and career. The sand reminds us that we still have room for other personal endeavors and hobbies, and the water reminds us that even when we feel full, there’s room for new experiences we might not anticipate.

This exercise is made even more illuminating when you realize that if you did it in reverse, the little things would take up so much space that there would be no room for the important things like family and friends. The second message is to be aware of your priorities and how much space they take up in your life.

This is a wonderful little demonstration, and you could even argue that it has its roots in this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Emor. In this section of text, we are reminded about the laws for purification of the priests, the holidays we are to celebrate throughout the year, and the ways in which we are to treat each other and animals. The majority of these rituals are meant to be done in public, with the entire community a part of them. The time and manner in which each ritual is performed is delineated by the Torah.

The laws of the holidays and sacred element of time pose an important question in chapter 23, verse 7. “On the first day you shall celebrate a sacred occasion: you shall not work at your occupations.” Our holidays present us with a unique challenge in today’s world: How do we prioritize our time? Do we take a few hours to celebrate the holiday and then move back into our “regularly scheduled programming” or do we jump in and immerse ourselves in the sacred time prescribed to us? Or, as you might guess, perhaps there might be a happy medium.

There are a lot of holidays in Jewish tradition, which means a lot of time off from our secular world occupations (unless you’re clergy of course, when the holidays are your job). It is completely understandable that for some people, taking every holiday off just isn’t feasible. However, the Torah this week reminds us of our sacred obligation to those ping-pong ball sized values in our lives. What are the major ways in which you define yourself? How do you prioritize what’s important in your life? If you focus on your top values first, you’ll probably find there’s always room for more.

When I was growing up, my grandparents were not just congregants, but friends with our synagogue rabbis. One rabbi, Efry Spectre (z”l), was a particularly close friend. He was practically a part of our family. He was at birthday celebrations and major family simchas, and he was there for our family in times of need. He’d even come over for the Miss America broadcast every year and watch as I paraded around as a contestant. I didn’t know any better about what to expect of a rabbi, so this became my model for the rabbinate. We are family, we support one another, we celebrate together, and nothing makes me more excited than dancing the hora at a simcha with you.

But as much a part of your lives as your rabbi might be, of course there are boundaries to this relationship. Naturally, these boundaries are tested when a life in the public eye also means being intimately connected to others. This lesson is never more apparent than in the laws of this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Emor. Emor focuses on the rules and regulations for the priests, along with the obligations of the Israelites. It covers the observation of certain holidays, including mentions of the holiness of Shabbat, the holidays we celebrate throughout the year, and the ways in which we are to treat one another and animals. The majority of these rituals are meant to be done in public, with the entire community a part of them. To this day, we do not say the Barchu or Mourner’s Kaddish while praying alone because of the strength and power in experiencing these moments with a community.

One clear distinction that the Torah makes is when it comes to what the public figures, the kohanim (priests), can do with grief and loss. They’re put in the tough spot of having to reconcile their personal sorrow with their commitment to serving the people and modeling the acceptance of death as part of God’s plan. As we’re all unique individuals, priests included, grief hits us in a variety of ways, and to grieve in public is no easy task. For this reason, the Torah actually sets some limits.

Chapter 21, verse 1 teaches, “The Lord said to Moses: Speak to the priests, the sons of Aaron and say to them: None shall defile himself for any dead person among his kin, except for the relatives that are closest to him: mother, father, son, daughter, brother or sister.” Traditionally, a priest is unable to be in the presence of a dead body, unless it is a family member, because of this prohibition. This rule stems from the fact that because priestly status is inherited from your family of origin, the rules are waived. In other words, for these most personal and intimate moments, the Torah reminds us that clergy, our spiritual leaders, have an obligation to turn inward and close down to cope with those moments of grief.

As a rabbi, you quickly learn that while the role of steadfast spiritual navigator is important, the best leaders are also relatable because they too are vulnerable. For clergy, the line between public and private can sometimes appear blurred, but the Torah reminds us in Parshat Emor that for both clergy and their congregants, family comes first.