This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, May 1.

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There’s something disorienting about coming home and realizing you’re not quite the same person who left. The streets are familiar, the rhythms unchanged, and yet, something in you has shifted. Last week, I welcomed Shabbat in the Douro Valley, the oldest demarcated wine region in the world, after having visited the Crypto Jews of Belmonte. I returned from Portugal carrying images I can’t shake: magnificent cathedrals preserved in full glory in contrast to a quiet doorway in Évora with nothing but the faint imprint of a mezuzah. No plaque. No grand recognition. Just a trace. A whisper: Jews were here.

Parshat Emor moves between sacred rhythms and sacred responsibility. We read about the laws governing the kohanim, the priestly class tasked with maintaining holiness in the public sphere. We are given the calendar of our festivals, Pesach, Shavuot, Sukkot, marking sacred time in a world that often forgets it. And threaded throughout is a powerful charge: v’lo techalelu et shem kodshi, v’nikdashti b’toch Bnei Yisrael. “Do not profane My holy name, and I will be sanctified among the people of Israel.”

We often understand this as a call to act in ways that reflect well on Judaism, to live ethically, visibly, proudly. But after what I’ve seen, I hear something deeper. Because sanctifying God’s name is not only about what we do when it’s easy or celebrated. It’s about what we carry when it’s hidden, when it’s threatened, or when it could disappear.

In Belmonte, Jews lived as crypto-Jews for over 500 years. They held onto fragments of ritual and identity, often at great risk. The only Hebrew word that endured in their prayers was “Adonai.” Everything else adapted, softened into Portuguese, reshaped for survival. And still, they held on. Before entering the church for their “baptism” they’d recite: “My body enters, but my soul remains sacred for Adonai.” A vow they could recognize and annul if needed on Yom Kippur in their own way. Rabbi Joshua Stampfer described that community as proof that Am Yisrael chai, not as a slogan, but as a fragile, defiant truth.

And now I stand back here in Portland, where we are blessed with freedom, visibility, and community—and I feel both gratitude and responsibility pressing in. Because the truth is, Jewish history does not always leave behind monuments. Sometimes all that remains is an imprint on a doorway. A memory carried quietly across generations.

V’nikdashti b’toch Bnei Yisrael. Holiness doesn’t depend on grandeur. It depends on continuity. So what does that ask of us, here, now?

It asks us not to take for granted what others risked everything to preserve. It’s coming together to pray on Shabbat, or to learn at Aliyah or with our scholar in residence next weekend, or to sit and eat in the Neveh sukkah this fall. Recognize that every time we gather, every time we teach our children, every time we mark time as Jews, we are doing something profoundly consequential.

It asks us to be visible—not recklessly, but intentionally. To place mezuzot on our doorposts not just as symbols, but as statements: we are here, and we’re not going anywhere.

And it asks us to live in a way that honors both the fragility and the strength of our story. To carry forward not just survival, but meaning. Not just identity, but purpose.

As we enter Shabbat together again, the charge is both simple and weighty: don’t let it fade. Be the imprint that endures. Live so that generations from now, whether through grand institutions or the faintest trace, someone will be able to say not only that Jews were here, but that we lived, we gathered, we believed—and we carried it forward.

Every year between Passover and Shavuot, we count the days. While this act is based on a Torah commandment, it can often take on an additional meaning. There are years when that count leads directly to the last day of school, and other years when it might lead to a birthday of a loved one. In 2010, the year I was ordained, the count led directly to my rabbinic ordination, with the ceremony taking place the day before Shavuot. 

Parshat Emor covers a wide range of topics, but a large section focuses on the festivals of the Jewish year — Shabbat, Pesach, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot. It is here that the Torah lays out not only when we celebrate these holidays, but also why: to sanctify time, to remember our story, and to reconnect to God and one another. Among these mitzvot, we find the commandment of Sefirat HaOmer, the counting of the Omer — a mitzvah we’re engaged in right now, between Pesach and Shavuot.

Each night during this seven-week period, we say the blessing:

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al sefirat ha’omer.

“Blessed are you, God, sovereign of the world, who has sanctified us with your mitzvot and commanded us regarding the counting of the Omer.”

This blessing teaches us something profound: the act of counting — something so simple, so ordinary — becomes holy when we do it with intention and blessing. It’s not about reaching day 49 as fast as we can. It’s about noticing each day as it comes, pausing, reflecting, and marking time with purpose. Through this small nightly ritual, we remember that holiness doesn’t always require grand gestures — sometimes it’s found in small, mindful acts repeated with care.

This week’s parshah, Emor, invites us to reflect on the power of sacred time and sacred action. When days blur together and we often rush from task to task, Emor reminds us that time is not just something we pass through — it’s something we can elevate.

Emor challenges us to look at the mitzvot in our lives — not only the big holidays or life-cycle moments, but the everyday acts of kindness, justice, and mindfulness. Can we bless these ordinary acts with intention? Can we find the sacred in a conversation with a friend, a meal with family, or even just a deep breath before the next busy day begins?

Sculpting with clay is expressive, cathartic, and just plain fun. Can I create anything artistic? Not really. Every ashtray (remember those?) or mug I tried to make at camp as a child came out a little wobbly and definitely would not have been safe for practical use. And yet, my parents still proudly displayed them in their respective offices as decorative tokens of my affection for them. This tradition continues in various ways with our children. Our seder table at Passover time is always filled with little knickknacks and school projects that the kids have made for us over the years that help enhance the Pesach story. The misspellings and wonky placement of eyes on a frog are the most perfectly imperfect treasures I own. 

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.

As we read these strict and precise regulations regarding animals for sacred sacrifice, we come to the section on the freewill offering. In essence, this is an offering made as a gift, and as such has no strictures on whether or not the animal has blemishes or imperfections. When there’s so much detail and precision included about laws for sacrifices, why does the Torah go to such great lengths to add in an offering of this kind without the usual requirements?

Perhaps it’s because when something comes from the heart, the meaning is one of love and connection, not necessarily about following certain rules. In other words, Parshat Emor teaches us the distinction between the offerings we make that must fit a need and those that fulfill a more abstract purpose.

These days, we don’t use sacrifice as part of our rituals, but the message still applies. You wouldn’t donate expired food to a food bank, but you might donate an incomplete set of dishes to a thrift store. Or you might create a piece of artwork to cheer up a friend who’s under the weather, even if your creations won’t ever appear in a gallery. As humans, we’re imperfect, so the work of our hands can be perfectly imperfect too.

A few months ago, as my ever-curious 9-year-old was chatting with me about Shabbat and what she was learning in school, she asked me the question I dread. “Mommy, if we keep Shabbat, why do YOU work on Shabbat?” This was after a particularly busy Shabbat with back-to-back services and programming, and it felt like I was gone the entirety of Shabbat. In our house, we’ve got some clear Shabbat boundaries. We don’t do art on Shabbat, and we don’t spend money or go shopping on Shabbat. We do spend time together whenever possible. However, Shiri learned in school that we don’t work on Shabbat. So, how do we reconcile the work that I do?

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 fellow humans and even animals. The majority of these rituals are meant to be done in public, with the entire community a part of them.

As the laws of holidays and Shabbat are introduced, the Torah uses the word melachah. This word is translated loosely as “work,” but a more precise definition would be “creative endeavors.” The notion is that God stopped creating to celebrate Shabbat, and so should we. That means that Shabbat is about the work of our souls, not the work of our hands.

The question remains: How do you explain this to a 9-year-old? The best answer is the honest one, which is yes, my job includes Shabbat, but I do all my preparation before Shabbat so that I too can be fully present in services and with our community. Being fully present requires preparation. There’s a reason we don’t mourn publicly on Shabbat or create new “things.” It’s because this allows us to live in the moment and actually experience our Judaism. We turn off the alerts on our phones and prepare our food in advance so we won’t stress about our weekday jobs or worry about our next meal. We need the comfort of having as much planned for as we can so we’re not checking off a list, not to mention the fact that checking things off a list would involve writing. 

Do I work on Shabbat? It depends on what you call work. Technically, my fellow clergy and I are all required to be present on Shabbat. However, I don’t consider it work to guide a congregation in spirit and prayer. That is a joy, that is a gift, and that is why I’m a rabbi. 

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?