Which smells are the ones that evoke specific memories for you? Perhaps it’s the waft of chicken soup that brings you back to your grandmother’s kitchen, or a trace of the cologne that reminds you of an old boyfriend. It’s amazing how strong the sense of smell is connected to memory. 

Parshat Ki Tissa introduces us to the ketoret, the sacred incense offering, which played a central role in the Mishkan. This fragrant blend of certain spices was burned daily, filling the space with a holy and unique aroma. More than just a pleasing scent, the ketoret symbolized connection, transformation, and spiritual elevation.

Scent is one of the most powerful triggers of memory and emotion, and just as a familiar fragrance can instantly transport us back in time, bringing comfort, joy, or even inspiration, the burning of the ketoret reminds us that holiness is not just about ritual action but about engaging all our senses in sacred service.

This idea has a direct parallel in modern Jewish practice: the blessing that ends “borei minei besamim” (“who creates various kinds of spices”). We say this blessing during Havdalah when we transition from Shabbat into the week ahead. The spices serve as a sensory reminder of the sweetness of Shabbat, lingering with us as we re-enter the mundane world. Just as the ketoret sanctified the Mishkan, the fragrance of Havdalah spices sanctifies our memories, helping us carry holiness into our daily lives.

But why the emphasis on this tie-in to smell in the first place? Why does it play a role in both the Mishkan and our weekly ritual practice? Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 18:8) teaches that while other senses—sight, hearing, touch, and taste—were affected by human sin, smell remained spiritually pure. When Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge, they saw, touched, and tasted the forbidden fruit, but smell was not involved. This may explain why the ketoret, and by extension the Havdalah spices, have a unique spiritual power—they remind us of a state of purity and closeness to God that transcends human imperfection.

As we read Ki Tissa and reflect on the power of the ketoret, we’re reminded that holiness isn’t just something we encounter in grand moments—it can linger with us, just like a sweet scent. May we each find ways to carry the fragrance of sanctity into the week ahead, allowing the echoes of Shabbat, Torah, and divine connection to guide us forward.

In a world with surveillance video, body cams, and 4K-capable mobile phones, it has become commonplace for news stories to be accompanied by video footage of every type of event, aired for the entire public to see. Before we had cameras everywhere, the only way to truly know what happened in a specific incident was through eyewitness accounts. We had to rely on people telling the story. That often left room for conjecture, embellishment, hiding facts, and other roadblocks in the way of the “whole truth.” The only way to have a complete story is to be fully (or at least virtually) present when something happens, and now that we have Ring doorbells and security cameras, it’s impossible to go back to a time of having to remember or guess what may have happened. 

Despite the creative imaginations that have conjured up artistically rendered selfies of biblical characters (you may have seen these passed around social media), we don’t have the benefit of video footage of anything that occurred in the Torah. As we read the narrative of the Israelite nation, there are many times when we read about events that seem to only be possible outside the scope of rationality. If certain events in the Torah seem improbable, maybe that calls into question the entire document. Faith usually means believing without seeing. However, our Torah portion this week includes a commandment from God about the obligation to see things for ourselves. 

Parshat Ki Tissa greets us in the desert, where the Israelites have received the Ten Commandments, and they are now set to continue on their journey, with Moshe and God leading the way. But Moshe is delayed in coming down from the mountain, and the people are scared, unsure of this God that they have yet to trust. So they gather their gold, make an idol, and turn their attention to something tangible.

While he’s on top of the mountain in his session with the Divine, Moshe hears from God about the Golden Calf and how the Israelites have already broken the laws they only recently received. Even though furious at their actions, God implores Moshe not to condemn them from afar, but to hurry down the mountain to see for himself. 

Why doesn’t Moshe reflect God’s anger until he returns to the people? It’s because here we receive the legal and communal precedent to actually see for ourselves the entirety of the situation before rushing to condemnation. It’s human (and even Godly) nature to form an opinion based on the biases that we carry, but it is our duty to recognize those biases and fight against them rather than act without all the information.

I have a few favorite teachings from the Torah, one of which is in the Torah portion this week, when we hear about the census of the Israelites. This week’s portion is Ki Tissa, and a word used in the beginning of the text is v’natnu, which means “and they gave.” In Hebrew, this word is a palindrome, and this fact is often used to explain that giving is cyclical; sometimes we give, sometimes we receive. The circle works because we’re equally committed to opening ourselves to both experiences. 

Here’s where we are in the story: the Israelites are in the desert, they have received the 10 Commandments, and they’re set to continue on their journey, with Moshe and God leading the way. But Moshe is delayed in coming down from the mountaintop. This makes the Israelites scared and unsure of this God that they have yet to trust, so they gather their gold, make an idol, and turn their attention to something tangible.

Their journey is about more than just covering ground; it’s an emotional journey as well. On this journey they’re learning to accept help and to live in the unknown, neither of which is an easy task. They’ve put their trust in Moshe, the one who led them out and has kept them relatively safe. So, when Moshe doesn’t come back as quickly as they expected, that trust turns into fear, and the Israelites respond by doing one of the last things Moshe asked of them, by giving gold. Just a few chapters before, the Israelites were generous in giving gold and other materials so they could build the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, and start working on priestly garments. Now, they apparently turn to what they know, but this time for the wrong reasons. 

The Jerusalem Talmud in Shekalim 1:1 posits that this makes the Israelites a peculiar people. How could they honor the God they believe in, who just a few chapters before told them no idols, and then flip and donate with the same honor to an idol, the exact object that was forbidden? When I read this section it makes me wonder if perhaps the Israelites were just looking for any type of connection, no matter the cost. Giving can feel good, and creating can feel validating, but doing so without a purpose is as fruitless as idol worship. 

Our narrative reminds us that giving and receiving both have many benefits. However, we also learn that we must be discerning about how we use our precious resources so that they go towards good, towards building holiness rather than breaking it down. When we have in mind the results we’d like to achieve, that’s when the giving is truly beneficial.  

I’ve been a rabbi for well over a decade, but I still get nervous before I lead almost any service or lifecycle event. Yes, even after all these years. On the one hand, it helps me stay present, it keeps me focused, and it keeps me fresh and on top of my game. To help offset the nerves, I have what I call my “pregame ritual.” Before I lead, I get a hug from my kiddos and do a run-through with Duncan. That touchpoint of confidence and support can clear my head and give me the little love boost I need. 

Everyone has their own rituals to manage nerves, from athletes on the field to office employees preparing a presentation. However, these little moments are helpful anytime, not only before a “performance.” A quick touchpoint of love and connection can turn around even the worst day.

This human need to be embraced in the spirit of belief is exhibited even by Moses, the leader of the Israelite nation. This week we read Parshat Ki Tissa from the story of the Exodus. The Israelites are in the desert, they have received the 10 Commandments, and they are now set to continue on their journey, with Moshe and God leading the way. Moshe is on top of the mountain, and he’s delayed in coming down. The Israelites are worried, scared, and unsure of this God that they have yet to trust, so they gather their gold, make an idol, and turn their attention to something tangible.

How will Moshe return to his people after this rebellion has angered both himself and God? How will he continue to lead with this mistrust hanging over them? Moshe needs some kind of reassurance, not only that he can lead, but that God will be with him. God understands this need and instructs Moses to return to the mountaintop for a private meeting. In this meeting, Moshe and God, in a sense, create art together. They rewrite the tablets in a moment of intimacy, connection, promise, and reset. 

Who serves this role in your life? Is it a partner or other family member? Is it the neighbor or friend you can call anytime? As humans, we’re at our absolute best when we hold each other up and create together. Parshat Ki Tissa is an extra reminder, especially while we’re still trying to navigate life in a pandemic, that even the simplest of connections can make the biggest difference.

When I was younger and went to summer camp, we used to play this game where we’d each begin writing a story on our own. We’d only write a few lines, and the counselors would have us switch papers. Our job was to read the last line written by the person before us and continue the story with only that previous line of knowledge. I’ll just say it: I hated this game. I always had a vision for my story. I knew where I wanted it to go, I knew how I anticipated moving the plot along, and no one who continued my story ever seemed to share that vision. 

Of course the goal of the game wasn’t to create the perfect story. When the stories were completed, we usually ended up with silly, nonsensical (sometimes incomprehensible) plots. But the activity leader usually shared a lesson at the end, reminding us that when we write full stories on our own, they’re only from our perspective. Doing it this way as a group may not make much narrative sense, but it’s definitely a way to see things from someone else’s point of view. In a way, it’s a model of society. Your personal story overlaps with people you come in contact with, meaning we’re constantly adding plot points and continuing each other’s story. 

The Torah, which we read as our core story, has a bit of this element to it. While, for traditional purposes, the Torah is taken to be the word of God, I hold the belief that it is divinely inspired and humanly interpreted. God inspired it, “spoke” it to Moses, and Moses transcribed it to share with the rest of us. In our Torah portion a few weeks back, when the Israelites received the 10 Commandments, they heard God’s voice and couldn’t bear the intensity, so they needed Moses to be a go-between with them and with God. This partnership continues to hold true in Parshat Ki Tissa this week.

In this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tissa, we receive that next set of rules to help create this successful society. There are rules for giving, rules for receiving, and rules for counting and being counted. The text ends with the incident of the Golden Calf and the Israelites navigating what it means to transfer leadership and have faith.

The text is full of so many fascinating events. In particular, one climactic moment in this text is when Moses gets so angry at the Israelite nation that he smashes the original tablets. While this is often a memorable moment of the portion, there’s one aspect that may not be as familiar. Those original tablets, the ones Moses smashes, were given to Moses from God completed. In other words, they were carved and inscribed by God, then handed down to Moses and the people. It wasn’t a collaborative effort; it was decisively individual, if you can call God individual.

However, after Moses smashes the tablets, God asks him to create a new set. And for this new set, Moses carves the structure of the tablets first, and then God inscribes them with the mitzvot. It becomes a joint law making effort between humankind and the divine. This time the tablets, the material used to carry the message, are made by an imperfect human being, rather than a perfect deity. In this way, the rules written on them also become more human, more tangible, and more collaborative.

It’s hard to let go of your own story, your own vision. Even so, the Torah teaches us that when we work in partnership, our efforts are stronger and last longer. When we work together, we strengthen one another, and the product of our community is so much richer for it.