This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on March 21, 2026.

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Over a period of 30 years, UCLA professor Benjamin Karney studied 1,000 newlyweds. Specifically, he studied their arguments. He put them in a room together and asked them to discuss a topic they disagreed about. Does this sound like a nightmare scenario yet? Then he would hit record on a camera and walk out of the room. After 8 minutes of fighting, Dr. Karney would take the video back to his lab for him and his colleagues to analyze. What did they look for?

Is the couple compromising? 

Are they blaming?

Are they criticizing?

Are they withdrawn?

Are they engaged?

Are they affectionate?

And after analyzing, he would invite the couple back in six months, and they’d do it all over again. Here’s what they found. Healthy fighting didn’t guarantee a fairy tale relationship that stays intact forever, but it significantly ups the chance that you’re going to be happier together.

What’s healthy fighting? And a healthy fight is where you’re not fighting about who’s right; you’re thinking of each other as a team, and you’re both curious about what you need as individuals. A good fight isn’t about who’s right; it’s about making things better for both partners.

We probably know deep down that how we respond matters just as much as what happened in the first place. And that concept is true well beyond the bounds of a relationship between two people. If only there were a guidebook that might help us apply this idea in a broader sense.

Parshat Vayikra opens the book of Leviticus with a detailed description of the sacrificial system. It’s not exactly the stuff of dinner table conversation: offerings of bulls, sheep, birds, and grain. But beneath the surface, these קורבנות (korbanot) are not about appeasing God through ritual alone. The word korban comes from the root karov, meaning “to draw close.” These offerings are about repairing distance, between ourselves and God, between ourselves and others, even within ourselves. They give structure to accountability, a path back when something has gone wrong.

The opening verse reads, “וַיִּקְרָא אֶל־מֹשֶׁה / And God called to Moses…” (Leviticus 1:1). Rashi famously notes that this calling, Vayikra, is a language of affection, of closeness, used by angels. Before any instruction, before any correction, there is a call rooted in relationship.

And perhaps that’s the point. Even when we err, even when harm has been done, the Torah insists that the response begins not with punishment, but with a call toward reconnection and responsibility. It’s not about who’s right, it’s about making things better for all. Sound familiar?

But Vayikra doesn’t ignore wrongdoing; it names it clearly. There are offerings for unintentional sins, yes, but also an insistence that when harm occurs, it must be acknowledged. Protection of life and dignity is non-negotiable. We are not asked to be passive in the face of harm. Judaism has never required that of us.

And yet, the הדרך, the path, matters. Even when provoked, even when justified in our anger, the Torah calls us to respond מתוך קדושה, מתוך אחריות, with holiness and responsibility. To protect without becoming destructive ourselves. To hold firm boundaries without losing our moral center.

I say this all the time, but like so much of our Torah, this feels particularly relevant today. We know what it means to feel vulnerable, to need protection, to insist on safety. And at the same time, we must be equally clear: acts of violence, even when born of fear or ideology, that harm innocent people, are not our way. We can name wrongdoing, including the painful reality of violence perpetrated by Jews in places like the West Bank, and say with clarity: this is not who we are meant to be.

Vayikra reminds us that accountability is sacred work. That drawing close requires honesty, restraint, and a commitment to חיים, to life.

So what does this ask of us?

To be a people who protect, fiercely and unapologetically, the safety and dignity of Jewish life. And also to be a people who remember that כוח, power, is not a license to harm, but a responsibility to act with integrity.

This week, when you feel that moment of provocation, big or small, pause. Hear the quiet vayikra, the call to respond not just from instinct, but from your deepest values.

Because the truest offering we can bring today is not from the herd or the field, but from the heart: a choice to act with courage, with restraint, and with a commitment to peace, even when it’s hardest.

That is how we draw close.

In late February, I was honored to attend a “partners in faith” brunch with Neighborhood House as they kicked off their SW Hope campaign. At this brunch, we discussed the growing food insecurity in our community as well as the lack of resources to meet that need. In particular, I was struck by the lack of accessibility and the restrictions on resources. 

Parshat Vayikra opens the book of Leviticus with a detailed description of the korbanot, the offerings brought to the Mishkan. Among them is the Mincha offering, a simple yet meaningful sacrifice made of fine flour, oil, and frankincense. Unlike the animal sacrifices, the Mincha offering was often brought by those who couldn’t afford livestock. It represented a humble, heartfelt gift—an offering of basic sustenance given with devotion.

This theme of gratitude for food and sustenance is also the basis of Hamotzi:

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.

“Blessed are you, Adonai our God, ruler of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

The Mincha offering reminds us that even the most ordinary aspects of life—our daily bread, for example—can be acts of holiness. This lesson feels especially relevant today with global concerns around food security and rising costs of basic necessities.

In response to the alarming news about inflation affecting food prices, supply chain disruptions, and an increasing number of families struggling to afford groceries, communities worldwide have stepped up to support food banks, mutual aid programs, and meal initiatives. This includes the in-house food pantry we’ve set up here in our own congregation. These efforts reflect the spirit of the Mincha offering—transforming something as simple as flour and oil into an expression of care, dignity, and devotion.

Judaism teaches that gratitude must lead to action. When we say Hamotzi, we don’t just acknowledge the bread before us; we recognize that food is not guaranteed, and that we have a role in ensuring that others are nourished too. Just as the Mincha offering was shared in the Mishkan, we are called to share our sustenance with those in need.

This is the lesson of Vayikra and so much of the Torah: holiness is not reserved for grand gestures. It’s found in the simple, everyday acts of giving—whether it’s sharing a meal, supporting a local food pantry, or simply being mindful of the blessing of food.

This Shabbat, as we recite Hamotzi, let’s take a moment to reflect:

• How can we express gratitude not just in words, but in action?
• What can we do to support those facing food insecurity?
• How can we bring the spirit of the Mincha offering into our daily lives?

How often have you committed to yourself to doing something or making a change, only to lose your resolve a while later? Saying “I’m not going to check my phone after 7 p.m.” or “I’m going to get some physical activity in every day” doesn’t do much good unless there’s someone else around to hold you accountable. At the same time, if I ask someone to hold me accountable, but I’m not really committed to doing the work myself, that’s no good either. However, in both cases the person ultimately responsible is yourself. 

Is the question one of action and follow-through? Or is it one of honesty? If you’re not honest with yourself about what you can and cannot accomplish, the goals you set don’t stand a chance. This is one of the hardest parts of making any change. It’s not easy to admit when something isn’t working, especially when you’ve failed at something you promised yourself. 

This week we read Parshat Vayikra, which begins the third book of the Torah and details the many sacrifices and daily, active mitzvot of living as an Israelite. After an explanation of the frequency of the sacrifices, we learn that there can be a sacrifice made in times of joy and in times of sorrow. There is a special sacrifice for being guilty of a sin and others for complete thanksgiving. As Sefer Vayikra continues, we learn about the laws of how to treat one another, how to engage in holy relationships, and how our calendar and meals should reflect our innermost values and desires.

If you examine that list of the different sacrifices to be offered for different occasions, you’ll learn about the burnt offering and the requirement that for offerings of “broken oaths,” a confession is required. This is called hitvadah in Hebrew. This Hebrew verb is reflexive, implying that our responsibility is to confess to ourselves, to admit to our hearts our own wrongdoing. 

In this moment of Vayikra, of “calling out,” we are reminded both to listen to what others are asking of us and to listen to ourselves. When you break an oath you’ve made to another person, you apologize, plain and simple, and the other person decides whether or not to forgive. But what do you do when you break an oath to yourself? In those cases, the apology and the forgiveness are both up to you, and the first step to making progress of any kind is being honest with yourself.

I used to be very on top of things. I never missed a moment, a birthday, a call, an email. And then, as the needs of my children changed, and later as much of the world shifted to online communication, I suddenly wasn’t as on top of communication as I had been. I found myself constantly apologizing for missing reaching out to someone in need or missing those key moments I was previously present for. If you’re like me, you’re now discovering the challenge of reversing a long period of inactivity and disconnection. So how do we re-engage? 

This week we read Parshat Vayikra, and we begin the third book of the Torah, which details the many sacrifices and the daily, active mitzvot of living as an Israelite. This begins with an explanation of the sacrifices that we are to give daily, weekly, and yearly. We learn that there can be a sacrifice made in times of joy and in times of sorrow. There is a special sacrifice for being guilty of a sin and others for complete thanksgiving. As Sefer Vayikra continues, we learn about the laws of how to treat one another, how to engage in holy relationships, and how our earthly needs like keeping our calendar and eating meals should be rooted in our faith.

As we read the extensive list of sacrifices for wrongdoing, I’m drawn to the notion that we’re held responsible, by God, for those things we should have done, but didn’t. I love this moment of Torah. Why? Because it’s yet another reminder that Judaism compels us to act, whether that’s checking in on a friend or standing up to injustice. It reminds us that when we fail to act, we’re guilty of inaction. Have you heard the phrase “easier to ask forgiveness than permission”? It’s true in some circumstances, and it’s one way of looking at the Torah of Vayikra.

This is not to say we should act irrationally or without purpose. Rather, it means that we’re asked to listen to the needs of others and take a stand when required. To me, the idea that I’m held accountable for the times when I don’t act is something of a wake-up call. If you’re looking for an excuse to re-engage, answer the call with me.

The concept of self-care has pushed its way into every aspect of pandemic life. Are you prioritizing care for others over care for yourself? Are you setting aside enough “you” time? Are you respecting the needs of others for their own self-care? Self-care is now the pressure-filled obligation we were trying to avoid by giving ourselves more self-care in the first place.

What if we looked at the entire spectrum of care (care for ourselves, care for others, and everything in between) as general wellbeing? It’s not necessarily prescriptive, but more of a reminder that wellness, wholeness, and care are interrelated. And that concept is actually central to many of the laws of Torah that we receive.

This week we read Parshat Vayikra, and we begin the third book of the Torah, which details the many sacrifices and daily, active mitzvot of living as an Israelite. In the explanation of these sacrifices, we learn that there can be a sacrifice made in times of joy and in times of sorrow. There is a special sacrifice for being guilty of a sin, and there are others for complete thanksgiving. As Sefer Vayikra continues, we learn about the laws of how to treat one another, how to engage in holy relationships, and how our calendar and meals should reflect our innermost values and desires.

In the list of offerings that are made to God, we receive the requirement of an offering of wellbeing. This offering is specifically brought by someone who has something to celebrate. It’s called zevach shelamim in Hebrew, which loosely translates to a sacred gift of (fill in the blank). But why would it be “fill in the blank” instead of the actual gift? The root of the word shelamim is shalem: shin, lamed, mem. If that sounds familiar, it’s because that’s the same root for the Hebrew word shalom, which can mean hello, goodbye, or peace. That leaves the item open to interpretation. Is this supposed to be an offering of peace? Of greeting? What did God mean when this offering was mandated?

I believe this particular offering was left purposefully vague. Sometimes you might need personal wellbeing or peace; other times you might need to “greet” God (or yourself) again. This ambiguity allows us to check in with ourselves to see what we actually need and the flexibility to decide if it’s “me time” or people time. 

Parshat Vayikra and each of these sacrifices listed remind us that our life is built on a multitude of offerings, and those offerings are not only meant for what we give to others but also, and just as importantly, what we gift to ourselves. Another meaning of the root word shalem is “wholeness,” and feeling complete is about filling each of our physical and emotional buckets. Perhaps this is the offering or the sacred gift of finding our whole selves in the work of helping others and helping ourselves.