Parsha Behar-Bechukotai has two sections. The first, Behar, deals primarily with the rules and regulations pertaining to the land of Israel. We read of the sabbatical (Shmitta) years, in which the land was to lie fallow one out of every seven years, and relate this to observing Shabbat each week. We also read that there was a Jubilee year every fifty years, which offered the opportunity for anyone who sold himself or herself into servitude, to redeem himself or herself. Leviticus concludes with a graphic vision of the desolation of the land of Israel and the dispersal of the people if, after entering the land, they failed to fulfill the Covenant obligations of the Torah. The land belongs to G-d, and must be respected in order to reap its bounty—though we own nothing, we must steward the gifts bequeathed to us.

The second section, Bechukotai, deals with the ways that we are required to treat other Jews and other people: we are commanded not to wrong each other, especially in financial transactions. Failure to abide these commands would result in exile and oppression, and are couched as a warning, where they are described in terrifying terms of suffering.

I often consider how I’d define Judaism. I’ve come to believe that our religion can be defined in one word: Shabbat. G-d commanded that we observe Shabbat above all other ‘holidays,’ and to remember and sanctify this day as a reminder that G-d rested after creating the heavens and the earth. Our labors are rewarded with rest in order to enjoy the fruits of our efforts and prepare ourselves to begin the cycle again.

The concept of a day of rest, where one is not required to perform the obligations of the other six days of the week, I see as a gift rather than a series of restrictions. We perform daily tasks and rituals to survive and we are blessed with a day of rest; similarly, we are commanded to allow the land bequeathed to us to also rest, so as to be nourished and re-fertilized before it must provide the bounty of grains, vegetables, and fruits that sustain us and all other beings on this planet.

My kavanah for this week is an invitation to look at our meditation practice as a little taste of Shabbat that we perform to center and restore ourselves in small measure before we enjoy Shabbat at weeks end. How will you use this opportunity to center and reflect on this day as you prepare for the next? What gifts come from this practice and ultimately, from the observance of a full day to enjoy the fruits of our labors?

In this week’s parsha (Torah portion), Shemini (Eighth), Aaron and his sons begin to officiate as kohanim (priests) for the people of Israel after 7 days of inaugural training.

According to the parsha, Aaron and his sons conduct various sacrifices on the altar, and these sacrifices are consumed in fire by G-d. Everything seems to be going according to plan and in accordance with the how-to-sacrifice instructions that they recently learned. Then, Nadav and Avihu, Aaron’s two eldest priestly sons, come to the altar and offer a “strange fire before G-d,” one which “[G-d] had not commanded them” to bring. So what happens next? There was again fire… but this time, it consumed Nadav and Avihu and they died.

Like many other instances in the Torah, there are varied explanations of why this happened. Interpretations span from their flaming deaths representing punishment for sacrificing while drunk (an S.U.I.?) to the reward of a “holy-kiss” from above (beware of “first-base” with G-d) for being so eager in their worship, with many explanations in between.

Despite this passage already being loaded with potential interpretive meaning, it is what comes next that stopped me in my tracks. In response to this event, the Torah tells us that Aaron, the High Priest, the father of these two taken in flame by the very One they are all honoring through sacrifices, is silent. A father watches his sons die in front of him and his response is silence?! This gave me pause.

How can a father witness his sons’ deaths, whether as punishment or reward, and not say or do anything? How can we understand this image that seems to go so counter to human emotions and reactions?

It was in this questioning that I considered how easily and often I react to things that happen during my day. Most of the time, I am reacting to stimuli in my environment, not being fully conscious of the thoughts, memories, and emotions that are all contributing to what I do next. My meditation practice is an avenue to become more aware of the various voices and impulses in my consciousness that lead me to take a certain course of action. By making the space to be with whatever comes up, I am practicing not reacting. I am practicing being mindful of what is happening in the moment so I can better choose how best to act next.  I am pausing, I am breathing, I am silently witnessing.

For me, Aaron’s silence after this tragedy is like the breath I take to bring me back to my focus when I become distracted during my meditation. It is like the moment I try to take to ground myself in the present moment before reacting to an overwhelming situation. It is the pause between the stilumus and my impulse. It is the space that can transform reacting to responding.

Reading this story, I have no doubt that Aaron must have felt many strong emotions when he watched his sons die, but he chose to remain silent, possibly breathing with the swell of thoughts and feelings that were kicked up by this event. And in this, I am inspired to strive towards Aaron’s example: when faced with difficulties, whether on or off the meditation cushion, let us have the kavanah (intention) to take a silent breath, pause for a moment before we react, and witness what is coming up. Maybe then, we will wisely choose our next move.

This week, we are stepping away from the weekly Torah portion to focus more closely on the Passover, or Pesach, holiday. As my connection to Judaism and spirituality has grown, changed, faded, and then evolved entirely, so has my understanding of Passover and how it relates to my modern day life. Such is a struggle with many seemingly outdated traditions and Jewish customs.

The story of Passover takes us to Egypt, where the Jews were enslaved by the Pharoah. After G-d inflicts ten horrific plagues on the people of Egypt, sparing the Jews in captivity, the Pharoah finally has no choice but to free the Jews, allowing them to return to their homeland. Naturally, the Jews were thrilled to be released from bondage, and they ran. Quickly. So quickly the dough they had prepared for bread didn’t have time to rise. Hence, matzah.

Passover is traditionally welcomed with a seder (or two for Jewish communities outside of Israel), which is the Hebrew word for “order.” The seder includes a very specific set of rituals performed in a very specific order, which all retell the story of the Jews’ struggle to free themselves from slavery in Egypt and return to the homeland. Personal liberation symbolism abounds.

One part of the seder mentions four children, all of whom, in one way or another, just want to know what’s going on and why they should care. There is the wise one, the wicked one, the simple one and the one who does not know how to ask. I want to focus on the simple child, as I have seen him described as simple and indifferent, implying that his simplicity is due to apathy.

However, I see it differently. I view this simplicity as a form of innocence and progress; a freedom from distraction. In our busy, hectic, hyper-stimulated lives, we tend to overanalyze, over think and over question everything.

Shortly after I graduated from college, I lived in Israel, where I spent some time in the Negev. This experience, years later, is still one I remember as pivotal. Prior to my first trip to the desert I was in Jerusalem, exploring Judaism with a closer eye than I ever had before. Almost everything in my life came into question: my relationship with and understanding of G-d, religion, the people around me, and myself.

Two days out of Jerusalem, I found myself sleeping in a tent in the middle of the Negev. No electricity, no city bustle, just pure silence. It was almost instantly that I felt myself at ease, free from the urban noise (both literal and metaphorical) that had so forcefully weighed down on me up until that point in my life. I was free from distraction. I was the simple one.

It was during this time that I connected deeply with people who would become very important to my personal growth during my journey through Israel. The connections were natural, as though they were just waiting to happen. Without the urban commotion I was used to, I was able to relate more honestly to my newfound friends and, perhaps most importantly, to myself. I began my personal work of finding out who I was and how I wanted to be in this world; doing so in a gentle and tolerant way. I was asking myself questions I had never asked before, and connecting with my surroundings in a way I had never experienced. The desert provided the perfect backdrop by which to simply exist.

So I offer up this kavanah, or intention, for this week of Passover. As we prepare to sit, may we focus on simplifying our thoughts, creating a more compassionate and tolerant self. How can this simplicity allow us to confront ourselves and others with the questions that we truly need to ask? How can these simple and unadorned thoughts bring us greater clarity and mindfulness in our meditation practice and in our daily lives? And how, despite the urban hustle and bustle by which we may be surrounded, can we use simplicity to bring us closer to ourselves?

I have to admit I’ve avoided writing this for a long time. Not because I didn’t want to write about it and not because I don’t love the topic – as a long-time meditator, longer-time Jew, Jewish Meditation Center Board member and sit leader in my local community, I’m pretty involved. It’s just that when it comes to my own process as a Jew, and (eek) writing as a Jew? Let’s say I’m pretty ambivalent.

But I’m also a mom and a birth doula, and when I was asked to write about Jewish meditation and birth, too many of my identities were wrapped up too neatly for me to say no.

So, why the ambivalence?  I’d trace it back to my beginnings; as the eldest daughter of a first generation New York Jew and a converted Presbyterian from the Midwest, identity was always a bit fuzzy for me.  My mother’s mother is a lifelong church-goer and card-carrying member of the Daughters of the American Revolution; my father’s mother is a Modern Orthodox Holocaust survivor.  We took the Christmas tree down and up at least three times one winter when both sets of grandparents happened to be visiting at the same time.  It’s not an unusual story these days.

When Jewishness is both of you and not of you, claiming it, speaking for it, is a strange process.  I began a meditation practice as a teenager, but have never felt as at home in it as I do in Jewish meditation sits.  Yet, even today as I lead JMC-style sits in my home town of Beacon, I don’t have a particularly great response to the persistent question: “So, what makes this meditation Jewish?”  Sylvia Boorstein has the best answer I’ve heard yet; at a retreat I attended she said folks would ask her, “Why Jewish meditation?  Why not just meditate?  Why complicate it with Jewishness?”  Her answer:  “Because I am complicated with Jewishness.”

So, I am complicated with Jewishness.  Complicated  being the operative word.  Jewishness, it seems, has that affect on many of us.

And what does this all have to do with birth?  Nothing?  Everything?  These are not rhetorical questions.  Some more thoughts:

When you’re as obsessed with birth as a person needs to be to work with laboring women, birth metaphors are everywhere.  And in many ways, the process of pregnancy, labor, and delivery are the ultimate metaphor, combining so many of humanity’s deepest tropes – the endless patience, sacrifice, and waiting of gestation, the utter lack of control and surrender of it all, the deep adventure into the unknown, the vulnerability.  The endurance, strength, power, and struggle of labor and the breakthrough of delivery.  The profound transformation of the woman as she becomes a mother, as her body, heart, and mind are changed forever, and the profound transformation of nothingness into everythingness: a new human life.

Because the Jewish calendar operates with the moon, many of our most important holidays fall on the full moon.  Many pregnant women also go into labor on the full moon.  At 37 weeks, I felt what I thought were my first labor pains on the second night of Passover.  As I drove to our community seder, I called my doula to let her know.  “Maybe I’ll name my child Moses,” I thought, as I sat through the seder, pretending nothing was happening.  I sat with the story of the final plague – the slaying of the first born – in a different way that night, and I giggled as we talked about freedom from mitzrayim: the narrow passage.

As it turned out, my daughter – who is not named Moses – waited for the NEXT full moon, and after a short labor and a long two hours pushing through our own little mitzrayim, she was born on the 31^st day of the Omer: Tiferet in Hod.  The simple translation of that day would be the inner balance in beauty and multiplicity.  Sound familiar?

And what does that have to do with meditation?  Nothing?  Everything?

At the last meditation sit I led, a participant asked, “What’s the goal here?”  We talked about the goals each of us bring to our practice, and I closed by reminding us that some meditation teachers would be horrified by the idea of having a goal at all.  I’m all about goals for pretty much everything, but it is incredibly important to have the right kind of goal.  This is the same advice I give to clients who are preparing for birth.  Don’t set yourself up for disappointment with a goal you very well might not achieve, whether it be enlightenment, forgiving a difficult person, or an epic vaginal delivery where all you feel is love in your heart.  One of the greatest lessons birth has taught me is that we are not in control of anything but the lens we use to see the world.  And one of the greatest lessons meditation has taught me is how to know and use that lens. I’ve always liked the idea of Passover as a birthing story: we labored, the water parted, we passed through, and were born as a people.

May we use this Passover as an invitation to bring the lens of birth and rebirth to the journey from mitzrayim and find liberation.

Traditionally, Parsha Tzav (“command”) is read the Shabbat before Passover. Like much of Leviticus, Tzav, which comes from the sixth through eighth books, it can seem a bit arcane. It consists of the instructions for ritual sacrifice to be carried out by Aaron and the priestly class at the ancient Temple. But even rituals that we haven’t practiced for two thousand years can speak to our practice and the thoughts we observe every time we sit.

There are four sacrifices: the burnt offering, olah; the meal offering, mincha; the sin offering,  chattat; and the guilt offering, asham. The olah is the only one that is to be completely consumed by the fire, fat and all, and not eaten even by one of the high priests. The passage indicates that the fire burning the olah shall not be allowed to go out; the “kohen shall kindle wood upon it every morning, and upon it, he shall arrange the burnt offering and cause the fats of the peace offerings to go up in smoke upon it.”

What is so special about the olah? Why must all trace of it disappear? The Jerusalem Talmud points to a surprising answer: the olah is for “expiation for thoughts of the heart”. This is surprising because so much of Jewish law covers actions, and not thoughts; only the last of the Ten Commandments (Thou Shalt Not Covet), concerns one’s feelings, and even then, many have interpreted that commandment as proscribing the actions that flow from covetousness more than the desire itself.

So why do unhealthful thoughts require their own sacrifice, the only one from which humans can’t be nourished?  The Talmud suggests that controlling emotions and thoughts of sin is “kashe”—more difficult—than controlling sinful actions themselves (Yoma 29a).  Rashi added, “Sexual passion is more difficult to contain than the act itself; In accordance with the difficulty is the reward.”

As a meditator, I know this difficulty well: every time I sit, an endless stream of thoughts passes through my head; sometimes, the same handful of thoughts sticks around stubbornly.  Either way, I’m constantly reminded that there’s no such thing as an empty mind, and I can count on experiencing thoughts and desires I wish I didn’t have (of course, I’ll also experience pleasant and exciting thoughts as I sit). Gradually, I’m learning to adopt a more compassionate approach to those distractions: label the thought, make peace with it, and simply return to my breath and the experience of being.

The main benefit I’ve received from my meditation practice is in gradually becoming more compassionate with myself when I find myself distracted. I allow the distractions to come and go as they will, and I’ve internalized, at least a bit, that fighting them off—or trying to burn them to metaphorical ashes—is unrealistic and unnecessary. So I struggle with a parsha such as Tzav, and with its suggestion that our “impure” thoughts can be so easily eliminated. I’m not sure I would want my thoughts, even the most shameful ones, to disappear completely, if that was possible. Rather, through meditation I seek the self-control to make space for those thoughts without allowing them to consume me.

Perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned in the annual repetition of the olah sacrifice, or the annual reckoning with our transgressions on Yom Kippur: we exalt in the feeling of being cleansed, but predictably, we’ll be back next year to burn the animal fat or beat our chests during the Viddui.  What is the tradition telling us, then, about the effectiveness of such drastic measures and self-flagellation?

As we prepare to sit, let us consider how we grapple with our thoughts when they feel difficult, or even immoral.  Do we need to eliminate any space for the “bad” in order to keep ourselves whole and “good”? My kavannah, or intention, for this week is that when we experience thoughts that we’d rather not have, instead of trying to sweep them away, we explore what it feels like to simply make room for them.

This Shabbat, we begin the book of Leviticus, the center of the Torah. I love the idea that the first book, Genesis, is the story of beginnings and ends with enslavement in the narrow passages (mitzrayim, or Egypt). Next comes Exodus, the second book, the story of liberation. Exodus ends with the building of the mishkan, the holy traveling sanctuary, the dwelling space for divinity. We can understand the community’s elaborate process in creating the mishkan as an evolution of our connection with sacredness. Leviticus picks up here and gives a whole lot of rules about maintaining this connection… including sacrificing animals as worship.

Over time, our practices evolved and changed, and we now offer prayer instead of sacrifices. In fact, many of our prayer rituals are based on the rules of the burnt offerings. Parsha Vayikra, “and He called,” begins with G-d calling to Moses and going on and on about all of the rules associated with sacrificing animals, including different sacrifices to atone for different kinds of missteps. On first read, it’s difficult to see how these details could possibly be relevant to our lives… but that’s the beauty of Torah, right? When I started getting curious about this parsha, I learned something kind of exciting.

The Hebrew word for sacrifice is korban. The root of korban means “to draw near.” When I think of the idea of sacrifice, I think of giving something up, and there’s a tension in the giving up or giving away. Korban flips that connotation and offers the idea of an act that allows us to approach G-d or holiness or whatever you want to call the ineffable. When I re-read the parsha with this concept in mind, something changed—maybe it was me.

In Leviticus, the very center, the heart, all of Torah radiates out from this central idea of what we do to get closer. In my meditation practice, I start each day with an intention. I go through phases, and my intentions shift and evolve, but for many years, I’ve watched them circle around the same three desires: an open heart, to be of service, and to be kind. It seems to me that the only way to have an open heart is to open my heart. The only way to be of service is to serve, and the way to be kind is to practice kindness at every opportunity. These actions, whether internal or external, can be seen as offerings, and as korban, drawing nearer and nearer.

My kavanah, or intention, for this week is to see our seats as our altars and to offer our whole selves up as korban. Practice sitting and breathing and feeling pulled closer and closer to something larger than ourselves and also nearer and nearer to our own hearts.

This week’s parsha (torah portion) is actually composed of two portions, Vayakhel (meaning “and he assembled”) and Pekudei (meaning “accounts”), which are combined when there is no additional month of Adar in the Jewish calendar. Over the past few weeks the torah has been telling us of G-d’s detailed instructions for the building of the Mishkan (Tabernacle), the portable dwelling place for G-d. The first parsha, Vayakhel, starts with a very brief disclaimer regarding the regulations of Shabbat and explains that no work pertaining to the Mishkan or otherwise will be done on the Sabbath. Moses then “assembled” the people of Israel to solicit G-d’s request for a free-will contribution of supplies to build the Mishkan which was met with an outpouring of generosity. Next, those craftspeople with G-d-given skills were called upon to begin the design and construction using the donated materials. The body of the parsha meticulously details the construction of the tabernacle (right down to the curtains made of goat hair) and the making of its various components such as the ark, the table, the lampstand, the altar of incense, the altar of burnt offering, the bronze basin, and the court. Pekudei then continues with an account of the precise amount of talent and shekels (money) used for the materials, and continues further to detail the making of the priestly garments and the process of erecting the Mishkan. Finally, only in the last four verses is the goal of the Mishkan achieved and G-d’s inhabitance of the dwelling place declared.

I find the extensive depiction of the process of building the Mishkan to be a striking mindfulness practice as well as an interesting contrast to the very brief discussion of the final product. As I’m sitting in a very goal-oriented culture, this portion of the torah refreshingly celebrates the process itself rather than solely revering the final accomplishment. It makes me wonder how we can utilize a similar shift in focus, or rather disbursement of attention, to bring authenticity to our experiences.

As in building a Mishkan, planning a wedding takes community involvement and includes many steps. My cousin recently got married and I had the honor of being involved in many of the preparations and pre-wedding activities. For me, much of the beauty of the wedding occurred even prior to the main event. I had the chance to meet some of her friends and become good friends with them myself; I learned about the evolution of her friendships; and I had the opportunity to hear touching family stories from the parent and elder generations about marriage. Making place cards was not just a task to complete, it was a glimpse into the relationships that form my cousin’s network and new family. And for the couple themselves, the preparation process is not just for the wedding, but seems to be for the marriage as well. With the wording of the ketubah (marriage document) to agreeing on the style of ceremony, the steps to plan a wedding can set much of the tone of the beginning of a marriage. Similarly, building the tabernacle is not just to provide G-d with a dwelling place, but to lay the groundwork for a sacred space for the people of Israel.

My kavannah (intention) for this week is to take some time to celebrate and bring attention to our own processes. How can we bring greater awareness to the “making of” our craft, our work, our day, our selves, and our lives? And what potential benefit could that mindfulness to our processes bring us?

This week’s parsha, torah portion, is Tetzaveh, which means “and you shall command.” Last week, G-d provided instructions on how to build the tabernacle. This week, G-d tells Moshe what the priests should wear and how to perform certain rituals there. I am most interested in the first line of this parsha: And you shall command the children of Israel, and they shall take to you pure olive oil, crushed for lighting, to kindle the lamps continually (Exodus 27:20). To keep these lamps, the menorah, burning without end, they must be tended to every day.

Tetzaveh is the only Torah portion in Exodus and Leviticus that does not contain Moshe’s name.  Why might this be? When I think of Moshe, I think about a very intense, direct experience of G-d. Moshe encounters G-d in a burning bush, in G-d’s miraculous acts of wonder, in hearing G-d’s voice atop Mount Sinai. Moshe’s experience reminds me of the moments in my life when I have felt most connected to something greater than myself. I think of the times hiking alone in the Himalayas, with more weight on my back than I could carry, reaching the point of physical duress where I could not take one step more, and then I did. I think of the meditation retreats where, after tracing every edge of my physical form with my mind’s eye nearly every minute of every day, I felt those boundaries dissolve and my self disappear. I think of myself suspended in air, having left my bicycle behind along with the car that hit me, realizing the profound uncertainty of my future upon my landing, and being consumed by an overwhelming peace. These are the Moshe moments of my life.

There have been times when I felt that life would be great if it were only composed of Moshe moments. But it’s not. These are the moments we need, every now and then, to inspire transition, just as the Israelites needed Moshe to inspire a move from Egypt to the Promised Land. But life in the Promised Land is not about signs and wonders. It’s about the day-to-day. Only by participating in the mundane activities of daily life can we shift from experiencing something greater than ourselves to actively contributing to the ecological fabric that surrounds us.  The conundrum is that in doing so, we can get distracted by the common concerns of our tiny little minds and lose the perspective that gives life meaning. I think parsha Tetzaveh teaches a lesson about how to elevate our experience of daily life. It commands us that each day, no matter what else is going on, we should take some time to do whatever is needed to keep the eternal flame alive.

My kavannah, or intention, for this week is to identify how we can enhance our experience and performance in daily life by punctuating each day with a tiny Moshe moment. What triggers remind you that you are more than the voice in your mind that guides you through the day? What keeps your eternal flame burning, and what can you do to keep it well-fed?

This parsha deals with the detailed instructions G-d has established for the construction of the Tabernacle. G-d instructs Moses to gather the specific materials and intones, “They shall make a Sanctuary for me—so that I may dwell among them…Exactly as I show you, so shall you make it.”

The parsha is divided into three sections. The first outlines the materials and the measurements to construct the ark; the second describes the materials and measurements for the Tabernacle; and the third describes the materials and measurements for the altar and the enclosure of the Tabernacle.

Typically, the enclosure for a building is designed and erected first, and the interior items designed and installed last; this parsha reverses the standard order for design. As an architect named Bezalel, I find this order compelling to contemplate. (Bezalel is the chief artisan of the Tabernacle; he appears in Exodus 31:1and the name means “in the shadow of G-d”).

Another interesting aspect of the parsha is that it states that the Israelites “shall make a sanctuary so that I may dwell among them” rather than dwell in it—I take this to mean that G-d is dwelling within every person, not the Tabernacle itself, nor is G-d tied to a particular place. Therefore, G-d has set an example for us to create a sacred space and it is our responsibility to develop a personal set of instructions for the sacred space of our own lives, beginning from within.

Think of a time when you were truly at peace, when you were relaxed, refreshed and felt G-d dwelling within you. Building from that, what elements were most present that you can learn from to reinforce that space for yourself?

My kavannah for this week is to imagine how easy it might be to create a set of instructions and materials required for your inner sacred space. At times when we are feeling overwhelmed, overworked or underappreciated, we can remind ourselves how to put this ‘place’ together for ourselves. This contemplation could serve as a reminder that this sacred space is within reach and that each of us can be a “living tabernacle.”