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.

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 week’s parsha, or weekly Torah portion, is called Mishpatim, meaning “rules” or “ordinances.” The majority of the parsha consists of 53 commandments that G-d informs the Israelites they must follow if they are to truly be G-d’s people. Of these commandments, 23 are mitzvot, instructing the Israelites on how they should behave, and 30 of them prohibit certain actions. They cover an extraordinarily wide range of topics, from those that make logical sense to the modern ear, such as prohibitions against assault and the injunction to return lost property to its owner, to topics that many Jews today are unsure how to interpret, such as the Jewish dietary laws and the regulations about how certain holidays and festivals should be observed. Near the end of the parsha, after G-d lays out these 53 mitzvot, G-d commands Moses to leave the Israelites in the care of his brother Aaron and their friend Hur, and make his way up to the top of Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. Moses makes the trek, waits for G-d, and then on his seventh day of waiting, G-d calls to him from inside a cloud. Moses joins G-d inside the cloud and then stays atop Mount Sinai for forty days and forty nights.

In Mishpatim, G-d sets forth punishments for committing various offenses. For example, in Exodus 21:12, G-d explains that, “He who fatally strikes a man shall be put to death.” But similar to the American legal system, a person’s intention matters. G-d continues, in Exodus 21: 13, “If he did not do it by design…I will assign you a place to which he can flee.” As I read these lines, I thought to myself, “at least G-d took a person’s motivation or lack thereof into account,” but ultimately the person still had to face consequences for his or her actions.

A few years ago, I went through a very difficult break-up. Though we loved each other, it was clear that it was time for our relationship to end. During the break-up, each of us behaved in hurtful ways, though that had not been either of our intentions. In the aftermath, friends and family told me, “Ali, you’re human. Forgive yourself. During stressful times, people sometimes act in ways that they’re later less than proud of.” Though I appreciated their reminder to not be too hard on myself, I also really wanted to hear something else, the same message that I think G-d was trying to send to the Israelites: a person must still be held accountable for his or her behavior, regardless of his or her intentions. Taking responsibility doesn’t mean I shouldn’t forgive myself, but it does mean that I must recognize the agency that I have, even when I’m under stress, and learn from my mistakes. By acknowledging responsibility, I’ll then be able to re-align myself to the high standards I set for my behavior.

Owning up, especially when we didn’t mean to hurt or harm someone else or ourselves, isn’t easy. We can always, and often do, make excuses, and frequently others make excuses for us. But sometimes, in order to truly let go or forgive oneself, it’s essential to stand tall and say, “Yes, that was me, but I’ll be more aware of the potential consequences of my actions next time.” My kavannah or intention for this week is for us to consider how “owning up” to certain behaviors or actions, especially those that we did not expect would lead to harm or hurt, may free us to move on with our lives.

This week’s Torah parsha, Vayeshev, is about Joseph and Tamar, two seemingly very different people. Joseph is the favored child, the one with the dreams and the fantastic coat, and his brothers throw him into a pit. This story is interrupted by the travails of Tamar. She’s widowed twice, seduces her father-in-law, and bears children who start the lineage of King David. Both Joseph and Tamar know their specialness. They know the importance of their particular stories and experiences, and they understand the power of their lives.

Joseph is an interesting character. He’s Jacob’s favorite, gets special treatment and the fancy coat, makes his eleven brothers crazy with jealousy, and seems to be clueless about everyone’s feelings. In this chapter, Joseph tells his brothers about a dream in which eleven sheaves of wheat bowed down to his sheaf of wheat. The brothers interpret this to mean that Joseph is going to lord over them, and they are not into it. Then Joseph shares with them another dream, even more intense, in which eleven stars and the sun and moon bow to Joseph. His brothers resent him deeply. Joseph may be oblivious, but the parsha has been interpreted to also mean that he is actually special. Jacob favors him because he deserves it. He’s a visionary, starting with these dreams, and we watch over time, in the Torah, how he matures, pays attention to others’ feelings, and succeeds and thrives in the darkest of situations.

Within his cluelessness lies a powerful force for Joseph’s future. Even when his brothers throw him into a pit, sell him into slavery, abandon him, Joseph holds onto his dreams. He keeps the faith, but he also has a deep knowledge that he is special. Joseph has a kind of holy perspective. In the parsha, the Torah repeats the words, “God was with Joseph.” What sets Joseph apart is that he knows it.

The story of Joseph continues and then is interrupted with the story of Tamar. Judah, Joseph’s eldest brother, marries a Canaanite and has three sons. Tamar marries his oldest son, Er. The Torah says that Er was wicked and so he dies, never having any children. As was the custom, Tamar marries the second son, Onan, but Onan doesn’t want to have children with Tamar; the Torah says God is not happy, and so Onan dies, too. Unsurprisingly, Judah thinks that Tamar is cursed. She’s the cause of his two oldest sons’ deaths. Instead of inviting her to marry his third son, Judah casts her out. He makes a false promise that she can marry his third son, Shelah, eventually.

In the context of this time and place, casting a childless widow back to her father’s house had dire consequences. For Tamar, this meant that she was unsafe, physically and economically, and could not have any social standing. Tamar, like Joseph, has a unique understanding of her own power. She is too full of dreams and determination, despite her circumstances. Tamar breaks the rules.

Judah’s wife dies, and Tamar discovers his travel plans. She dresses up as a prostitute and waits at the gate to the city that Judah will enter. Judah doesn’t recognize her, and he sleeps with her in exchange for his seal, ring, cords, and staff. They conceive twin sons. Tamar proves that Judah is the father by sending back his collateral. Judah receives them, acknowledges what happened, and takes Tamar back into his home.

Joseph and Tamar are an odd pairing. They are different in many ways, but the central theme of recognizing our place in the world ties them. I love this idea of not fighting fate, but transcending it and having faith and trust that our lives are important and necessary, and we have a specific place in the world.

We can use these stories to inspire us to listen to our hearts, to recognize our power, and to live in accordance. My kavanah, or intention for practice, this week is allow ourselves to be dreamy, to be visionaries of our own lives and the world, and within this dreaminess, may we also recognize that this capacity is held by every other person, too.

This week, we read Parshat Toldot (“descendants”), and learn about Jacob and Esau.  We all know the story: before Jacob and Esau are born, Rebecca learns that “one brother will be mightier than the other,” and “the elder will serve the younger.”  Jacob emerges clutching Esau’s heel, foreshadowing his later attempts to overtake and outwit his brother.  Years later, Jacob takes advantage of a faint and exhausted Esau by selling him a stew for the price of his birthright.  And at their father’s deathbed, Jacob tricks Isaac into giving him a blessing intended for Esau.

Rebecca has one of the most striking lines in the parshat.  She feels her twin sons fighting in utero and asks God: “If it is so, why am I like this?”  God’s response – the prophecy about the older brother serving the younger – seems to be an attempt to reassure her that her pains are serving a higher purpose.  This answer addresses Rebecca as if she is questioning the reason for such a painful pregnancy. But is that what she is asking?  I imagine that she was regretting both her painful pregnancy and that the pain seemed to add insult to the injury of so many childless decades.  Did she think that the universe was conspiring against her?  Was she questioning the wisdom of her life choices?  Ramban’s take on the text reflects an underlying existential angst – interpreting her cry as a question of why she must endure such pain.

With this latter interpretation, the response she receives presents not so much an answer as a challenge, and Rebecca becomes an active participant in the story.  She would have preferred to give birth as a younger woman to children who loved each other as much as she loved them.  But when life did not meet her expectations, she made the best of the situation.  We can see Rebecca’s preference for Jacob over Esau as a choice guided by her understanding of the potential of each child.  Indeed, recall that it is Rebecca who engineered the plot for Jacob to receive the blessing intended for Esau.  Jacob’s dominance over Esau was not a preordained decree; it was the consequence of Rebecca’s parenting.

We have all asked ourselves why our reality, despite our best efforts, does not conform to our desires and expectations.  Why didn’t I get that job?  Why didn’t that relationship work out?  Why do I always argue with my parents and siblings?  We create narratives about how we would like our life to turn out, we endeavor to realize those narratives, and we get frustrated and confused when the results fail to comply with our wishes.  Too often, we forget that some of the best things in our lives are the result not of careful planning and deliberation, but of accident, of happenstance, and of our own adaptation to changed circumstances.

I remember entering law school intent on pursuing a career in international development, and realizing after a summer abroad that there was a fundamental tension between the role of a development lawyer on one hand, and my basic values and expectations about life on the other.  Indeed, it took the rest of law school to reconcile my fascination with the world with my understanding of what an American lawyer can actually achieve in a place where he barely understands the language and culture.  I am now excited to pursue a career concentrating on issues involving New York City and State, but the transition from an international focus to a local focus was difficult.

With meditation, we can learn to accept the moments in life when we make a plan and pursue it to completion, only to find that the result brings us pain.  This week’s portion teaches us to take these hiccups as opportunities – to value the joy that comes only because something else did not work out.  When we refuse to submit ourselves to fate, we become active participants in our own lives.  For this week’s meditation, let us ask, “If this is so, why are we like this?”  Put differently: now that we see that our plans have not exactly met our expectations, how must we move forward?  We will then be prepared for Thanksgiving, an opportunity to reflect on the unexpected happinesses and the accidental fortunes.