The Discipline of Being Seen

 In the lives of every one of us we find ourselves occupying a space in which what we are does not match the image we seek to project or the person we purport to be. Which is the role, which is the reality--and is there a way to bridge or synthesize them? Starting with the position of the kohen in parashat Emor, our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger probes this fascinating topic.

There are moments when a person becomes aware of himself in a way he wasn’t a moment before. He is speaking casually, saying something he would not normally think twice about, when he realizes something: someone else is listening. Not just present, but listening closely. The sentence finishes differently than it would have otherwise. His tone shifts, almost without deciding to. Or he walks into a room, expecting to pass through unnoticed, and sees someone watching him—someone whose opinion matters to him—and suddenly the way he stands, where he looks, even how he moves his hands feels less automatic. Nothing external has changed. But it is no longer entirely his own.

Most of life moves without that kind of awareness. He acts, corrects himself, adjusts quietly. But there are moments when that space narrows, and what he does begins to carry a different weight.

The Torah opens parashat Emor by placing the kohen into that kind of life. “לְנֶפֶשׁ לֹא יִטַּמָּא”—he is not to become impure through contact with the dead. It is a simple instruction, but it draws a line. Not everywhere, not always—but in certain moments, he must hold himself back. And he must do so not because he fully understands why, but because this is now part of the life he carries.

At first, that kind of boundary feels external, something imposed. A rule to follow, a line not to cross. Over time, it begins to work more quietly. It changes how a person moves through the world. He starts to notice things differently, hesitating in places he once would have passed through without thought. What began as restraint becomes part of how he sees.

The kohen lives inside that shift. His life does not disappear into the ordinary flow around him, because the boundaries he carries are not occasional—they shape where he goes, what he enters into, and what he holds back from. There are moments others pass through without thinking that he must pause before, or step away from entirely. Over time, those pauses begin to form a pattern. They do not constantly draw attention, but they are enough to give his life a different contour. The Maharal describes kedushah as a kind of separation that allows something to become defined (Tiferet Yisrael, ch. 2). It is not distance for its own sake, but the kind that gives form. Without it, everything blends together. With it, a life begins to take on clearer lines.

It carries a quiet weight. Most of us move with the ability to adjust quietly, to shift, to correct, to hold contradictions without anyone fully seeing them. The kohen has less of that space. His life leaves less room for that kind of quiet revision. The question for him is not only what is right, but how it appears in practice.

Rav Hirsch writes that the kohen’s role is not to escape the world, but to give form to it—to live in a way that makes certain values visible, almost tangible (Horeb, §467). The discipline is not about distance for its own sake. It is about living in a way that can be recognized without needing explanation. It is possible to learn where to stand, what to avoid, how to carry oneself within clear lines. But that kind of formation does not always move inward at the same pace. Sometimes the pattern settles first, and the person is still catching up to it.

And that is where a quieter tension begins to appear. Form can arrive before alignment. A life can take on the appearance of precision before the inside has settled into it. When that happens, the structure does not collapse—it holds. What begins to thin is something less visible: the sense that the life being lived is actually one’s own.

This tension is not unique to the kohen. It appears whenever a person is asked to live inside a form that carries more than he has yet made his own. Sometimes the structure holds steady, while the person within it is still trying to settle into it. And when that gap widens, it does not always show on the surface right away—but it is there.

Black Swan (2010) follows that movement from the inside. The film centers on Nina, a young ballerina cast in the lead role in Swan Lake, a ballet that demands not only technical precision but emotional transformation. From the outside, her life looks like discipline carried to its highest form—hours of practice, relentless control, exact movement. But as the pressure of the role intensifies, something inside begins to fracture. She can execute every movement flawlessly, but she cannot hold herself together in the same way. The more she perfects what can be seen, the less stable she becomes beneath it. The structure does not fail her. It moves ahead of her.

The kohen is asked to live close to that edge, but not to cross it. Not to become perfect, but to become aligned—to allow the outer form to grow out of something inward that has stopped pulling in different directions. That does not happen all at once. It does not even happen cleanly. It develops unevenly, often in ways that are difficult to measure from the outside.

There is a story told about Yisrael of Ruzhin that captures this in a way explanation does not. His court was known for its refinement—everything deliberate, measured, almost regal. To some it felt elevated; to others, distant. One winter evening, after days of travel over frozen roads, a young man arrived at the edge of the beit midrash. He stood there for a long moment before stepping in, letting his eyes adjust to the light, taking in the stillness of the room.

When he moved forward, his boots left faint traces of slush on the wooden floor. He noticed it immediately and shifted, as though he could erase it by standing differently. The Rebbe was sitting among a small group, speaking quietly. Nothing about the scene called attention to itself. That was part of what unsettled him.

When the room thinned, the young man came closer. “Rebbe,” he said, his voice low, “I don’t know how to be here. Everything feels so…put together. I try to hold myself like this, to be more careful, more exact. But it doesn’t feel real. It feels like I’m copying something that isn’t mine.”

The Ruzhiner looked at him—not quickly, not searchingly, just long enough that the young man felt himself slow down. “You think this begins here,” he said, motioning lightly around the room.

The young man did not answer.

The Rebbe reached out and adjusted the edge of the tablecloth, almost without thinking. “What you see,” he continued, “is what remains when something inside has stopped arguing with itself.”

The words did not resolve anything immediately. The young man stood there, unsure whether he understood. “Don’t try to live like this,” the Rebbe added. “You will only learn how to look like it. Find the place where you are not divided—even if it is small. Stay there. Let that grow. The rest will come when it can.”

Nothing in the room changed. The same order remained. But it no longer felt like something he had to imitate. It felt, instead, like something that could emerge.

The Beit Yaakov of Izbica warns that the danger of visible kedushah is not that it is insincere, but that it can be misunderstood—that a person can begin to live toward the form instead of from the source (Beit Yaakov, Emor). When that happens, the structure holds, but the life inside it becomes increasingly thin.

The Torah seems to anticipate that risk. It does not begin by asking the kohen to feel different. It asks him to live differently—to hold a boundary, to remain within it, to let it shape him slowly until the outer line and the inner life begin to meet. The movement is quiet, almost invisible. Over time, something changes—not only in what is done, but in who is doing it.

At the end of Black Swan, Nina reaches the performance she has been chasing. From the outside, it is flawless. Every movement lands. Every gesture aligns. For a moment, everything holds. “I was perfect,” she says.

But it is not clear who remains to say it.

The Torah asks for something quieter, and in some ways more demanding—not perfection, but wholeness. A life in which what is seen is not ahead of what is lived, and what is lived does not need to hide behind what is seen.

That kind of life does not arrive all at once. It grows slowly, often in ways that are difficult to recognize while they are happening. He begins to find a place where he is a little less divided than before, holds it, returns to it, and gradually allows more of his life to gather there.

The kohen lives inside that process. Not fully resolved, not hidden—just steadily becoming. And perhaps that is the deeper demand—not that the form already be complete, but that it become real enough that, over time, nothing needs to be added to it from the outside.

 

The Many Dimensions of Kedusha

What does Kedusha really mean? Is it just a word on the page, a theoretical concept  or an object of reverence and awe? No, says our member Rabbi Paul Bloom, it's a valuable component of our daily lives -- or should be. Here's how he puts it:

There is a pasuk, almost hidden in the middle of the parashah, that at first glance seems like just another line—but in truth, it is a foundation stone of Jewish life. The Torah says:

וְנִקְדַּשְׁתִּי בְּתוֹךְ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל

 “I shall be sanctified among the Children of Israel” (Vayikra 22:32).

This pasuk appears just before the Torah launches into the entire system of the מועדים—the rhythm of Shabbat and Yom Tov that shapes the Jewish year. But why here? Why does the Torah place this seemingly general command right at this transition point? Because this pasuk is not just one idea—it is three layers of Kedusha, each deeper than the next.

Kedusha Requires a Community

Chazal derive from here a powerful halachic principle:

דבר שבקדושה אינו נאמר בפחות מעשרה

Matters of sanctity—Kaddish, Kedusha, Barechu—require a minyan.Why? Because true Kedusha is not achieved alone. A person can daven alone. A person can learn alone. But there is a higher level—a moment where we are lifted beyond ourselves—where we stand not as individuals, but as part of Klal Yisrael: “ונקדשתי בתוך בני ישראל”—within Bnei Yisrael.

Kedusha happens in the midst of the people. This is a profound idea: holiness is not just an internal feeling. It is something that emerges between people, in connection, in shared purpose.

Kedusha as Mesirut Nefesh – Kiddush Hashem

Chazal understand that this pasuk also speaks about something far more extreme: קידוש השם—the willingness to give up one’s life rather than desecrate Hashem’s Name. Maimonides, in Hilchot Yesodei HaTorah (Chapter 5), explains when a Jew is obligated, רח״ל, to sacrifice his life rather than transgress. Throughout history, countless Jews have done exactly that—choosing faith over survival. But this idea is not just historical. It is alive today. We see it in the soldiers of the IDF—young men and women who knowingly place themselves in danger to protect Klal Yisrael.

The Inner Meaning – Avoiding Emptiness

But there is a third, deeper interpretation, brought by the Maharal of Prague.The word “חלול”—desecration—also relates to חלל, an empty space. The Torah is telling us:

ולא תחללו את שם קדשי

 Do not make your life into a vacuum—an empty space devoid of Hashem.

Every person experiences moments of emptiness—moments of disconnection, lack of meaning. When that happens, the instinct is to distract ourselves, to numb the feeling. But the Torah says: that is not the solution.The solution is ונקדשתי: Fill the space—not with distraction—but with Kedusha. Reconnect through Torah, Tefillah amd connection to Klal Yisrael. These are not just mitzvot—they are the antidote to emptiness.

Three Levels, One Life

This single pasuk now emerges as a blueprint for life:

1. Communal Kedusha – You cannot reach the highest levels alone
2. Mesirut Nefesh – A life devoted to something greater than yourself
3. Inner Kedusha – Filling the emptiness with connection to Hashem

And perhaps that is why this pasuk introduces the מועדים. Because Shabbat and Yom Tov are exactly this: communal. Elevating and deeply meaningful. They teach us how to live a life that is not empty—but full.

Takeaway

When a person feels distant… disconnected… empty…the Torah does not say: distract yourself. The Torah says:ונקדשתי בתוך בני ישראל Find Kedusha. Reconnect—to Hashem, to Torah, to Klal Yisrael. And in doing so, we transform not only moments but our entire lives into a living Kiddush Hashem “בתוך בני ישראל” – In the midst of the People.

Let me close with a story, not from long ago. not from history—but from now. A young man—19 years old—leaves his home, his family, everything familiar, and enters the battlefield. He is not a general.  He is not a hero in the conventional sense.  He is just one individual—one Jew.

In the chaos of battle, a fellow soldier is struck and falls—wounded, exposed, completely vulnerable. There are snipers.  There is crossfire.  No one can reach him. And in that moment, everything we spoke about becomes real. This young man has a choice. He can stay safe—after all, what can one person do? Or he can act.

He jumps out.He runs into danger. He reaches the fallen soldier—but he cannot lift him—too heavy, too exposed, too dangerous. So what does he do?

He wraps his arms around him, holds him tightly and begins to roll. Slowly. Painfully. Dangerously. Rolling together—one Jew holding another—until they reach safety.

Later, they asked him:“What were you thinking?” And he answered with words that capture the entire drasha: “He’s one of us.”

The Closing Message

That is the meaning of:וְנִקְדַּשְׁתִּי בְּתוֹךְ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל. Kedusha is not abstract. It is not theoretical. It is not something we only find in a ספר. It is what happens when a Jew sees another Jew and says:“He’s one of us.”

At the beginning, we asked:why the Torah says that Kedusha must be “בתוך בני ישראל” Now we understand. Because Kedusha is not created in isolation. It is created in a minyan, in mesirut nefesh, in moments of connection and in refusing to live a life of emptiness. And sometimes—it is created when one Jew is willing to roll through danger just to save another.

Epilogue

If we can live with that awareness— If we can see every Jew as “one of us”—then our lives will not be empty. They will be filled with Kedusha. And we will not only speak about Kiddush Hashem—we will become it.

Sacred Time and Real Life: Where Ideals Meet Reality (Emor 5786)

This post is also available on Hanassi Highlights and, in Ivrit (thanks to ChatGPT) here.

 At first glance, the Torah’s presentation of the festivals in Parshat Emor appears carefully structured and complete. From Pesach, through Sefirat HaOmer to Shavuot, and onward to the Yamim Noraim and Sukkot, the parsha maps out the sanctity of Jewish time with precision. Yet in the midst of this ordered sequence, a seemingly unrelated verse appears:

“When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not completely remove the corners of your field… you shall leave them for the poor and for the stranger.”

Why interrupt a discussion of sacred time with agricultural laws of charity?

One approach, offered by the Ramban, reframes the question entirely. This verse, he suggests, is not a general repetition of the laws of pe’ah and leket, but refers specifically to ketzirat haOmer—the harvest performed for the sake of bringing an offering in the Beit HaMikdash. The Torah is teaching that, even when one is engaged in a lofty spiritual act, one must not lose sight of the needs of others. Devotion to Hashem does not exempt us from human responsibility; it demands it.

But the message does not run in only one direction. The Torah is not diminishing the importance of mitzvot or spiritual aspiration—far from it. The festivals themselves, and the entire surrounding framework, testify to the centrality of sacred time and divine service. Rather, the Torah is weaving together two dimensions that must remain inseparable: commitment to Hashem and sensitivity to people.

A second approach helps sharpen this point further. The placement of these laws here may indeed relate to Shavuot – the time of the giving of the Torah. The Torah deliberately shifts from the Beit HaMikdash to the field, from sacred ritual to the demands of physical labor. Because the true test of Torah is not in a protected, “sterile” environment, but precisely there—in the sweat and strain of a long day’s work.

It is relatively easy to live a life of Torah in moments of inspiration, in the Beit Midrash, or immersed in the sanctity of Yom Tov. The real question is whether that same Torah accompanies us into the field—into the pressures of work, the frustrations of daily life, and the complexity of human interaction. Does it still guide us when we are tired, preoccupied, or stretched? Does it shape not only what we aspire to, but how we act?

That is why this verse appears here. The journey from Pesach to Shavuot is not only a movement through sacred time; it is a movement toward integrating Torah into life itself. The mitzvot of the festivals and the mitzvot of the field are not competing values, but complementary ones. One without the other is incomplete.

Parshat Emor reminds us that a life of Torah is measured not only by moments of elevation, nor only by acts of kindness, but by the ability to hold both together—faithfully, consistently, and even under pressure.

Shabbat Shalom!

Sefirat HaOmer and God’s Sapphire: The Journey from Story to Splendor

Here, citing a shiur which he heard from Rabbi Kimche, Rabbi Paul Bloom tells of a transformative path that leads from Pesach to Shavuot, via the counting of the days of the Omer.

In Psalm 90, Moshe Rabbeinu beseeches God: "Limnot yameinu kein hoda, v'navi l'vav chochma" – “Teach us to number our days, so that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” There is profound depth in this seemingly simple request. What does it truly mean to "number our days"? Why is it considered the path to wisdom?

One mitzvah in particular embodies this principle: Sefirat HaOmer, the counting of the Omer. Spanning from Pesach to Shavuot, these 49 days are far more than a calendar transition. They represent a spiritual journey—an ascent from redemption to revelation, from physical freedom to spiritual fulfillment.

This transformative path is echoed in one of Judaism’s most ancient mystical texts, the Sefer Yetzirah. Older even than the Zohar, this enigmatic work is traditionally attributed to Avraham Avinu and is referenced in the Zohar itself. Though deeply cryptic in its language, Sefer Yetzirah opens with a powerful conceptual triad that illuminates the Omer journey: Sefer (book), Sippur (story), and Sefirah (counting)—all rooted in the same Hebrew letters.

Sefer – The Book

The Torah is not only a legal or spiritual code; it is a book, a sefer, in the deepest sense. It is the foundational narrative of the Jewish people. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z”l so eloquently described in A Letter in the Scroll, every Jew is a letter in that sacred book. We are not isolated individuals but part of an eternal story—one that began at Bereishit and continues through each of us. The sefer gives us identity and continuity. It anchors us to our people and our purpose.

Sippur – The Story

From Sefer emerges Sippur—the telling of the story. This is especially evident on Leil HaSeder, when we recount the Exodus in vivid detail. Telling the story isn’t just educational; it is existential. When we tell our story, we realize we are in the story. The narrative of Am Yisrael is our own narrative. It gives our lives context, dignity, and direction.

Sefirah – The Counting

Next comes Sefirah, the act of counting. The Omer count is not a mere tally of days. It reflects a growth mindset, a structure of spiritual development. The process transforms us. Unlike those who wander through life aimlessly—like slaves who cannot distinguish one day from the next—those who count their days live with intention. They know they are moving somewhere.

Each of the 49 days corresponds to a particular spiritual attribute (midah) in the Kabbalistic system: from chesed (kindness) to gevurah (strength), tiferet (beauty), and beyond. The count is a ladder of refinement, preparing us for the ultimate gift: Kabbalat HaTorah.

Sapir – The Sapphire

The culmination of this journey is Shavuot, the day we stood at Sinai. In that awe-inspiring moment of revelation, the prophet Yechezkel beheld a mystical vision of God’s throne: "Ke’mar’eh even sapir"—"like the appearance of sapphire stone" (Yechezkel 1:26). This brilliant sapphire represents radiance, divine clarity, and transcendent beauty. It is the ultimate vision of godliness, the destination of our spiritual ascent.

Here lies the symmetry: from sippur to sefirah to sapir. The sefer gives us our story, the sippur allows us to own it, the sefirah guides our daily growth, and the sapir is the sublime presence of God revealed at Sinai.

Conclusion

To count our days is to give them meaning. To live in time is to live with purpose. From the story of our past, through the structure of our days, to the divine radiance of revelation—we journey through Sippur, Sefirah, and ultimately Sapir.

As we count the Omer, let us remember: we are letters in the book, voices in the story, and seekers of the Sapphire.

How our holidays teach us history: Emor 5785

The Torah reading this week includes a review of the holidays of the Jewish calendar. The list of holidays is recited several times in the Torah. We find it in the book of Shemot and again in the books of Bamidbar and Devarim, as well as here in our reading in the book of Vayikra. Since there are no needless repetitions in the holy text of the Torah, commentators over the ages have offered many varied explanations as to why this calendar is repeated.

A closer examination of the context and background to each of these holiday listings can offer us an insight and historical overview as to the import of the regular festive seasons of the Jewish people. In each place where the Torah outlines these occasions, a specific textual background is affiliated with it. There is no mere repetition of the same ideas. Rather, they offer us an indication of the multilayered nuances that these special days seek to impart to the Jewish people throughout its history. Each reference to the holidays contains a particular message for a particular event that occurred, or will occur, during the long saga of the Jewish story. It is an understanding of this alliance of text and historical overview that makes these portions of the Torah so important and relevant to us, more than three millennia after they were written down for us by our teacher Moses.

But the context of these festivals is also relevant according to the personal lives and experiences of its celebrants. In this week's reading, the holidays are attributed to the commemorations and celebration of specific historical events once the Jewish people reside in the land of Israel. There are agricultural innovations and references to seasonal climate that place these holidays in a geographical context. The Jewish people have a natural existence only when they are in the land of Israel. Accordingly, even though the Torah’s first reference to them allows us to celebrate the holidays no matter where we live and no matter what time-frame we are consigned to, this second reference in our reading places it within the framework of the Jewish people as inhabitants of the land of Israel, attached to its land and its traditions.

We also read of the Torah holidays in the book of Bemidbar. There, the backdrop relates to the offerings of the particular sacrifices in the Temple that were to be brought upon the date of each holiday. This reading concentrates on the Temple service associated with each festival, and not necessarily with the reason for its existence in the first place. The final reference in the book of Devarim seems to sum up all the previous references: its backdrop is the Temple, the land of Israel and the explanation of the days on which each holiday is to be commemorated. Thus, the combination of all these references makes our calendar eternal and valid in all places and for all times and allows us to celebrate the commandments that the festivals bring with them in joy and good purpose.

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein

DNA and Jewish tradition: Emor 5784

This week’s parsha opens with the special laws and status that affect kohanim—the descendants of Aharon. It is common knowledge that a study based on the DNA samples of many contemporary kohanim reveals that a considerable number of tho

se who participated in the study shared a common genetic strain. This strain is found even amongst kohanim who live in different areas of the world, separated by thousands of miles and indeed centuries of separate ethnicities. 

The jury is still out as to whether these DNA findings have any halachic validity and as to what exactly these findings prove. Over the centuries of Jewish life, the kohanim have fiercely protected their lineal descent from Aharon and zealously guarded the legitimacy of their status as kohanim. The Jewish world holds its priests in high regard and accords them certain special privileges and honors to which they are entitled. 

Though kohanim may waive some of those privileges if they so wish, it is best practice for them not to do so. Their status should be preserved in order to remind us of their special role in the Temple services in Jerusalem. But in a deeper sense, their status should be preserved as a record of their special mission “to guard knowledge with their lips and to teach Torah to those who request it.” Since they are a blessing to the people of Israel, they are commanded in turn to bless the people of Israel: blessed are those who are commanded to bless others. So the status of kohen represents all that is noble and positive in Jewish life and tradition: knowledge, Torah, grace, security and peace. 

There exists a body of halachic decisions involving ersatz kohanim. This is because not every person who claims to be a kohen actually is one—and true pedigrees are very difficult to verify today. The halacha adopts a position that entitlement to be regarded as a kohen is a matter of doubt. Great rabbinic decisors, especially in the United States, have often, in cases of dire circumstances, “annulled” the kehuna of an individual. 

In the confusion of immigration into the United States at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries, there were people who disguised themselves as kohanim in order to earn the monies of pidyon haben—redemption by the kohen of most first-born males. These people were charlatans, but there were also many others, simple Jews, who had assumed that they were kohanim but possessed no real proof of the matter. Even tombstones inscriptions that one’s father was a kohen were not to be accepted as definitive proof of the matter. This is why DNA results are most interesting and provocative. 

The halacha has not yet determined with certainty the trustworthiness of DNA results in matters that require halachic decision. It is thus premature to speculate as to whether DNA testing will ever be used as a method of determining one’s true status as a kohen. Meanwhile, the kohanim should retain the tradition that goes with their presumed pedigree to the best of their abilities. 

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein