Many of us spend our lives searching for something that is unattainable. This unattainable thing is not a certain amount of money or material goods, not an expensive car, and not a house with a dozen rooms. The truth is that all of those items are attainable, even if only for a very few of us. What most of us search for, though, is unattainable for all of us. And what is it that we spend so much time looking for even though we will never find it? We search for perfection.

We search for perfection in every aspect of our lives. Having a meaningful and loving relationship is no longer enough because it is not perfect. Having a family that supports us is no longer enough because these same family members who support us also sometimes aggravate us and sometimes even infuriate us. And that job that we like most of the time? Well, it is a problem because it is not THE job. In other words, it is not perfect.

What is the problem looking for perfection? The problem is that none of us is perfect, no relationship is perfect, and no job is perfect. Contrary to popular belief, all the money in the world does not buy happiness, and even the image that many of us unfortunately hold up as the quintessential “perfect 10” bodies are not perfect in any way. There are computer enhanced touch-ups that turn attractive human beings into models of perfection that the rest of us normal people could never achieve and should never even aspire to.

Interestingly enough, our Torah reading, Parashat Emor, has something to say about this quest for perfection. While we learn elsewhere in the Torah that the animal being brought for ritual sacrifice to the Mishkan (desert tabernacle) needs to be without blemish (a nice way to say “perfect”), in our reading we learn that the Kohen (priest) who officiates at the sacrifice itself must be without physical blemish as well (I am using the Torah’s terms here, not expressing my own views).

Here is what the Torah states, “No man among the offspring of Aaron the priest who has a defect (Hebrew-Mum) shall be qualified to offer the Lord’s gift; having a defect, he shall not be qualified to offer the food of his God….He shall not profane these places sacred to Me, for I the Lord have sanctified them (Leviticus 21:21 and 23).”

The reading includes a long list of what would be considered in the ancient world as a defect worthy of the exclusion of the Kohen from officiating duties. Hearing this word “mum” or “defect” today, it is hard not be pained by the Torah’s apparent understanding of physical ailments or deformities. We live in an age that I would call “dramatic inclusion,” a time where we try, many times successfully, to include differently-abled people to the best of their abilities. Steps are removed from public buildings and ramps are added, provisions are made to include those with vision or hearing impairments, and we are asked to change our language, to think long and hard about words such as “normal” and “mainstream.”

As the Etz Hayim Humash suggests (pg. 719), there are ways for us to understand this Torah rule without having our modern sensibilities insulted. Maybe the physically disabled Kohen was excluded from officiating at public sacrifices so the worshippers did not get distracted from the central part of the worship (the animal) by the physical characteristics of the Kohen, or maybe the Kohen needed to be without blemish or defect to keep the perfection of God’s sanctuary intact.

One additional reason for this rule may relate to the role of the Kohen and the person offering the sacrifice. Remember that the Kohen did not represent humanity in this situation: He represented God’s perfection. Who represented humanity? The person bringing the sacrifice. And was this person perfect? Absolutely not. The person bringing the sacrifice was as imperfect as each one of us. In representing humanity, each one of us, just like the ancient worshipper, brings our flaws and faults before God. God created us, of course, and knows everything about our flaws and faults. By bringing them forward, however, we show God that we understand that we are not perfect, and we pledge our hard work and effort to improve those things about us that we control, and to accept those parts of us that are out of our control.

In today’s day and age, we should all strive to have our homes and places of worship accept the understanding that while God is perfect, God’s creations are not. And because God’s creations are not perfect, our holy spaces should be open and inviting to all. Synagogues without ramps or elevators to help those differently abled may have stunning architecture, but they do not reflect the beauty of our tradition, which implores us to be open to all who wish to worship God. How “beautiful” can your synagogue be if it excludes those blessed with the divine spark, but not blessed with functioning legs? A true spiritual space is one that invites everyone in, and that pleads for God to accept our prayers, brokenness and all.

Chag Sameach! This coming Sunday we will celebrate Pesach! No doubt this revelation must be quite bewildering, but before you start panicking, this Pesach is slightly less intense than the “real thing.” It is Pesach Sheni. The Torah describes the date of this Pesach as the 14th of Iyar, exactly one month after the original Pesach (Numbers 9:9). This was an opportunity for one who, for some reason, had not been able to celebrate Pesach at the correct time.

There is a discussion in the Talmud (Pesachim 93a) as to whether this festival is merely an appendage and attachment to the original Pesach, providing an outlet for those who were unable to act in the correct time, or whether it is a festival in its own right.

The final halachic ruling is that it is, indeed, a festival in its own right. Yes, it does only apply to one who had missed the original date, but it still retains a certain uniqueness and identity.

The difference between the two ideas is as follows: According to the opinion that Pesach Sheni is a form of compensation for the original one, it teaches us that it is never too late to remedy a mistake. A very important and valuable lesson, indeed. Just as a second opportunity was afforded to one who had missed the original Pesach, in a similar vein one can always try and reverse a mistake.

In Judaism, once there is an admission that a mistake has occurred, one must only look forward. Correct the error and move on. Do not ever believe that it is too late – or that it is impossible – to mend an injustice.

According to the second opinion, the angle is quite different: Since Pesach Sheni is not merely connected to the original Pesach holiday, but is a festival in its own right, there is an element of originality and innovation.

This presents two approaches towards life itself. We are, after all, constantly searching and probing for the perfect way. There is a strong belief and understanding that we each have a unique role and function in life. We have purpose and focus, and we are always trying to rise above the mundane.

The two different views on Pesach Sheni teach us two crucial points.

First, one must not dwell too much on hopelessness and despair. One is encouraged to be optimistic of success, however long it takes and despite the invariable difficulties involved. It is never too late to create a positive experience and to build on it.

Second, even when life looks good and promising, there is always room for newness and freshness. As a famous Chassidic saying put it: If good is good, then surely better is better. Our comfort zone is only so good. Since we all have potential, we should utilize it in the best way possible to create a new and better way to achieve those special things in life.

When our son was born, my husband, Craig, and I were, like most first-time parents, positively besotted with him. Craig would gaze admiringly at him for long stretches. One day he commented, “He is so gorgeous! And he reminds me of someone. I just can’t place who…” After a while, the answer came to him. With pride and, simultaneously, utter embarrassment, he announced, “I just figured out whom he reminds me of: me!”

It’s no secret that parents see themselves in their children. That is part of why we love them – and why we can be so hard on them. Whether or not our children are biologically related to us, we delight in seeing our ancestors in them, as well as imagining our future through them. It’s part of how we bond with our kids and why we can willingly make so many sacrifices for them. The fact that Craig owned up to his feelings makes him perhaps more honest or self-aware than the average parent, but no more proud or egocentric.

Yet, the tendency to see kids as a reflection of ourselves has the potential to turn ugly. In an article entitled “Of Nachas and Narcissism,” Clara Zilberstein, the noted psychologist, warned how easy and common it is for parents to become fixated on nachas foon kinder (joy and pride in one’s children), and fail to see their children for the independent and unique human beings they are. If you want to be a good parent, you need to separate enough from those kids you are besotted with, to allow your children to separate from you.

This perspective on parenting doesn’t begin with Zilberstein. It goes all the way back to the Torah – including the most recent and current Torah portions.

The title of last week’s Torah portion, Sh’mini, means “eighth.” Worship in the sanctuary was set to start on the eighth day, following a week of preparations. On the inaugural day of worship, two of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, took it upon themselves to prepare a sacrifice using a “strange fire,” and were then themselves immolated by God.

The episode is so difficult and mysterious that commentators don’t even agree whether the consuming fire was a celebration of the sons’ piety or a consequence for their insolence. Among the many layers of meaning, we can derive an important message about parenting.

The two agents of sacrifice who become its objects are Nadav, meaning “gift,” and Avihu, meaning, “he is my father.” Their very names communicate something about Aaron’s loss. These children were gifts from on high. Their ultimate father (referred to in Avihu’s name) is God. Aaron’s silence following their deaths – more difficulty and mystery! – may show restraint against anger or sorrow. It may also be understood as the break he needed to integrate a harsh truth: “those children were never truly and wholly mine; they always belonged to God and to themselves.”

The most common association with the number eight in Jewish life is circumcision. In the first lines of this week’s Torah portion, Tazria-Metzora, we are instructed to conduct the ritual bayom hashmini, on the eighth day of life. In Jewish numerology, the number eight represents physical manifestation following spiritual completion. After the good and glorious creation of the world, the tabernacle, or the child (number seven), we enter into the complex and fraught world of creation (number eight). On day eight, a father acknowledges the similarity and the distinction between himself and his son: “Because of this act, we will look alike and share the same covenant. With this act, I acknowledge that you belong to God, and not, ultimately, to me and your mother.”

This week’s portion also discusses mother and daughter – a pair, like father and son, who sometimes have difficulty separating. We are told that a mother who gives birth to a daughter remains ritually impure from the blood of childbirth for twice as long as a mother who gives birth to a son, necessitating a longer separation from the sanctuary. When one literally sees oneself in a child, more time and effort may be needed for separation – both from the child and from the community. Like Aaron absorbing his loss, a new mother needs silence and distance to absorb her new status as caretaker.

Like Aaron, the Talmudic figure Bruriah endured the death of two sons in one day. Suffering unspeakable loss, she comforted her husband with the image that their sons had been on loan from God – never truly theirs, and never, therefore, truly lost. In times of nachas, tza’ar gidul banim (normal difficulties of childrearing), or tragedy, parents do holy work when we bond and when we separate. The essence of love is found in the balance.

There is nothing more beautiful, rewarding, or mysterious, but no one ever said it was easy. Just ask your parents.

In this week’s Torah portion, Aaron stands before his brother Moses in despair. Aaron’s two young sons, Nadav and Abihu, flesh of his flesh, have been killed in a sudden sweeping fire that consumes them both. Moses, no doubt in shock himself, responds with a cryptic comment about God’s will. Aaron’s reaction resounds with his agony and heartbreak: “vayidom Aharon,”, “and Aaron was silent.”

The entire scene is wrapped in complexity — how do we comprehend the events leading to the deaths of these young men? What did Moses intend by his words to his brother? And, perhaps most poignantly, what did Aaron’s silence convey about his needs and his grief?

Like Moses, we may struggle to find the right words to say at the moment of death. Our impulse may be to utter clichés that make us feel more comfortable. Or maybe we stay away from mourners, telling ourselves that we are giving them their privacy. These strategies are our way of protecting ourselves from sorrow and misfortune. We may especially respond in these ways when the loss is a tragic one — the deceased is a child or the circumstances surrounding death are violent or unforeseen.

It takes great courage to be fully present for another person’s anguish. For this reason our sages in the Mishna teach that comforting mourners is a duty whose worth cannot be measured. When someone we care about suffers a loss, it is our obligation to provide solace because grief can be so terribly isolating. Therefore, Judaism commands us to be present for mourners, to let them know that they are not alone in an unfeeling universe.

Perhaps the meaning of Aaron’s silence is to teach us that we need to make space for mourners to grieve in their own way. I once knew a woman named Alissa whose beautiful daughter Amanda died at 4 ½ of complications from Influenza B, a strain of the flu that is rarely fatal. As Alissa transitioned back to her job and her life, she wrote a letter to her co-workers and friends. Here is an excerpt:

“I appreciate that many of you have asked about our well-being — and that it’s sometimes hard for people to know what to say in such circumstances. Please know that a smile can make my day. Please know that by mentioning Amanda’s name, you keep her memory alive. And know that your caring thoughts and hugs may make me cry, but that tears are healing for me. And, please, don’t be afraid to cry in front of me. Some days are easier than others; so please bear with me on the tough ones.” Alissa goes on to ask comforters not to try to ascribe meaning to Amanda’s death nor suggest the best ways for her and her family to move on.

“Please just say you’re sorry. Please just say you remember her if you do. Please just let me talk if I want to. Please just let me cry if I must.”

While every mourner grieves in his or her own way, mourning itself is a universal experience. Alissa’s words guide us in comforting all mourners, no matter who they may grieve for. When we mention a name or an event from the past we do not add to mourners’ sadness; instead, we let them know their loved one will always be remembered. When we cry before mourners, we do not deepen their despair; instead we let them know that they are not alone in their sorrow. When we approach the mourner with openness and without judgment, we let them know that we support their choices, and that we will accompany them however they choose to walk the path of grief.

Most importantly, when we move on with mourners, sharing with them moments of pleasure and delight, we let them know that they can grieve and still experience the fullness of life’s emotions.

“And Aaron was silent.” Let us rest in the silence of mourners, or in their tears, or in any reaction they may have to the death of a loved one. If we are fully present for mourners, then slowly, hearts will heal, and slowly hearts will once again rejoice, although perhaps never in quite the same way as before.

We got out of Egypt… and now what?

Everybody thinks that God took us out of Egypt to give us the Torah at Mount Sinai. I don’t agree completely. Before you ask: “Rabbi, what’s wrong with you?” let me make it worse and ask you: Who really took the Jews out of Egypt? And yes, I had only four cups of wine, not four bottles!

Let’s review the text. When the Jews left Egypt, the Torah says: “Vayehi b’shalach Paro” (Exodus 13:17). Most translations don’t translate the true meaning of b’shalach – “sent” – but offer an interpretation, saying that Pharoah “let go.” Well, the root sh-l-ch means to send somebody with the purpose of fulfilling a mission.

We see this throughout the Torah. Jacob sends messengers to his brother Esau. The name of that section, Parashat Vayishlach, translates “vayishlach” as sending. The messengers have a mission: to appease Esau.

Later on Moses sends spies to tour the land and their mission was to come back with a report before the conquest. The name of the parasha? Shelach Lecha. “God said to Moses: Send men to scout the land.” (Numbers 13:2).

Even birds were sent: Noah “sent” – vay’shalach – the raven and the dove to learn if the flood waters had receded (Genesis 8:7-8).

So it is clear that Pharaoh didn’t “let go.” He “sent” the people.

So what was the mission on which they were sent?

The answer is in the Torah, of course. Exodus 12:31-32 quotes Pharaoh: “Up, depart from among my people…. Go, worship the Lord as you said…. And may you bring a blessing upon me also.”

We came out of Egypt to fulfill the mission bestowed upon us at the very beginning of our existence as a nation: to become a blessing for the world.

This is the second time we are reminded why God chose Abraham to create the Jewish people, and why God took us out of Egypt to give us the Torah, creating then the Jewish nation.

In Genesis 12:2-3 God says to Abraham: “I will bless you, I will make your name great and you shall be a blessing…. and all the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you.”

We got out of Egypt, and now what? We count the days till we’ll receive the Torah to study it and to live according to its instructions. By doing that, we will develop the personality that will help us to become God’s partners, recreating His creation for the better.

We came out of Egypt and now, with deeds of loving-kindness, let us continue to labor for Tikun Olam. It is more than a mission. It is our obligation to our children and the generations to come.

May Hashem give us the strength and the courage to accomplish it.

Pesach is a time where we get together with family and friends to celebrate our redemption from the bondage of Egypt all those years ago. However, each year we recite at the seder the rabbinic charge, “B’chol dor vador, chayav adam lir’ot et atzmo k’ilu hu yatza miMitzrayim”. In each generation, we must view ourselves as if we were the ones who were liberated from Egypt.

This directive has classically been interpreted to mean that we must almost “transport” ourselves to another age; not just talk about it, but experience the redemption in the best and most serious possible way. For this reason, the longstanding custom of the Sephardic community is to actually march around the Seder table holding the matzah, to reenact the hasty departure!

Perhaps we may suggest an additional interpretation. In every generation there are lessons to be learned from the Exodus. The story of the Exodus is timeless and contains important messages, even for us 3,300 years after it happened. We must look at the story in each generation as if it has happened anew, so that it may speak to us in the deepest and most profound way.

Permit me to cite one example. One recurring theme of the narrative of the Exodus, perhaps more than even God’s miracles or the beauty and splendor of the land they will soon enter, is the education of our children (See Exodus 10:2, 12:26-27, 13:8, 13:14). There is a virtual obsession with communicating those events to those who were not there, with teaching the next generation about our heritage.

This important theme helps us appreciate one of the great anomalies in the story of the Exodus. Moses was, by all accounts, a righteous man, and a dedicated servant of God. Throughout the entire episode, he faithfully carries out his mission. Yet, Moses is constantly concerned, time and again, about his difficulty with speech. “I am not a man of words…I have difficulty speaking (Exodus 4:10).” God reassures Moses that He would help him: “Who is the one who created the power of speech? Who gives humankind the power to speak, or to see, or to hear? Is it not I, God? (4:11)”

While Moses knew full well that God can grant the power of speech or take it away from whomever He pleases, nonetheless Moses persists, mentioning his speech difficulties again numerous times throughout the story (See Exodus 6:12, 6:30)! Why was Moses, the ultimate servant of God, not persuaded by God’s argument? Why did his difficulty with speech matter so much to him, even after God’s constant reassurances?

Perhaps the answer is that Moses knew that an integral part of the entire story of the Exodus would be not just the story itself, but the ability to articulate that story, its fundamental underpinnings and messages, to the next generation. Moses knew all along that words would prove to be one of the keys to liberation. He knew that Pesach was to be not just the anchor of Jewish mythos and freedom, but also of Jewish education and the Jewish future: “When your child will ask in times to come… you must explain… (13:14).”

Though more than 3,000 years have passed, throughout the world the story of the Exodus is read annually on Pesach from a book whose title proclaims the importance of telling the story: The Haggadah, which means simply, “The Declaration.”

Indeed, b’chol dor vador, in every generation, we must seek to internalize this message, an important message not just for Pesach but for the entire year. Even now, as then, the key to our Jewish future lies in the education of our children.

This Pesach, as we sit around the Seder table, let us all rededicate ourselves to the timeless lessons of the Pesach story, and indeed view ourselves “as if we ourselves were redeemed from Egypt.”

While this Shabbat is Shabbat HaGadol—the great Sabbath immediately preceding Passover — my inclination is to delve into the weekly Parasha, Tzav, to gain a better understanding of the sacrificial rituals which were so important and so meaningful to our ancestors. While many will deem the sacrifices to be irrelevant or primitive, at worst, or complex and arcane, at best, those rites were the core of ancient worship, and we do ourselves a disservice by not trying to understand them and appreciate them.

The Korban Todah — the Thanksgiving Sacrifice — has always intrigued me. To be honest, it’s not so much the sacrifice that fascinates me as it is the way we human beings show or express true gratitude… or don’t. Often we offer a perfunctory “Thank God,” sometimes when we say it is truly heartfelt, but rarely does that sense of thankfulness linger. But in Temple times, when we were obligated to bring the Sacrifice of Thanksgiving, undoubtedly that sense of that gratitude had to have lasted longer and made a more profound impact. How could a public, dramatic ritual and the taking of an animal’s life not leave a longer lasting impression?

The Torah does not specify what circumstances required an individual to bring the Korban Todah. One might imagine that there were those who brought them regularly, even for the most minor occasion, and that there were others who rarely, if ever, brought one; that is human nature and reflects the wide variety of our personal perspectives and attitudes.

And because the Torah does not prescribe what occasions merited or mandated this sacrifice, the Rabbis, mining our biblical text for meaning and for answers, demonstrate that there are four specific occasions on which the Sacrifice of Thanksgiving had to be offered. In the Talmud (Berachot 54a) and in Rashi we find reference to Psalm 107 which begins with the well-known phrase, “Hodu ladonai ki tov, ki l’olam chasdo” — “Give thanks to Adonai, whose love is eternal.” And within the Psalm we find that a similar refrain that occurs four times: “Yodu ladonai chasdo, v’nif’l’otav liv’nei adam” — “Acknowledge Adonai’s love and wondrous acts for human beings.”

The circumstances described in this Psalm before each occurrence of this refrain are: 1) traveling through a desert, 2) being released from prison, 3) recovering from an illness and 4) crossing an ocean.

In post-Temple times, when sacrifices are no longer possible, our tradition instituted the beautiful blessing Birkat HaGomel to take the place of the Korban Todah, praising God “who bestows goodness on us despite our imperfections, and who has treated me so favorably.” I am moved by the sensitive phrasing of this blessing each time I have recited it and whenever I contemplate it.

Expressing gratitude to God should not be limited to instances of deliverance, however.

When Leah gave birth to her fourth son she named him Yehudah (Judah), declaring, “Hapa’am odeh et Adonai” — “This time I give thanks to Adonai” (Gen. 29:35). As Jews, we all bear the name of that fourth son Yehudah; we are called Yehudim. Thanksgiving and gratitude should be part and parcel of our make-up, and if not, we should at least try to be more cognizant of the many blessings which are ours, no matter how undeserving we may be.

A greater awareness of God’s blessings and a heightened sense of gratitude will make not just the upcoming Passover holiday, but everyday, more satisfying and fulfilling.

Those of us old enough to remember the pre-computer age will also remember the horror and pain of proofreading a paper only to find a typographical error. To correct the error properly required retyping the entire page. An alternative was to squeeze the missing letter into the space between words. I mention this because the opening word of the book of Leviticus, Vayikra, is written in such a manner. The last letter of the word Vayikra is an aleph, and is squeezed into the space between the rest of the word and the first letter of the next word which is also an aleph. This scribal peculiarity is found in every Torah scroll and in every manuscript of the Bible known to exist. (About 15 years ago when I had the opportunity to visit the Vatican Library and hold a 12th century Torah scroll that is part of their collection, I saw that the aleph of Vayikra was written small in that scroll as well.)

If one assumes that this aleph was a late addition to the Torah text we are still left with two possible assumptions; namely that a letter was left out and added or a later editor wants us to understand the verse in a certain manner. However, the possibility exists that the original phrase was not “Vayikra el Moshe,” “And God called out to Moses and God spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting,” but rather, “Vayikar el Moshe,” “And God was dear to Moses and therefore God spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting.”

This second translation, which is my own, but based upon the commentaries of the previous millennium, is meant to convey the idea that the prerequisite for us human beings to hear God is for us to affirm that God is dear to us. While the Book of Leviticus contains so many seemingly irrelevant rules, about rituals we no longer observe, the underlying message of the book is its call to us to pledge our love and loyalty to God and to become God’s voice and hands in the world.

In our high-tech age of computer word processing, the human touch that leaves us questioning whether we are dealing with a missing or an added letter is replaced by the homogenized perfection of every word, and, at times, every person appearing the same. In our divisive political climate both here in America and in Israel and within the American Jewish community as well, too many people are so certain that they have the right understanding of God’s Will and that their opponents have nothing but evil intent when they dare to disagree.

I suggest to you on this Shabbat Vayikra that the text of the Torah is calling out to all of us to recognize the uniqueness in each of us; to hear the text as a reminder that when we hold God dear as did Moses, God will call out to us and speak to us by transforming our dwelling places and our communal gathering points into true Tents of Meeting where we meet together with each other and with God and where we can dare to disagree with each other and still agree to respect our differences.

If we each listen for this call this week perhaps we will be better prepared to welcome Elijah at our Passover sederim and recognize that the Messianic Age is achievable if only we are willing to hear the call of the psalmist, “Hineh ma tov umanayim shevet achim gam yachad,” “Behold how good and beautiful it will be when we sit together on peace.”