(Delivered August 8, 2026)

Shabbat shalom

You know me. You know me so well that—especially if we’ve learned Torah together—you know that I often say [say it with me] the Torah is always right on time. And I usually do feel that way, but this week has been different.

This week, I wondered a lot about that ‘always’. Is it really always right on time? What about those readings that are impossible to relate to? What about the blood and guts of Leviticus, the cringiness of Abraham’s “sister act” or Lot’s terrible abuses in Sdom? What about the Golden Calf? 

Now, Parshat Re’eh is not so extreme, but still… I felt out of sync with it all week. Its timing was not matching with my own.

What I’ve had trouble getting friendly with in Re’eh is why the teaching is so rigid. Why, when it’s offering us wisdom about divine connection, does it couch it in so many rules and regs?

We have to meet at a particular place that God has chosen; the offerings are specified in nitpicky detail; the way the meat is prepared must be exactly just so.

If the aim is to elevate the everyday and make it holy, why is it so painstakingly prescribed? Why is it difficult, if not impossible, to fulfill the specifications? We tell ourselves that God wants us closer, so why the endless exactitude?

We know from living life that having a command of details can be essential in certain pursuits: architecture, baking, learning a language, filing your taxes.

But connecting with the divine? Shouldn’t that be a place of freedom, of expansiveness, of authentic and individual expression?

Re’eh is a Torah portion that makes its case through opposites—look at the topic sentence: 

רְאֵה אָנֹכִי נֹתֵן לִפְנֵיכֶם הַיּוֹם בְּרָכָה וּקְלָלָה
See, today I set before you blessing and curse

This is a world view that thrives on binaries, that divides everything into two sharp categories, blessing and curse. 

What, then, can we make of the implication that fulfilling God‘s specifications for holiness is so very exacting? The terrifying subtext is that anything that doesn’t meet these relentless standards is a curse, not a blessing. The stakes couldn’t be higher, and neither could the demands.

For example: After mentioning the idolatry that the text insists we must destroy every trace of, the Torah goes on to present its opposite, directing the Israelites: 

אֶל־הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר־יִבְחַר ה’ אֱלֹהֵיכֶם
Toward the place which Adonai your God will choose

This is what I mean by rigidity! Rather than discovering for ourselves where we feel the divine presence, God insists on dictating it. This is the אל קנא side of God—the jealous—dare I say controlling?—God.

On the other hand, perhaps by linking our sense of the divine to a clear understanding of what’s expected of us, the Torah lets us off the hook in a way. It relieves us of the anxiety and responsibility of searching for meaning and rather gives us a way to focus our longings. For a nation that is just beginning to feel its own feet underneath it, maybe this is not so terrible. A sense of fulfillment is generated through trying to satisfy God’s expectations. After all, if any place could be a holy place—if offerings could be made without taking the effort to go where God shows—the sense of reverence for the newly established religious practices might get watered down. I’m reminded of the line from the movie The Incredibles: “When everyone’s super, no one will be.”

The Torah is careful to differentiate between functional and holy. The animals that we slaughter and eat as part of ritual are categorically different from those we slaughter and eat for the sake of our bodily needs. 

The passage goes on with more requirements, this time describing who is part of the Temple rite::

אַתֶּם וּבְנֵיכֶם וּבְנֹתֵיכֶם וְעַבְדֵיכֶם וְאַמְהֹתֵיכֶם
וְהַלֵּוִי אֲשֶׁר בְּשַׁעֲרֵיכֶם כִּי אֵין לוֹ חֵלֶק וְנַחֲלָה אִתְּכֶם
You, your sons and your daughters,
your male slaves and your female slaves,
and the Levite within your gates,
who has no inheritance or share of his own.

The Torah stipulates that the holy offerings be shared with children, with slaves, with the Levites. The lesson, of course, is that holiness is more fully achieved when we are able to keep in mind the powerless, the isolated, and the economically limited.

It’s true that we’re allowed to slaughter an animal and eat its meat when we’re hungry. But the text is showing us that it’s different when we do so in a holy place, in the company of others, mindful of those in our midst who may need an invitation in order to participate. We read last week that a person cannot live by bread alone. Our Torah is inviting us to remember that when we gather as one, caring for the people who care for us, mindful of our spiritual purpose, something else becomes possible.

And what is that something else? Let’s look again to chapter 12.

וַאֲכַלְתֶּם־שָׁם לִפְנֵי ה’ אֱלֹהֵיכֶם וּשְׂמַחְתֶּם בְּכֹל מִשְׁלַח יֶדְכֶם
אַתֶּם וּבָתֵּיכֶם אֲשֶׁר בֵּרַכְךָ ה’ אֱלֹהֶיךָ
And you shall eat there before Adonai your God—
and you shall rejoice in all the works of your hands.
You and your households, whom Adonai your God has blessed.

In other words, when God’s conditions are met, we rejoice and are blessed. At first I thought the rejoicing was yet another requirement. Not only is God telling us exactly where to worship and forcing the issue of who’s included, but also our emotional tone is subject to divine dictates.

Turning the lens, I came to see that the rejoicing is a natural consequence. Not a demand but an invitation. Gathering with others with a spiritual purpose in mind, sharing food together, and including those who might not otherwise be able to participate is a source of joy and of holiness. When we’re looking for a way to infuse meaning in acts that would otherwise be utilitarian, the method is religious ritual, and the medium is community. We are told to go to the particular place, to include everyone in the household, everyone in the community, in order to experience שמחה together.

When God sets before us the two extremes בְּרָכָה וּקְלָלָה—blessing and curse, the choice seems stark, almost obvious. But the ensuing text unpacks the subtlety and the ways in which the choice is up to us. When we choose one another, and when we choose the mitzvot, we can’t help but choose ברכה. 

Shabbat shalom!