Parashat Emor: No empty rituals disconnected from social engagement

Today, let’s begin at the end.

וַיְדַבֵּ֣ר מֹשֶׁ֔ה אֶֽת־מֹעֲדֵ֖י יְהֹוָ֑ה אֶל־בְּנֵ֖י יִשְׂרָאֵֽל

“Moses spoke of the appointed times of the Lord to the children of Israel.” (Leviticus 23:44)

Parashat Emor takes us on a journey through our sacred times—our Moadim.

Although the portion lays out each of the festivals, tracing a path through the Jewish calendar, it ends by referring to them simply as Moadim—“appointed times.”

Not festivals, not celebrations, not consecrations. Just “times.”

It brings to mind Heschel’s beautiful image from The Sabbath, where he describes Shabbat—and by extension, all our festivals—as “cathedrals in time.” Sacred spaces carved out in the midst of ordinary time. Moments we set apart, sanctify, and inhabit with intention.

Our calendar is steeped in memory: the memory of the Exodus, the giving of the Torah, the fragility of life in the wilderness. And today, more than ever, the memory of our recent pain.

Each Mo’ed reminds us that we are part of something greater: a people who remember, who name their dead, and who honor life by continuing the journey. At first glance, Emor reads like a practical guide to the ritual calendar of the Jewish people, outlining days of rest, offerings, and meanings.

It begins with Shabbat, a day of rest for God and us.

Then comes Pesach, the festival of our freedom, followed by the Omer count, recalling the barley offering brought daily to the Temple in Jerusalem, expressing both spiritual preparation for receiving the Torah and gratitude for the first fruits of the land.

Naturally, we expect the next step in the chronology to be Yom Zikaron Teruah—the Day of Remembrance through the Shofar blast—what we call Rosh Hashanah. But the narrative is suddenly interrupted by this unexpected command:

“When you reap the harvest of your land, do not reap the very edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest. Leave them for the poor and the stranger. I am the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 23:22)

Then, the festival listing resumes: Yom Zikaron Teruah (Rosh Hashanah), Yom Kippur, and Sukkot.

Why the interruption? Why break the sacred flow with agricultural laws?

These two commandments—Pe’ah (leaving the corners of the field) and Leket (leaving what falls during harvest)—are more than agricultural guidelines.

They are ethical imperatives.

They teach us not to live with tunnel vision, not to see only the borders of our homes, our work, our comfort zones.

They call us to remember those who live beyond the fence, who depend on the leftovers of our abundance just to survive.

And the Torah doesn’t treat this as a side note. It places these commandments at the heart of the festival cycle.

The Midrash Sifra asks the same question: why break the list of festivals with these agricultural laws?

It answers:

“Whoever gives leket, pe’ah, shikhechah (forgotten bundles), and the tithe for the poor, it is as if they had built the Temple and offered sacrifices within it.

And whoever does not—it's as if the Temple stood, but they brought no offerings at all.”

It’s a profound teaching: Rituals are not complete unless they are anchored in social responsibility.

There is no true Pesach, no true joy in Shavuot, no Tekiah of the shofar, no fast of Yom Kippur, and no shelter in the Sukkah that holds meaning—if on the other side of our celebration, someone is going hungry.

A beautiful table means nothing if it blinds us to the hunger just beyond the door.

There is no true religiosity without compassion.

No prayer, no tradition, no halachic precision matters if we ignore the human being before us.

It is absolutely legitimate to live a comfortable life, to celebrate, to be joyous.

It stops being sincere the moment we forget that it is not just about “us”—not just about us as individuals, us as a community, or even us as the People of Israel.

Emor doesn’t just lay out sacred time; it teaches us how to live meaningfully within it—especially in difficult times like the ones we’re going through.

To invoke the sacred is not to bring fire from heaven.

It’s to light a candle where there is darkness.

To speak a word where there’s been silence.

To offer a hand where someone feels alone.

The Omer count is more than a ritual—it’s a preparation for commitment.

To God, to our history, to our Torah, to our people.

And that commitment can only emerge from true freedom, and from recognizing that our legacy must transcend our own lives.

It must connect past and future in one continuous story.

Today, we marked Lag BaOmer, the 33rd day of that count.

A day of light in the midst of mourning.

A break in the silence.

It recalls Bar Kochba’s rebellion, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, the bonfires and the songs.

But more than that, Lag BaOmer is a symbol of resilience.

Of finding joy even when the world feels fragile.

Of choosing hope, not to erase pain—but to honor it with light.

Emor teaches us: it is not the ritual that makes time sacred.

It is how we live in it.

Not the law alone, but the way we turn it into empathy.

Into community.

Into responsibility.

Holiness is not in a place.

It is in a way of being.

Not in perfect rituals or rigid rules, but in acts that dignify.

In times that are lived with intention.

In memories that don’t humiliate, but uplift.

In that spirit, Emor and Lag BaOmer intertwine: both call us to ask how we build community through time.

Not just by remembering, but by choosing which values we uphold.

How we respond to suffering, to loss, to fear.

Maybe the answer is in how we live each ordinary day; In gestures of care, in shared words, in moments of tenderness that help us stay human when indifference would be easier.

May we learn to build a new kind of sacred time; one in which no community, no society, no religion can flourish while those on the other side of the fence are fading into invisibility.

Shabbat Shalom and Moadim LeSimcha; may we celebrate our sacred times with joy.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier