Rabbi Debbie Reichmann
This week’s Torah portion is Shemini: Leviticus 9:1 – 11:47
Forty years ago, I stood shaking in almost abject terror at the bimah of my synagogue as I chanted the verses of Parashat Shemini and its Haftarah. Yes, it was my bat mitzvah, and truth be told, I remember very little of it. I do recall that the D’var Torah I gave somehow connected the extensive lists of animals that were and were not permitted to be eaten in Judaism with Jewish medical ethics. I spoke — quite earnestly, I imagine — about euthanasia, pikuach nefesh, and my lifelong (at the ripe age of 13) aspiration to become a doctor.
This year, I will stand again in that same synagogue (though on a different bimah) and chant those same verses. Mostly because I can, and because I think it will be fun. But as I read the parasha again, four decades later, and sit down to write this D’var Torah, I find myself drawn in a different direction. The same verses that, at 13, spoke to health and safety, now seem to be about something else entirely.
The laws of kashrut are some of the most visible, widely practiced and yet deeply mysterious parts of Jewish life. In Leviticus 11, they appear rather suddenly. These verses seem disconnected from the sections that precede them — the intricate rules about chatat (sin offerings) — and even more so from the shocking narrative that opens the parasha, the sudden death of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, who are consumed by divine fire after offering “strange fire” to God. But this kind of narrative shift is not unusual in the Torah. Sequential storytelling often gives way to lists of laws, digressions or entirely unrelated episodes.
The laws of kashrut, like their unexpected placement in the text, are presented without much explanation. Over the centuries, commentators and scholars have tried to rationalize them. They have linked them to health, environmental concerns, aesthetics or symbolic meaning, but these are mostly conjectures. The Torah itself gives only one direct explanation: “You shall sanctify yourselves and be holy, for I am holy” (Leviticus 11:44).
Holiness, then, is the reason. Through these dietary laws, the Israelites are asked to draw closer to God, to live lives set apart. Not coincidentally, these dietary laws make Jewish people visibly distinct from the surrounding nations. Along with other outward markers of Jewish identity — tzitzit, head coverings, the observance of Shabbat — kashrut is a daily practice that both expresses and reinforces communal and religious identity.
We are to keep kosher because we are Jewish. We are to keep kosher because it draws us nearer to the sacred. We are to keep kosher because it builds and sustains a sense of community and connection. It is more than fine to wonder and speculate if there are practical rationales to these laws; we wonder and speculate about much of the Torah, and we have for centuries. But, ultimately, we can only shrug and say maybe. Because, we will not know.
As we emerge from the week of Passover, food and food traditions are especially close to our hearts. The Seder table, laden with familiar dishes and beloved rituals, serves as a gathering place for generations. Matzah ball soup just like our grandmothers made. Brisket that tastes of recollection. Charoset prepared “the way we’ve always done it.” Food is culture. Culture is tradition. And tradition is the living fabric of religion.
At 13, I thought this parasha was about what sustains our bodies. Now, I think it’s about what keeps us whole. This parasha is not about feeding our bellies; these are the nutrients of the soul. Holiness, community, identity and memory.
Rabbi Debbie Reichmann has been the rabbi and Jewish Spiritual Director for the Interfaith Families Project of Greater Washington since 2020. She joined IFFP in its 25th year and is proud to serve this vibrant community of interfaith families.
