Parshas Shemini: What Doesn’t Belong
Pesach is over.
The dishes are put away. The house goes back to normal. The “festival of freedom” is already starting to feel like a memory, and the routines of the year begin to settle back in.
But I’m still thinking about my own Yetzias Mitzrayim. What I’m trying to leave behind, and where I’m trying to move toward. Because the truth is, even when the external Egypt is gone, the internal ones—the habits, the patterns, the ways we check out—have a way of quietly returning.
And then I see a line from tomorrow's Hayom Yom (24 Nissan):
לא טוב האבן מיר אלע
We all have something that isn’t good.
Even in the Beis Hamikdash, the Korban La’Azazel—the goat sent away—was part of the avodah.
The dishes are put away. The house goes back to normal. The “festival of freedom” is already starting to feel like a memory, and the routines of the year begin to settle back in.
But I’m still thinking about my own Yetzias Mitzrayim. What I’m trying to leave behind, and where I’m trying to move toward. Because the truth is, even when the external Egypt is gone, the internal ones—the habits, the patterns, the ways we check out—have a way of quietly returning.
And then I see a line from tomorrow's Hayom Yom (24 Nissan):
לא טוב האבן מיר אלע
We all have something that isn’t good.
Even in the Beis Hamikdash, the Korban La’Azazel—the goat sent away—was part of the avodah.
That means the parts of us that aren’t aligned aren’t outside the system. They are part of the work itself.
Not everything is meant to be brought close. Some things are recognized, named, and sent away.
Because if mir aleh—if we all have something that isn’t yet aligned—then being able to see it matters. And anything that blurs that, even slightly, makes that work harder. Not just alcohol, but anything that softens the edges enough that we stop being fully honest with ourselves.
--
But mir aleh..
Now the avodah is quieter. Maybe even more important. Not removing everything at once, but learning how to distinguish what to bring closer, and what to send away.
Good Shabbos,
They aren’t outside the avodah. They are the avodah.
Not everything is meant to be brought close. Some things are recognized, named, and sent away.
Mir aleh. All of us.
--
That lands differently right after Pesach. Just when we might think we’ve cleared something, we’re placed straight into Sefiras HaOmer, on the way to our own Matan Torah.
--
That lands differently right after Pesach. Just when we might think we’ve cleared something, we’re placed straight into Sefiras HaOmer, on the way to our own Matan Torah.
Not as a finish line, but as a process. A reminder that nothing is done. Everyone still has their avodah, their own tikkun, the place that isn’t yet aligned.
And that meets us right in Parshas Shemini.
In the middle of the inauguration of the Mishkan, while Moshe and Aharon are doing everything right, Aharon’s eldest sons, Nadav and Avihu, die. The Torah says they brought a foreign fire, but it doesn’t clearly explain what went wrong. It leaves it open. Maybe that’s part of the point.
And that meets us right in Parshas Shemini.
In the middle of the inauguration of the Mishkan, while Moshe and Aharon are doing everything right, Aharon’s eldest sons, Nadav and Avihu, die. The Torah says they brought a foreign fire, but it doesn’t clearly explain what went wrong. It leaves it open. Maybe that’s part of the point.
They were also inside the avodah, on its highest day, and something still wasn’t aligned.
And immediately afterward comes the instruction to Aharon: do not drink wine when you come to serve, so that you can distinguish between holy and not, between pure and impure, and be able to teach the nation.
It’s not just a warning about drinking. It’s a condition for avodah. Anyone who serves, and certainly anyone in a position of influence—a parent, a teacher, a leader—needs clarity, the ability to distinguish, to see what belongs and what doesn’t.
And immediately afterward comes the instruction to Aharon: do not drink wine when you come to serve, so that you can distinguish between holy and not, between pure and impure, and be able to teach the nation.
It’s not just a warning about drinking. It’s a condition for avodah. Anyone who serves, and certainly anyone in a position of influence—a parent, a teacher, a leader—needs clarity, the ability to distinguish, to see what belongs and what doesn’t.
Because if mir aleh—if we all have something that isn’t yet aligned—then being able to see it matters. And anything that blurs that, even slightly, makes that work harder. Not just alcohol, but anything that softens the edges enough that we stop being fully honest with ourselves.
--
I’ve lived in that kind of blur. Not a life falling apart, just a layer of distance. Enough to function, but not enough to really see.
Last year February, I stopped drinking. It was a clear decision. I knew I was done.
The final separation came later. Around Pesach, there were a couple of moments where I still held a cup—small, intentional—and marked that it no longer had a place in the middle of life. Not a forever goodbye. Just putting it where it belongs. Away.
Now, a year later, I’m still here, still alcohol-free. Still not perfect, but better able to see what belongs and what doesn’t—what I was actually bringing in, and what needed to be set aside.
But mir aleh..
The calendar turns, and the work returns with it. There are still other areas that need attention, still parts that need to be seen clearly and worked on honestly.
Pesach didn’t finish anything. It opened something.
Pesach didn’t finish anything. It opened something.
Now the avodah is quieter. Maybe even more important. Not removing everything at once, but learning how to distinguish what to bring closer, and what to send away.
Good Shabbos,
Berke