Our tradition suggests that we can learn important spiritual lessons from the confluence of holy days and parashiyot ha’shavua—the weekly Torah portions. For example, Parashat Miketz almost always coincides with Chanukah, and Parashat Bamidbar almost always occurs just before Shavuot. There are many explanations that attempt to explain why these are not coincidences.

By extension, it is not too random to observe that we are always well into the Book of Vayikra, somewhere between parashiot Tzav and Acharei Mot/Kedoshim when Pesach arrives. All of these parashiot provide detailed delineations of the various offerings presented in the Tabernacle and the precise methods of preparing and offering them. Traditional commentaries reveled in these myriad details, seeing in them a deep desire to reach the Divine through careful preparation and meticulous adherence to a sacred ritual while garbed in clothing designed to reflect solemnity and holiness.

But if the detail was divine for traditionalists, it is devilish for moderns. Most readers see Sefer Vayikra as some sort of cultic ritual jarring to the sensibilities: blood spills on the altar, is sprinkled here and there, tossed upon the people, and dashed off walls. Gruesome, gory material—pity the poor b’nai and b’not mitzvah struggling to write divrei Torah about these parashiyot! What is the point of reading about these rituals?

The Conservative movement was so conflicted by all this that in 1946 its Siddur made a significant liturgical shift. It changed the Hebrew and the English in a key part of the Shabbat Musaf prayer that commemorates these offerings from a request in future tense that “may we offer these offering again in the future” to “these offerings were offered” in the past tense. The intention was to acknowledge the past without hoping for its future restoration, which was the key part of the Musaf prayer. Even more telling was the Meditation added : “We remember the devotion of our ancestors as they worshipped in Thy Temple in the days of yore. How deep was their love of Thee…” In other words: our ancestors had the right emotional approach but their actions were cultic and dated.

But this approach ignores the key role attention to detail plays in Judaism. The intricate preparation and ritual associated with the offerings required deep concentration and attentiveness of the officiating Cohanim. The predictability of the ritual allowed observers to become familiar with it through observation and provided a religious spectacle enhanced by an audience of thousands. The intricate symbolism of the ceremony reflected the Divine, while the concentration required to perform these repetitive tasks properly paralleled the human search for the Divine. G-d is in the details, if one pays enough attention.

And this may be the reason Pesach arrives in the midst of Vayikra. As its name connotes, Pesach is about order, predictability, and concentration. Everyone knows the “script”: the haggada—which begins with a recitation of proper “seder”—order—in which we perform this entire ritual meal. Yet merely going through the haggada is insufficient. Our Sages commanded us to enlarge on the story, make it our own, add our own tunes and family tales to it. We must do everything required to bring personal attention and ownership to a tightly organized and highly predictable ritual meal.

For the Intelligent Jew appearances are deceiving. At first glance both the offerings and the Seder seem almost too ritualistic and detailed to demand our attention, let alone our interest. Yet upon closer inspection we see their depth: each marshals the emotions that allow us to search for the Divine. Considering the state of the world today, we will need all the help we can get.

Our weekly parasha begins with the familiar command to count males of military age through the use of a half-shekel. In the past we have analyzed these verses, which are also the Maftir reading of Shabbat Shekalim, in terms of the importance of collectively raising the funds to buy the communal offerings for the Sabbaths and Festivals of the yearly cycle. We also learned that these verses teach us that we always count Jews indirectly, so as not to invite the Evil Eye.

But we have not yet asked: why contribute money? Could the Torah simply command that each male donate a certain offering—a goat of a specified age perhaps—that would be used in the Temple and skip the use of donations. Two objections readily come to the fore. If everyone donated animals once per year, there would be a glut of animals at this time and there would be a considerable cost factor, let alone a space issue, with maintaining them all around or near the Temple. In addition, the Torah wanted to minimize jealousy—there were already enough offerings that could be animals of the same age but size was not specified, so it would be possible for a rich man to buy a much larger or sleeker yearling goat than a poor man. That is why the half shekel was preferable, as the text explains; “the rich man may not give more, nor may the poor man give less….”

Yet one cannot help but view the above explanations as effective, but in a narrow technical sense. Faith is driven by emotional involvement as well. Let me suggest that even the apparently bureaucratic act of taking a military and religious census had a deep emotional connection. Rashi famously explains “you shall love the L-rd your G-d with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might” as follows: “all your heart” refers to total belief in G-d, “all your soul” is the command to undergo martyrdom if necessary to uphold your faith, and “all your might” is to use all necessary funds to serve G-d. The first two explanations are straightforward enough, but how does “all your might” connote “all your property”? Rashi, realizing the obliqueness of this, continues “there are people whose possessions are dearer to them than life.”

This is why the Israelites were commanded to be counted with shekalim. Many people find it hard to spend money for unselfish reasons. Maimonides suggest that the best cure for cheap people of this sort is to compel them to overspend until they learn how to spend money more freely. Here too, the Torah teaches that everyone who fights for the defence of the people needs to show their spirit by giving tzedakah. Being a true member of a community requires reaching into your pocket to assist others. In some cases the others are needier than you; in this case, the funds build what we would now term “communal infrastructure.” To paraphrase Rashi, the forced donation of the half-shekel serves as an antidote to those people who love their money too much and wish to withhold it from the community. Here we see the Torah’s remedy for the growth of narcissism: the forced recognition via the pocketbook, that there are others besides yourself in the world—and in this lies the basis of the creation of community.

This message is strategically placed three weeks before Pesach. The very name of this Chag, “Passover” reminds us that the Angel of Death came for those Hebrews who were too acculturated, assimilated, or disbelieving to put blood on their doors. Separating from the community is ultimately deadly both spiritually and physically. We are blessed with so many options to assert our Jewishness today—let us seek them out and celebrate them.