By Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D. in El Cajon, California
When something hard hits, the first instinct is just: “why me”?
But that question doesn’t really get you anywhere. Maybe a better one is, ‘now what”? “What am I supposed to do with this?” Or even, if you can get there, “what could come out of this?” Not in a fake, everything-is-beautiful way. Just, a different angle. Because yes, we don’t choose what shows up. But we’re not completely stuck in how we deal with it either.
In Parsha Emor, there’s that section about physical conditions that keep a Kohen from doing certain עבודה (work.) And honestly, if you just read it straight, it can feel uncomfortable. Like, “why should that matter?”
But that reaction might be a little too quick. A lot of Torah doesn’t make sense if you’re just taking it at face value. Think about “an eye for an eye.” Sounds harsh until you realize it’s about compensation, not revenge. Or like walking into surgery and seeing blood. You don’t panic, because you understand the context. Without that context, you’re going to misread what you’re seeing.
That’s kind of what the Written Torah is without the Oral Torah. You’re looking at it, but you’re not really getting it.
And if you zoom out a bit, the Torah’s whole approach to human dignity was completely different from what was normal back then. Other societies didn’t just marginalize people with disabilities, they often got rid of them. Aristotle literally argued that children with deformities shouldn’t be raised. That wasn’t fringe thinking. That was accepted.
There’s that phrase, “a blessing in disguise.” Usually, you only say it after the fact, when things work out. In the moment, it doesn’t feel like that at all. Judaism doesn’t force you to pretend it does. It just pushes you to leave a little space for the idea that things are often not random, even if you have no clue what they mean right now. Hashem is there for you, even when you don’t see Him.
And if you’re honest, most of what shapes you are the things you never would’ve chosen. The pressure, the frustration, the stuff that feels like it’s blocking you, that’s usually where something real gets built. There’s a deep idea in Torah that what we see as our weakest places are often exactly where Hashem’s presence can enter most fully. Not when we pretend to be whole, but specifically when we recognize where we’re lacking.
Hashem isn’t looking for a polished, perfect version of us. He wants the truth, the real person, with all the shortcomings. When a person is willing to be honest, to stand before Him without masks, that’s where real change begins. If you can speak to Hashem openly, admit where you struggle, where you fall short, that itself becomes the opening for transformation. Because the Holy One, blessed be He, He asks for sincerity, and from there, He builds you, upon your imperfections.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe explains even further. He rejected the term “handicapped” altogether and called people “exceptional.” Not as a nice rebrand, but because he saw it as true, that people develop strengths in those places that others don’t. He also said something that’s harder to hear: the places you struggle most might be exactly where your work is. The easy parts? No, the difficult ones.
And going back to the Kohanim, those who couldn’t do certain עבודות weren’t pushed out. They were still fully part of everything. And in some ways, you could imagine they might connect even more deeply with people. Take the metzora, someone isolated, dealing with something visible and painful. A Kohen who knows what limitation feels like might be the one who understands him best.
A physical imperfection doesn’t say anything about who a person is underneath. And sometimes, going through that kind of challenge creates a kind of depth you just don’t get any other way.
So maybe the Kohen who isn’t serving in the Temple is doing something just as important, bringing kedusha into regular life. The messy, ordinary places that don’t look holy at all. Which is where most of us live. God’s power shows up greatest in our weaknesses. He is looking for the real you, the imperfect you. Get honest with yourself and Hashem and He will transform your life.
No one can take away what Hashem has set aside for you, not people, not setbacks, not even your own weaknesses. The only thing that can truly hold you back is when you begin to see yourself as broken beyond repair. We are never “damaged goods.” You are a soul created in the image of Hashem, with purpose and strength placed inside you. Life brings challenges to everyone. When you fall, you get back up. When things don’t go your way, you move forward with faith and trust in Hashem, not wallowing in self-pity. And when you make mistakes, you do repentance, accept Hashem’s mercy, without guilt, and try again, stronger and wiser.
At the end of the parsha, there’s the Ner Tamid, the constant flame. That image stays with you. No matter what’s going on outside, something inside keeps burning.
So maybe the goal isn’t to label yourself as broken or fine or whatever. Maybe it’s just to recognize that even the parts that feel off, the hard, uncomfortable parts, might be where something meaningful is happening.
It doesn’t always feel good. That’s real. But that doesn’t automatically make it empty.
In Emor, it lays out all the holidays, and you start to notice that they’re not just variations of the same thing. Each one has its own feel, its own rhythm. What makes them stand out isn’t just what you do on them. It’s that you step out of your regular life for a bit. You slow down, you’re with family, you laugh more, you disconnect from the usual grind. There’s something about marking time differently that makes it feel meaningful.
Even if someone doesn’t celebrate holidays, the idea still lands. Everyone has some way of setting certain days apart, of saying, “this one matters.”
My wife, Paula, has a birthday this week on May 4th, and it lines up with this idea in a way that feels kind of fitting. It’s not just another day on the calendar. It matters. It feels separate.
In this week’s parsha the Torah talks about counting the Omer from Pesach to Shavuot. But it’s not just counting days passing. It says, “u’sfartem lachem” count for yourselves. What does that even mean, to count a day “for yourself”?
Maybe it’s something simple: days aren’t just something you get through. You’re doing something with them. Whether you’re paying attention or not, they’re adding up in a direction.
So, we’re not counting because time is moving. We’re counting because something is forming. Something that is unique, something that matters in its own way.
And that’s what a birthday really is. Not just another year went by, but what did it turn into? How did all those regular, forgettable days build into something that matters?
Because in Judaism, counting means it matters. It means you’re going somewhere. During the Omer, no one celebrates day 17. But you don’t skip it either. Every day counts because it’s part of who you’re becoming by the time you get to Sinai.
A birthday works the same way. It’s not really about the number. It’s more like a quiet check-in. Nothing heavy, just honest. Emor is introducing a way of thinking about time. And once you see that, a birthday stops being just a celebration and becomes something deeper: a yearly invitation to reconnect with why you were created in the first place.
What did I invest in this year? What did I build, even in small ways no one noticed? What did all those ordinary days become?
And maybe the bigger question is: what do I want them to become now?
Because life isn’t shaped by big moments nearly as much as we think. It’s the accumulation of regular days. How you show up. How you speak. What you do when no one’s paying attention. That’s what adds up.
That’s why a birthday matters. Not just because of the day you were born, but because of everything you’ve been doing with the days since.
Wishing you, Paula, a healthy🎂, hopeful🎂, and happy🎂 birthday 🎂…a long strengthspan🎂, healthspan🎂, joyspan🎂, and lifespan🎂 ad meah v’esrim🎂.
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Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D., prepares a weekly D’var Torah for Young Israel of San Diego, where he and his family are members. They are also active members of Congregation Adat Yeshurun.