There is something deeply human—and deeply holy—about a boundary. We are born into limits: the first breath we take is bounded by lungs that can only hold so much air. The arc of a life, however long or brief, is marked by time we cannot extend. And yet, in our modern culture, limits are often viewed as problems to solve, obstacles to transcend, reminders of frailty rather than signals of sanctity.
Parshat Emor is, on its surface, a parasha of limits. It outlines who may serve in the priesthood and under what conditions. It describes which physical defects disqualify a kohen from sacrificial duty. It sets rules for sacred time—what can and cannot be done, when and how. Shabbat, Pesach, Sukkot, and Shavuot are not free-floating festivals; they are tethered to specific days, with specific observances. Emor is a parasha obsessed with distinctions, boundaries, and lines not to be crossed.
And perhaps that’s why it can be difficult to read.
In a culture that celebrates self-expression and autonomy, Emor’s insistence on structure can feel stifling. Why should a priest be excluded from temple service because of a physical blemish? Why should work be prohibited on one day and not another? Why draw these lines at all?
But maybe the Torah is offering us a countercultural—and profoundly spiritual—truth: that holiness does not emerge from boundlessness, but from reverent boundaries. That sanctity is not found in the freedom to do everything, but in the wisdom to choose what not to do.
We often think of the sacred as the infinite, the vast, the uncontainable. But in Judaism, the sacred is made real by limits. God creates the world not only through action but through restraint. God ceases on the seventh day, and it is precisely that cessation that gives rise to Shabbat. God draws a boundary between light and dark, sea and land, heaven and earth—and in that act of separation, kadosh, holiness, is born.
Heschel, in The Sabbath, speaks of holiness not in terms of space, but time. He calls Shabbat “a palace in time,” a sanctuary we enter not by going somewhere but by stopping. In his view, Shabbat is a weekly protest against the tyranny of time as commodity. It is a refusal to let our lives be defined by doing. But Shabbat only becomes Shabbat because of what we withhold. We don’t create the holiness of Shabbat by working harder—we do it by not working. The sacred is not in the extra; it is in the intentional less.
So too with the priesthood. The Torah’s regulations about who may serve in the Temple are painful to our modern ears. We believe—rightly—that every human being bears the image of God, and no one should be excluded from spiritual service based on physical ability. But the ancient world operated under different metaphors, and in that context, wholeness of body was associated—however imperfectly—with wholeness of offering.
Still, perhaps there is another layer. The very fact that the priesthood was restricted is itself a reminder: not everyone is called to do everything. To be a kohen is to accept limitations. To be a community is to recognize that roles differ, and dignity must not depend on function alone. The holiness of the priest is not greater than that of the people—it is simply different. And if we cannot see the holiness in the person who stands at the edge of the altar, then we have misunderstood what the altar is for.
David Wolpe once wrote that “freedom without structure is chaos, and structure without freedom is tyranny. Judaism is the art of holding both.” Emor asks us to rediscover that art. It asks us to consider that maybe the lines we draw in our lives are not only burdens, but blessings. That maybe the way we build character is not by chasing every impulse but by disciplining some of them. That maybe our spiritual lives deepen not in the moments when everything is possible, but when we accept that some things must wait, some desires must be tamed, and some sacred spaces can only be entered with preparation and care.
This message feels especially urgent in our current cultural moment. We live in a time of radical boundary-blurring. Work bleeds into rest. Personal time dissolves into obligation. Screens follow us into the bedroom. The Sabbath commandment has not just been neglected—it has been nearly erased from our imagination. We no longer believe that stopping is virtuous. We believe it is wasteful. We no longer revere constraints; we resent them.
But what if Shabbat is not a burden, but a boundary that makes freedom possible? What if turning off our phones, stepping away from email, lighting candles and blessing wine—is not quaint nostalgia, but an act of sacred resistance?
Emor challenges us to ask: what are the boundaries we need to reclaim in order to live lives of greater meaning? What lines have we erased that need to be drawn again—with care, with compassion, but with conviction?
In a world that tells us to do more, buy more, consume more, Emor whispers: less can be holy. In a world that values mobility over rootedness, fluidity over commitment, Emor reminds us that holiness often requires staying in place. That time can be sanctified. That roles can be meaningful. That difference need not imply hierarchy—but it must be honored.
There is wisdom in knowing where to draw the line. There is even greater wisdom in knowing that the line itself is not the goal—but what it protects.
Because holiness is not an accident. It does not arrive uninvited. It is built, protected, nurtured. It requires fences, not to keep others out, but to remind ourselves what lies within. A sacred boundary is not a wall. It is an embrace.
May we have the courage to draw boundaries that honor our souls, the humility to step back when it is not our turn, and the clarity to know that holiness is not just found in what we reach for—but in what we let rest.