Last week, an article called Covid-19 Six Years Later by Dr. Katelyn Jetelina, an epidemiologist, was shared with me.

She writes: “When researchers compared countries that fared well during COVID-19 to those that didn’t, they looked at health care infrastructure, population density, universal health care, age distribution, how many vaccines they got, and a ton of other factors. But the strongest predictors of COVID-19 infections weren’t any of these. It was trust: trust in government, trust in institutions, trust in each other. Countries where people broadly believed their neighbors and leaders were acting in good faith did measurably better. The United States ranked among the lowest among high-income countries.”

That speaks volumes about our country and, to varying extents, about more and more parts of the world.

We have retreated into our bubbles and rarely find ways to interact across lines of difference. Our world, which once got its news from three major networks that at least aspired to present facts through trusted reporters and anchors like Walter Cronkite, has faded into the background — replaced by more and more media outlets with strong agendas.

This has created a reality where parts of the population are receiving entirely different versions of what is real. 

And social media has accelerated this process, as we sit in echo chambers that only deepen the divide.

All of that breeds mistrust.

Even in our shul, I have heard and seen people struggling to connect with others who hold different perspectives on Israel, the current war, social and racial justice, immigration, and much more. 

While I try to present the Torah’s wisdom and the tradition’s perspective on these, it has become harder and harder.

The book of Vayikra/Leviticus has no action, no stories, no narrative, just laws, both ritual, as in the sacrifices, as well as ethics.

The opening words are noteworthy for a number of reasons.

וַיִּקְרָא אֶל־מֹשֶׁה וַיְדַבֵּר יְהֹוָה אֵלָיו מֵאֹהֶל מוֹעֵד לֵאמֹר׃ “[God] called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying…”

This is an unusual formulation. Normally, Moses is simply spoken to — daber — or commanded — tzav. But here we have Vayikra: God first calls him.

Rashi, our great French commentator from a thousand years ago, cites the rabbinic tradition that this language of vayikra is a l’shon hibah, a language of affection, the kind of calling used by the ministering angels who call to one another, “Kadosh, kadosh, kadosh – holy, holy, holy” in Isaiah.

There needs to be affection and connection in order to truly speak to someone.

But there is something else curious about this word Vayikra. It is written with a small aleph. 

What might seem like a scribal detail became the source of much later interpretation. 

The humility teaching associated with that small aleph is especially found in later commentators such as the Baal HaTurim, Rabbi Yaakov ben Asher, a 14th-century German-born Spanish rabbinic commentator, who taught that Moses, in his modesty, sought to minimize the grandeur of God’s calling and so received the small aleph.

We, too, may need to make ourselves a bit smaller — a bit less forceful with our own opinions, a bit less certain. 

We need the humility to realize that we may not have all the answers.

And there is also the sound of the letter aleph, which is… no sound at all. Or, as Paul Simon wrote, “the sound of silence.”

When we are silent, we make room for the other. 

Sforno — a 16th-century Italian rabbi, physician, and commentator — adds another layer on the second verse of Leviticus: “adam ki yakriv mikem” — when any among you presents an offering.”

He reads the verse not only as bringing an offering from among you, but as bringing something of yourselves with humility and an open heart. 

In other words, what God wants is not simply the sacrifice on the altar, but the inward offering of the self.

That matters deeply. 

Because one of the challenges of sacrificial language is that it can feel distant, hierarchical, priestly — something done by specialists, not by all of us together.

But the Torah’s opening move points in another direction: each person brings; each heart matters; the offering must come mikem — from within you.

And that brings us to one sacrifice in particular, the ḥatat, the sin offering, introduced later in our parashah, in today’s Torah portion.

There, the Torah speaks of wrong done unintentionally, and then repeats a striking idea: when the sin becomes known, there is a path to respond, to bring something, to repair.

The point is not perfection. 

Trust grows not because no one ever fails, but because people can acknowledge harm, take responsibility, and find a way back to one another.

Last week, I was encouraged to read Richard Haass’s The Bill of Obligations. 

He argues that democracy depends not only on rights but also on citizens’ responsibilities. 

He lays out ten core obligations needed to sustain American civic life.

Citizens should be informed: learn enough about history, government, and current events to make sound judgments.

They should get involved: vote, serve, volunteer, and participate in community life rather than standing on the sidelines.

They must remain open to compromise. In a democracy, no one gets everything they want, and compromise is necessary for progress.

They must remain civil. Disagreement is normal, but opponents should still be treated with respect, not contempt.

Citizens must reject violence as a political tool. Disputes belong in elections, courts, and debate, not in threats or force.

They should value norms as well as laws, because democracy depends on unwritten rules too — honesty, restraint, and accepting legitimate outcomes.

They should promote the common good, not only their own interests.

They should respect government service and institutions, even while criticizing them when necessary.

They need to teach civics because without civic education, democracy becomes fragile.

And they must put country before party, ideology, or faction. 

Haass’s overall message is that democracy is not self-sustaining. It survives only when citizens practice habits of responsibility, restraint, participation, and mutual respect. 

And respect, responsibility, and faithfulness are bound up in the name of our community: emunah.

In biblical Hebrew, emunah carries the sense not only of faith but also of steadiness, faithfulness, and trustworthiness. It is related to the world of amen — something firm, reliable, true.

That is who we aspire to be for one another: showing up, being there, taking care of someone when they have a new baby, when they are sick, when they are bereaved, and in moments of joy and celebration.

But it also means faith. For me, that includes faith in God and in our tradition and its power — but also faith in other people.

Even when people are difficult, even when we disagree, even when trust feels frayed, we remind ourselves that every person carries a spark of the Divine, that we are all created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God.

And building faith in one another is one of the few ways we can begin to bridge our divides.

So perhaps that is the gentle call of Vayikra for us this Shabbat: to speak with more affection, to listen with more humility, to offer something of ourselves, and to make repair possible when we fall short.

In a world of widening mistrust, we are called to become people of emunah — faithful, trustworthy, and present for one another — here in this shul, in our neighborhoods, and beyond.

That is how trust is rebuilt.

That is how division begins, slowly, to heal.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)