Parshat Emor is one of those parshiot that is full of mitzvot. In fact, 63 commandments are spelled out in our parsha. We are taught the laws of kohanim, sacrifices, holidays, justice and sanctity of the Land of Israel. Among other mitzvot, we also learn about three distinct features of the Temple service that are supposed to represent an eternal covenant between the Jews and Their Master, Almighty God. The Torah says:

Command the Israelite people to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly (Vayikra 24:2).

You shall take choice flour and bake of it twelve loaves, two-tenths of a measure for each loaf (Vayikra 24:5).

With each row you shall place pure frankincense, which is to be a token offering for the bread, as an offering by fire to God (Vayikra 24:7).

These three pesukim focus on light, food, and scent; three experiences that make a house into a home. However, the homeliness of God’s house draws attention to how strange it is that God has a house at all. God Godself says:  “And they shall make for Me a mikdash—”a house of holiness” and I shall dwell in their midst” (Shemot 25:8). 

Yet such a request is strange, for God does not really need any house to dwell in it—it is God’s presence that dwells in our midst, not any physical representation of God. As Yishayahu says:

Thus said the Lord: The heaven is My throne, and the earth is My footstool: Where could you build a house for Me, what place could serve as My abode? (Yishayahu 66:1)

Why then do we, the people, need this house? What is a house, a home, really? A house that is a home is not simply a place where a human being comes to sleep after a long day at work. It is a place where one can always find three main things—warmth of food, a welcoming place to stay and a sweet fragrance of that specific spot that one holds dear.

Not surprisingly then, our parsha teaches that three things are to be a constant presence in The Temple—the House of God that exists for people: clear oil for light, bread made of fine flour, and frankincense—a fragrance that was known for its health benefits since antiquity.

Concerning the light of the menorah, Ramban, in his commentary on the verse, says that the word “regularly” means that the lamp must be lit “continually, even on the Sabbath; continually, even in impurity.” Meaning that this light is so important that even if all of the priests happened to be impure, one had to be chosen to light the menorah. Without the menorah, there is no illuminated house to guide a person to a safe haven close to the presence of The Eternal.

Light, in its deeper sense, is about being seen as much as it is about seeing.

In the darkness of our own time, we have heard testimonies from the hostages that were held in the tunnels of Hamas, who tried to light even the smallest flame—a match for a few seconds – in order to see their surroundings and each other. On the other hand, Rabbi Alex Israel teaches in his Tanach podcast—we will only “have light in our dwelling places” when we succeed in genuinely seeing and valuing the people around us.

Bread, of course, is the most important provision. The twelve loaves of bread signify that every tribe, just like every person, is important and should not go hungry. This bread was usually eaten by the priests after the new weekly portion was placed on the show table, but in cases of emergency, this bread was given to the hungry after the new bread was baked (See Shmuel I, Chapter 21 when David, on the run from Shaul with his men asked the priests for food and was given the only thing they had—showbread.)

In his commentary Haamek Davar, the 19th century scholar Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin additionally points out that this bread signifies both the ability of the Torah learners to “consume Torah” without worrying about where their daily bread comes from and to be satisfied with only a minimum amount of bread. 

Having both the warmth of light and the satisfaction of bread, why do we need frankincense? Consider a weary traveler who comes to a house lit with beautiful lights where he is given a loaf of bread, but is nevertheless made to feel unwelcome. The house smells unpleasant and the tension is felt in the air. How would the traveler feel? 

Consider another scenario, one where the house has an enjoyable fragrance as if the very air of the dwelling is prepared for invited guests and those who just happened to be near enveloping the weary traveler. The pleasant smell compliments the light and just like being a “pleasing aroma for God” (Vayikra 2:2), it is a pleasing aroma for a human being. Additionally, Rashi notes that “​​frankincense was burnt when the (showbread) was removed from the golden table every Sabbath. The frankincense thus served as a memorial for the bread, because through it, the bread was recalled to memory.” 

Scientifically, the sense of smell is connected to memory. Unlike other senses, smell has a very direct pathway to the brain’s emotional and memory centers. Maybe this is the pleasant smell we are trying to recreate today when we place flowers on our Shabbat tables, inviting our guests to feel welcomed in every way—by the lights, food and even the very atmosphere of the fragrant house and remember this smell long after they left.

The trait of hospitality that our nation got from Avraham, who the Midrash claims had his tent open on every side so that guests could come from every direction, was raised to another level in the very structure of the Mishkan built in the desert and later recreated in Jerusalem.

This is the trait that is present today long after the Temple is gone in every Jewish household.

This trait accompanied me during my childhood as exemplified by my father, Shimon ben Nachum, whose tenth yahrzeit is observed on Parshat Emor this year. The lights, the bread, and the specific smell of our house—a particular mixture of cold, fresh, snow-filled air and hot, very strong tea always at the ready—invited guests in and accompanied them on their journeys. My father did not know much about the Temple and its importance, but lived the values that Judaism brought to the world and his home echoed the welcoming presence of God’s House. And even now, 10 years after his passing and far from the land he called home, his memory is forever present in everyone who knew him personally or heard stories about his generosity.