— Learning to Discern

The Lord speaks to Moses
and Aaron,

not only about worship
inside the sanctuary,

but about what enters
the body,

what is eaten,

what is touched,

what is carried,

what is clean,

and what is unclean.

Holiness
has entered
the kitchen.

I pause here.

Perhaps this is
the first surprise
of Leviticus 11:

God is concerned
with ordinary life.

Not only the altar.

Not only the prayer.

Not only the sacred song.

But the table.

The hands.

The food.

The animals
moving across the earth.

The creatures
of the water.

The birds
of the sky.

The small things
we hardly notice.

The Word asks us
to pay attention.

This creature,
yes.

That creature,
no.

This may be eaten.

That must be left alone.

There are boundaries.

And I wonder:

Why does holiness
need boundaries?

Perhaps because
love without attention
can become careless.

Perhaps because
freedom without discernment
can become destruction.

Perhaps because
the soul must learn
that not everything
offered to us
belongs inside us.

This is where
the ancient chapter
touches my modern life.

Every day
something enters me.

Words.

Images.

News.

Anger.

Fear.

Beauty.

Kindness.

Music.

Memories.

The voices
of other people.

The voices
inside my own head.

What do I allow
to become nourishment?

What do I repeatedly
take into my heart?

What slowly becomes
part of me?

Perhaps holiness
begins with
this simple question:

What am I eating
with my soul?

The chapter speaks
of animals
that chew the cud
and have divided
hooves.

Some belong
to the table.

Others do not.

The details seem
far removed
from my life,

yet beneath them
I hear a deeper invitation:

Learn to distinguish.

Do not simply
consume.

Look.

Listen.

Discern.

Ask what something
will become
after it enters you.

For what we consume
does not always
remain outside us.

A bitter word
can become
a bitter heart.

A constant diet
of fear
can make the world
look permanently dark.

A life filled
with contempt
can teach the soul
to despise.

But gratitude
can also enter us.

Mercy.

Beauty.

Scripture.

Silence.

A friend’s kindness.

A child’s laughter.

A morning garden.

A hymn
rising through
an old church.

These too
become nourishment.

At seventy-seven,

I look back
and realize
how much of life
has entered me.

Korea.

America.

War.

Migration.

Family.

Churches.

Friendships.

Losses.

Journeys.

Books.

Songs.

Faces.

Names.

Prayers.

Mistakes.

Forgiveness.

All of them
have left something
inside me.

Some things
I would gladly
receive again.

Some things
I wish I had never
allowed so deeply
into my heart.

Yet even here
grace remains.

God does not ask me
to erase my past.

God asks me
to discern
what I will carry
forward.

The chapter also
speaks of creatures
that crawl upon
the earth.

Things that move
close to the dust.

And I think
of mortality.

Dust beneath
our feet.

Bodies returning
to the earth.

The old truth:

I am not God.

I am creature.

I live within
limits.

I need boundaries.

I need rest.

I need food.

I need water.

I need other people.

I need grace.

Perhaps holiness
is not escaping
our creatureliness,

but receiving it
with humility.

The body matters.

The earth matters.

Food matters.

The ordinary
matters.

God’s holiness
does not float
above creation.

It reaches
into creation.

It teaches
the body
to remember
that life is gift.

Then comes
the repeated warning:

Do not make
yourselves unclean.

The words sound
severe,

but I hear
another question
beneath them:

What kind of person
am I becoming?

Not merely:

What did I do?

But:

What is entering me?

What am I practicing?

What am I repeating?

What am I allowing
to shape my imagination?

Because the soul
is formed
little by little.

One meal.

One word.

One thought.

One habit.

One reaction.

One choice.

And then another.

We become
what we repeatedly
receive.

Leviticus 11
therefore becomes
a meditation
on attention.

Pay attention
to what enters.

Pay attention
to what remains.

Pay attention
to what shapes you.

Pay attention
to what you call
holy.

And perhaps
also pay attention
to what you reject
too quickly.

For discernment
is not the same
as fear.

Holiness
is not contempt.

To call something
different
does not mean
to despise it.

The chapter gives
Israel a way
to live as a people
with an awareness
of boundaries.

But I must be careful
not to turn boundaries
into walls
against other people.

The deeper calling
is not:

Become proud
because you are clean.

It is:

Become attentive
because you belong
to God.

That distinction
matters.

At the table,
I can receive
with gratitude.

At the boundary,
I can pause.

At the unknown,
I can listen.

At the difference,
I can remain humble.

And when I do not know
what to do,

I can wait.

Perhaps that is
one of the great gifts
of growing older:

I no longer need
to have an immediate
answer for everything.

I can say,

I do not know.

I will listen.

I will wait.

I will discern.

I will pray.

There is freedom
in that.

The world tells me
to consume quickly.

Leviticus tells me
to pay attention.

The world says,
Take everything.

The Word says,
Discern.

The world says,
Your desire
is enough.

The Word asks,
What gives life?

What preserves life?

What makes the heart
more capable
of love?

This is my
tenelach moment—

my soul-friend
walking beside
the Word,

not trying
to escape
the ancient lists,

but listening
for the breath
beneath them.

And I hear:

Be awake.

Be attentive.

Do not swallow
everything
the world places
before you.

Choose carefully
what becomes
part of your soul.

O God,

teach me
holy attention.

Guard the doors
of my heart.

Help me discern
what nourishes
and what poisons,

what enlarges love
and what contracts it,

what brings light
and what feeds darkness.

When anger
is placed before me,

teach me
whether to receive it.

When fear
is offered,

teach me
whether to swallow it.

When kindness
appears,

make me
unafraid to receive it.

When beauty
comes,

let me stop
and give thanks.

When your Word
comes,

let me hunger
for it.

And when I meet
what I do not understand,

keep me humble.

Let holiness
make me attentive,
not arrogant.

Let boundaries
teach wisdom,
not hatred.

Let my table
become a place
of gratitude.

Let my body
become a vessel
of care.

Let my years
become a school
of discernment.

And when my days
grow fewer,

may I know
what to release,

what to receive,

what to carry,

and what to leave
at the edge
of the road.

For everything
I receive
becomes part
of the life
I offer.

Teach me, O God,
to receive
with gratitude,

to refuse
with wisdom,

to live
with humility,

and to walk
with an awakened heart.

Amen.