Author: Esteban

The parshiyot (Torah portions) of Tazria-Metzora deal with the laws of ritual impurity and purity, as well as various afflictions that befall a person: in their home, their garments, and their skin.

Already at the beginning of the portion, we encounter the laws of Niddah related to childbirth: the difference between the birth of a son and the birth of a daughter in terms of days of impurity and purification and the waiting period for marital relations. When a son is born, one counts seven days of impurity and another thirty-three. When a daughter is born, one counts fourteen days of impurity and another sixty-six before purification.

Precisely at the moment of creating new life, at the moment of deep physical intimacy, separation also appears. It is as if the Torah seeks to remind us that intimacy is not a given continuum, but a delicate movement of coming closer and moving away, of longing and renewal. In this context, I found it appropriate to include Rabbi Elhanan Nir's poem "After Birth," which deals with longing for a woman and for marital relations.

After childbirth/ Elhanan Nir

For months

And I don't know how to tell you

As is understood according to Halakha, etc.

But just so you know

It's already been months.

And all my bones shall say

But they don't know how, according to Halakha, to tell you

That we have a new baby, thank God.,

I am not saying that I

No

Waiting for you and so on.'

Subsequently, the affliction moves into the realm of plagues: spots on the walls of the house, blemishes on clothes, and finally, plagues on human skin. The plagues on the house and clothing are sometimes treated with external means: cleaning, removal, and even destruction, but when the plague appears on human skin, it already carries a deeper significance.

The Sages linked leprosy to evil speech; to the damage of relationships between people. One who banishes his fellow from the camp with his words finds himself banished from the camp. The isolation becomes "a measure for a measure": the person sits alone, outside the camp, and reflects. But this isolation is not just punishment. It is also a pause. A space where one can recognize that something has gone out of balance and begin to re-evaluate. 

The word "quarantine" itself evokes a heavy, almost suffocating feeling in me, and one can't help but remember the period of Corona, when we all experienced, each in our own way, this distance. I especially remember the Passover Seder night when we were forced to sit by ourselves (or hold the Seder on Zoom) and couldn't visit or host. I remember bringing my elderly mother holiday supplies and leaving them for her by the door, for fear I might infect her with Corona, as I used to go out and also work with other people in the office. I will not forget the moment I lit holiday candles and simply cried, knowing my mother was sitting alone in her home, not celebrating Seder, even though she could have because she had all the supplies, and going to bed early so as not to feel the absence of the holiday. Quarantine is a harsh punishment, not only physical but also psychological and existential.

And the question that arises before me in light of our parsha is not just why isolation is required – but what happens after it, how do we return? How do we come back to the community, to contact, to communality, after we have been “outside the camp”? And does the community truly know how to welcome back, or does it continue to see in the person the contagion he once had... I would like to offer another angle to look at isolation. Not just as a punishment, but as an opportunity to admit weakness, to admit that something has happened to me, that I am not precise, that I need a pause. To take a time out, to observe, to recalculate the route.

In days when it seems we are all a bit “leprous,” a bit wounded, a bit imperfect, carrying with us the traces of such a complex period – isolation also contains a quiet call to turn inward. And perhaps here, the beginning of the portion connects to its end: as in the laws of intimacy after childbirth, both there and here, the path back to closeness is not immediate. It requires time, a process, and sometimes even a ritual: immersion in water, a marked transition, a moment of recognition. True closeness, it seems, is not just being together, but knowing how to traverse the distance and return from it. Perhaps we can take a dual message from the Tazria-Metzora portions: we must learn to pause, to listen, to make room for what has been fractured, but no less importantly, to be a community that knows how to welcome people back with grace. A community that not only guards its boundaries but also knows how to heal. I hope we will be that community.

The Book of Leviticus, which we began reading last week, is also known as "The Law of the Priests." The book deals with the service of the Tabernacle: the activities, duties, and roles of the priests, as well as the concept of holiness and the role of the Jewish people as a holy nation.

In last week’s parashah, Vayikra, we read about the types of sacrifices an individual could offer; whereas in this week’s parashah, Tzav, we encounter the laws governing the priests" service in the Tabernacle and their daily duties. The morning in the Tabernacle begins with the cleansing of the altar of all the remains of the sacrifices that were burned on it during the night. One priest is chosen to remove the "trumat ha-dashan,” a small portion of the burnt remains, and place them at the foot of the altar, on the eastern side, facing the rising sun. Afterward, the priests clean the rest of the ashes and carry them outside the camp, to a pure place.

Right from the very first task of the day, a dual movement becomes apparent: there is manure that is brought in—and manure that is removed. There are aspects of the past that we choose to keep close, as a memento and a reminder, and there are aspects of the past that we must clear away to make room for a new beginning. The addition of fertilizer and the removal of fertilizer point to an inner tension: every day is part of a chain of days, of tradition, of generations; and at the same time, it is also a new day, seeking to begin "with a clean slate," with renewed strength and will.

After the grain offering has been prepared, the wood is arranged on the altar, and the fire is kindled in preparation for the morning burnt offering. A fire burns constantly on the altar:

“A fire shall be kept burning on the altar—it shall not go out.” (Leviticus 6:6) On the day the Tabernacle was dedicated, fire came down from heaven and took hold of the altar before the eyes of the people. From that moment on, the fire on the altar is a continuation of that revelation, but the responsibility for it passes to humanity. For even a fire of divine origin requires hands to tend it, to feed it, and to ensure it does not go out. Therefore, there are always glowing embers in the corner of the altar—a fire that must burn constantly.

The eternal flame is a fire of action. It cooks, transforms, and consumes matter. It is part of daily life, of physical, repetitive work—the kind that can sometimes become an automatic habit.
Precisely for this reason, kindling the fire on the altar every day requires the priest to remain fully present in his actions—not merely to perform them, but also to pay attention to what is happening. When an action is performed out of habit, without paying attention, it does not merely take place; it also accumulates.

Every fire leaves behind ashes; every action leaves behind debris. This debris is not merely waste. The act of clearing away the debris teaches us that there are things from the past worth preserving and keeping close by, as a reminder. Clearing away the debris reminds us that not everything is meant to be kept; there are also things to be discarded, to make way for a new beginning.

To tell them apart, you need light.
As we gaze upon the eternal flame, we are reminded of the eternal lamp described in the parashah Tetzaveh in the Book of Exodus.
"And you shall commandthe Israelites, and they shall bring to you pure, crushed olive oil for the light, to keep the lamp burning continually" (Exodus 27:20). As part of the preparation of the Tabernacle, the people are commanded to bring pure olive oil to "keep the lamp burning continually." The eternal lamp burns inside the Tent of Meeting, within. It is the westernmost lamp among the branches of the menorah. The priests must ensure that it never goes out, and every evening the other lamps of the menorah are lit from this one. What is the connection between the eternal fire and the eternal lamp? Why must both burn constantly?

The eternal flame is at work in the world, transforming it. It sets a process in motion—but also leaves a remnant behind.
The fertilizer reminds us that life is not just about what we do, but also about what remains with us from those actions.
And the eternal flame—the light that burns within—allows us to return to what remains, to find meaning in it, and to carry on even when the path is not entirely clear.
The light of the eternal flame is a light that does not burn out, but rather accompanies us.

In these days when reality itself is ablaze, and our daily routines are repeatedly shattered, it seems as though fire is all around us. We need a light to illuminate our choice: what from these days will remain with us, and how we will carry what remains. That same light will also enable us to see the good in people, what still functions and is good in our reality, and the light of faith. It is important to know that if the eternal flame goes out, it is rekindled only from the eternal flame itself.

Perhaps we can learn from this that even the gentlest light sometimes needs a spark that comes from action, from the world, from encounters with others. "We are with you, you are not alone"—this is not merely a slogan we shouted to the mothers of the kidnapped, but it continues to be spoken and cried out at other demonstrations where the public seeks to support and empower those whose voices are not heard enough.

May we know how to keep the fire burning: to act, to participate, to be part of it; and may we also know how to tend the candle: to shine, to see, to discern; and may we know, anew each day, what to take from the ashes and what to let go of—and may we have the strength for all of this.

Shabbat Shalom!