Category: Leviticus

"and the land will not vomit you out"
(Inspired by Avi Sagi's article: Conversion, Exile, and Sovereignty - Reflections Following the Biblical Tradition)
In his commentary on the first verse of the Bible, "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth," Rashi asks why the Torah began with this verse and not with the first commandment given to the Israelites: "This month shall be unto you" (Exodus 12:2).
And his answer: If the gentiles say to Israel, "You are robbers who conquered the lands of seven nations" (meaning the land of Canaan), answer them: The whole land belongs to the Holy One, blessed be He. He created it and gave it to whomever it pleased Him. By His will, He gave it to them, and by His will, He took it from them and gave it to us.
Is this process reversible (God forbid)? Meaning, taking Judea and Samaria from Israel and handing it over to others? If so, what could be the factors and conditions for that?
The Bible answers this in several places, including in our weekly Torah portion.
The reasons why God took the land of Canaan from the seven nations are mainly: the idolatry they suffered from, at its head the sacrificing of children (human sacrifice) to Moloch, incest, and their social-moral conduct.
And therefore the central command and warning is: "You shall not do as they do in the land of Egypt where you lived, nor shall you do as they do in the land of Canaan, to which I am bringing you, nor shall you follow their customs." (Leviticus 18:3) but rather: "You shall keep my statutes and my ordinances, by doing which a person shall live: I am the Lord." (Leviticus 18:5)
What is the required and appropriate conduct?
The detailed explanation of its central principles is found in Chapter 19 of the Book of Leviticus, a chapter that has become canonical in Jewish culture. At its head is the guiding principle: "You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy," followed by a breakdown of behaviors that are appropriate for realizing this principle, primarily concerning interpersonal relationships, moral sensitivity and compassion, and great concern for the vulnerable in society (the blind, the deaf, the orphan, the widow, and the stranger).
A special dimension is known regarding the treatment of a ger—a ger in the Bible: an ethnic group not from Israel that lives among Israel. 36 times, the Sages counted references to the treatment of a ger in the Torah. Only to him is the demand "and you shall love him as yourself" (parallel to the commandment "and you shall love your neighbor as yourself") attributed: "And if a ger stays with you in your land, you shall not afflict him. He shall be to you as a native-born among you, the ger who stays with you, and you shall love him as yourself."
And the reason for this is: "For you were strangers in the land of Egypt, I am the Lord your God' (Leviticus 19:33-34).
The remembrance of the Exodus from Egypt and the obligation to remember the slavery and subjugation in Egypt is the foundation and source of inspiration for a series of commandments toward the stranger, orphan, and widow—the socially weak margins of society.
Why has the attitude toward the stranger become a central touchstone for proper moral conduct?
The biblical tradition directs the people of Israel to their land. The Land of Israel is the home of the people, but even within their home, they are called upon to constantly experience the feeling of being strangers in their own land. And all of this is for what reason? Out of concern for developing a master-servant attitude.
The historical memory of slavery and migrations in Egypt is the foundation for developing an awareness of the need for constant confrontation with the danger of power and dominion that lies in wait for anyone living in a land that they rule without restraint.
The people of Israel are not an indigenous people, masters of the land and its absolute owners, nor will they be made so.
The land is God's gift to Abraham and his descendants under certain conditions. Man is not sovereign, and therefore should not develop a consciousness of mastery, "and you shall not say, "My own strength and the might of my hand have produced all this wealth for me."
Therefore, God takes the trouble to warn the people of Israel and to inform them, that just as He brought them to the land, so He can also destroy them. The way to contend with the temptations of sovereignty is by developing a disposition of awareness of being strangers and of conditional existence in this place.
And we will conclude with the words of Samson Raphael Hirsch, adapted from the verses in Leviticus 18:24-28 in our portion:
"Since the selection of Abraham and his land, the Land of Israel does not tolerate the corruption of its inhabitants. The flourishing of this land depends on the moral flourishing of its inhabitants—those born within it, nourished by its fruits, and enriched by its treasures. In the completeness of man and his moral freedom will be found completeness for the land as well. The land forfeits its purpose if the society upon which it depends has corrupted its ways and forfeited its own purpose. Therefore, a society that is socially and morally corrupt has no future in this land... Just as the body expels foreign matter within it, so too will the land expel its inhabitants.
It is difficult to write these things without thinking about the chasm that yawns between the position of the Bible and the deeds performed night after night, and even in broad daylight, by the "hilltop terrorists" in Judea and Samaria. Those who claim to act in the name of Judaism and to fulfill the commandments of the Bible are distorting the legacy of us all.
These lines are written with considerable pain and great concern, just a few days after we celebrated 78 years of our renewed sovereignty and independence in our homeland.
Shabbat Shalom! 

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.

Parashat Shemini opens at a moment of climax: the eighth day of the inauguration of the Mishkan. After seven days of preparation, fire appears from heaven and validates human work. This is a moment of connection between heaven and earth, between human initiative and divine approval. But precisely within this moment of climax, a great rupture occurs: Nadav and Avihu "take initiative" and offer 'strange fire, which He had not commanded them," and they die by fire that came forth from the Lord. The sharp transition from spiritual elation to disaster shakes the reader, but it also sharpens a fundamental principle: where there is holiness, there are also boundaries; and a leader bears heavy responsibility, not only for the role and its limits, but for the entire public, because they represent the entire public.

At the beginning of the parsha, we encounter Aaron at a pivotal moment: his entry into the role of High Priest. However, instead of enthusiasm or confidence, the Torah hints at hesitation: "Draw near to the altar" - Moses has to call him, to urge him on. The Sages describe Aaron as one who was "ashamed and afraid to approach." Why? This can be understood on several levels:

Awe: The direct encounter with the Divine Presence evokes a natural trembling; the memory of the sin of the Golden Calf – Aaron carries within him a deep sense of guilt and asks himself if he is worthy of being the one to atone for the people; and also the psychological transition from being "number 2," a partner and advisor to Moses (but without public responsibility), to the status of the official leader, the "High Priest.".

And there is also another dimension here: true leadership begins with recognizing the depth of responsibility. Aaron understands that the role is not just an honor but a heavy mission towards the people. He is the one who must stand between the people and God, atone, represent, and bear. Here Moses intervenes and tells him: "This is why you were chosen!" Not because you are perfect, but because you are willing to bear responsibility.

And opposite Aharon, the balanced and calculated (some would say hesitant), stand his sons Nadav and Avihu – the galloping horses. The second generation that takes on leadership sometimes without understanding its true cost. They are the sons of a High Priest, full of passion for serving God. But it is precisely this passion that leads them to transgression: 'strange fire which He had not commanded them." Our Sages offer various explanations: drinking wine, pride, independent ruling. But the common denominator is clear: action without sufficient responsibility to the framework and the community. They acted out of a desire to draw closer, perhaps even to intensify the spiritual experience. But they did not ask the central question a leader must ask: What is the meaning of my action for the system? For the people? What is the purpose of our leadership? They saw themselves at the center, not the role.

When a leader conflates their social role with their personal considerations, they damage public trust, the stability of the system, and trust in leadership itself. We see in the State of Israel the terrible price we pay when leaders misunderstand their responsibility to the whole and mix their personal interests with it. This, of course, happens in the Israeli government, but unfortunately, it also happens a lot in the IDF and other places based on leadership. Commanders and managers absolve themselves of responsibility by claiming "they are not to blame." Blame requires proof. Responsibility is inherent in the definition of leadership. When we demand a state commission of inquiry, we are demanding that our leaders allow other people to examine their performance and responsibility in order to learn and fix things, not necessarily to punish.

But, at the moment of crisis, Moses reveals himself as a complete leader.

He not only interprets the event, nor only manages it. He understands he is responsible for the entire nation: for the understanding of the event, for preserving trust in the system, for the continued proper functioning of the Tabernacle, and for maintaining Aaron's position as leader. Moses does not look for culprits; he does not ask "Who is to blame," but rather asks "What is needed now to hold the public together.".

And this is a critical point:

True leadership is not just about inner truth, but also about public influence. A leader must ask: Do my actions strengthen the public or undermine it? Do they create stability or chaos?

In summary, three main challenges arise from the case:

1. Aaron's Hesitation to Lead: Am I worthy? Am I capable of bearing the responsibility towards the public?
2. The temptation for Aaron's descendants to innovate without limits: The desire to influence, to innovate, but without considering the broader consequences.
3. Moshe's ability to bear systemic responsibility for holding people, the system, and the public accountable, especially in times of crisis.

Leaders always operate under pressure, criticism, and a constant desire to show initiative. But the affair reminds us of a simple, uncomfortable truth:

Leadership is not a privilege – it is a responsibility to the public.

This responsibility requires:

Consider every action not only by intention but also by expected results.

To understand that an initiative that is not coordinated or controlled can damage public trust.

To know how to distinguish between guilt and responsibility: not to get stuck searching for culprits, but to move forward to conscious choice and correction.

And remember that every decision is examined not only at the moment but also by its impact on the entire social fabric.

Responsibility is a choice to act in a way that serves the greater good, even at personal cost.

True initiative is not just the courage to act—but the wisdom to understand when and how to act.

Today's leadership requires balancing humility with initiative, boundaries with freedom, and most importantly, remembering:

The leader does not act for himself. He carries an entire public on his shoulders.

Leadership is both a resource and a journey.

Shabbat Shalom!

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!

And the LORD called to Moses and spoke to him from the tent of meeting, saying:
Speak to the children of Israel, and say to them: When any of you bring an offering to the Lord, you shall bring your offering of livestock: of cattle and of sheep.
The Lord called to Moses and spoke to him from the tent of meeting, saying,

As a rabbi preparing boys and girls for their bar mitzvah, the Book of Leviticus presents an immense challenge for writing a sermon. The reason is simple: from the first portion and throughout the entire book, entire chapters are dedicated to the laws of sacrifices – among the most difficult subjects for contemporary Jews to grapple with, and a Jewish practice that has not been observed for nearly two thousand years since the destruction of the Temple.

The question of what to do with entire portions of the Torah that are read and have no (and perhaps it's good they have no...) connection to reality – let's set that aside for another discussion. But if ritual sacrifice is not part of our lives – the word "korban," in its many meanings, is very much present!

Prof. Moshe Halbertal, known to many of us and from whom I had the privilege to study, dedicated an entire book (in English) to the concept of the sacrifice. In several interviews conducted around the book's publication, Halbertal presented the findings of his research regarding the 'biography" of the word: "The first meaning of the word "korban' is the biblical meaning, and it is - 'korban,' in the sense of 'to bring near',' its parallel being the mincha (offering). Just as one "brings near" a korban, one "places" a mincha. The korban is a gift, but it is a gift whose transfer from the giver's hand to the receiver's hand is not guaranteed. Therefore, you only "bring near," because you don't know if the korban will be accepted or not.

The second meaning is 'victim' – the victim of rape, the victim of murder. It's an interesting question what connects these two meanings. I think it's related to the fact that the biblical sacrifice is a sacrifice with innocence. The animal must be pure, innocent, in order to be sacrificed. The modern Hebrew sacrifice is also innocent. But this is a very late meaning, which only begins to appear at the beginning of the 20th century; when Jews were massacred in pogroms in the Middle Ages, they were not called 'sacrifices'...

The third meaning, which is also very late in Hebrew, is the meaning of 'to sacrifice for': 'I sacrificed for my children,' for example, or 'I sacrificed my life for a certain cause.'" In interviews with him, Halbertal warns that in our time – within the concept of sacrifice lies also a dangerous mechanism of reversing affinity, meaning, a situation where the value does not justify the sacrifice, but rather the sacrifice sanctifies the value; instead of sacrificing for something holy, the act of sacrifice itself makes the goal holy and immune to criticism.

This process can create a "license" for violence, where the aggressor perceives themselves as a victim and thereby frees themselves from the shackles of conscience. From this perspective, even the binding of Isaac can be seen not only as a story of faith but as a moment where the victim of conscience turns the sacrificer into a captive within the cycle of power and aggression of his faith.

I find Habertas's analysis illuminating: identifying the three layers of the concept of "sacrifice" – the ritual act, the innocent victim, and the altruistic sacrifice – allows us to re-examine the rituals and values that shape our lives. The transition from "sacrificing to…" to "sacrificing…" is the junction where it is determined whether sacrifice is a path to closeness and connection, or if it is a tool to justify power and violence.
This understanding is especially crucial for us today, as we seek to establish a Jewish and Israeli identity that does not sink into an all-permissive victim consciousness, but rather one that aspires to action characterized by responsibility and morality. This is how the Hebrew language and the portion have brought us back to a concept that is not only not confined to the distant past, but the opposite: the concept at the heart of the portion clearly presents us with the sharpness of the choice before us and the magnitude of the challenge in shaping our lives. This may be the great call of "Vayikra.".

Shabbat Shalom!