Commentary on Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20-30:10; Deuteronomy 25:17-19
While Israel heralds the coming of spring with the almond blossom, here in Los Angeles it is the evergreen pear tree (pyrus kawakamii) whose white blossoms shower the streets as a sign of the season to come. And while the Southern California winters are nothing like the cold Northeast days of my youth, the lengthening days and tentative sunshine of the later winter is, nonetheless, a welcome return.
While the rabbis of the Talmud, especially, love to try to figure out the timing of the Exodus — wondering what day, exactly, the Israelites left Egypt, or crossed the Red Sea, or received the Ten Commandments — the truth is that we will never really know. And while our texts, and holiday calendar, place most of these moments in the spring, part of me wonders if perhaps we built the tabernacle, the portable temple of the wilderness, in the darkness of winter, which is also when we tend to read those portions of the Torah.
Over the years, I have often read Parashat Tetzaveh as one might read a red carpet review because it is focused on the fashion details of the priestly garments. With bright colors, sumptuous fabrics and an intricate design pattern,the priestly vestments are yet another reminder that love and faith and devotion can sometimes be found in the smallest details, not in the grandest miracles.
But before the priestly selection, before the clothes, before the ordination, we begin, as does the Torah, with light: “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling (l’ha-alot) lamps regularly.” (Exodus 27:20)
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This instruction, which manifests in synagogues today as the ner tamid, the eternal light which shines over the ark that houses the sacred Torah scrolls, offers a meaningful reminder for us of the work we must do, in our lives and in the world. Noting the use of the verb here, l’ha-alot, which literally means to lift up, the medieval commentator Rashi notes that this is an active command. First, it is something we were meant to do every day (actually every night), but more so, he says that “one must kindle it until the flame ascends by itself.” We cannot, in the words of the old infomercial, “set it and forget it.” Rather, we must tend to it, making sure that it catches flame and can stand on its own.
My dear friend and teacher, Rabbi Rebecca Rosenthal, offered a beautiful teaching on this command. She writes: “There is a commentary in Midrash Tanchuma on parasha titzaveh discussing the oil for the menorah. The text says that one who is standing in the darkness can see what is happening in a lighted place, but someone standing in a bright light has trouble seeing what is happening in the dark. Even though this seems counterintuitive, it’s really true, and there is a profound lesson in this teaching. If your life is all light, it can be hard to imagine what people are feeling as they sit in darkness. But if you are in a dark and difficult moment, if you can find some light, it can become possible to cope with significant challenges and possibly even to find it in yourself to light the way for others.”
As a rabbi, I have long been committed to not offering “the Jewish view” on just about anything. We are and always have been a multivalenced, multivocal tradition, and rarely does our tradition truly speak with a monolithic voice. But when it comes to the Exodus and its main lesson, I think there is a Jewish view, and a singular Jewish experience. If there is a single overarching lesson of the Torah, it is this: We are commanded to empathy. And while that may not always be clear from the interior design and fashion lessons of the tabernacle and a priesthood, it is illuminated (see what I did there?) by the opening lines of Parashat Tetzaveh.
We read those lines, most often, in the darkness of late winter — with renewed light just on the horizon. The buds are starting to bloom, and we begin to see the possibility of new life, new beginnings. Rabbi Rosenthal continues: “Perhaps this moment is a warning to the Israelites. For so long, they have stood in the darkness of slavery, able to see what is happening around them but unable to experience freedom. Now, on the cusp of their redemption, God is reminding them not to allow their freedom to send them into a state of emotional darkness, where they are unable to see and care about another person. They will soon be in the light. They deserve to be in the light. But they cannot forget that they once stood in the darkness and that others stand there now.”
We once stood in the darkness. Maybe we are standing there now — personally, communally. But there is light to be kindled, empathy to be shared. And we are the ones commanded to light the light and make sure it keeps shining.
