Parshat Acharei Mot-Kedoshim: How to Be Holy

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“Be holy!” So begins Parshat Kedoshim (of this week’s double parsha): “Because I, God, am holy.” What does it mean to cultivate holiness—in our lives and in the world?

Rashi understands “Be holy” as a call to separate from forbidden sexual relationships, linking it to the previous parsha, Acharei Mot, which details these prohibitions. For Rashi, holiness means setting boundaries in relationships and abstaining from what is forbidden. The Ramban, however, offers a different interpretation. After listing specific prohibitions, the Torah calls on us to elevate even permissible behavior. One can technically keep the law and still act in a base or gluttonous way—a naval b’reshut haTorah. According to the Ramban, holiness requires moderation, intentionality, and moral refinement—not just avoiding sin, but rising above it.

While both commentators read “Be holy” in relation to what comes before, we can also understand it in light of what follows: a list of interpersonal mitzvot. The Midrash Sifra teaches that this section was read aloud to the entire nation during hakhel, because it contains the core values of the Torah. After laws centered on the Mishkan and the kohanim, the Torah introduces a transformative idea: kedusha is not limited to sacred spaces or select individuals—it is accessible to everyone. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l called this “the radical democratisation of holiness.” By showing compassion for the vulnerable, and by infusing our daily interactions with care and justice, we bring holiness into the world. How are we to be holy? “Because I, God, am holy.” We are called to reflect the divine image within us.

One final idea comes from Rav Aharon Lichtenstein zt”l, whose 10th yahrzeit was recently marked. He taught that “a Jew is also commanded to aspire.” In this light, “Be holy” becomes a call to transcend the letter of the law—to keep striving upward in moral and spiritual growth. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Tazria-Metzora: From Destructive to Redemptive

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As fires raged through the beautiful Jerusalem Hills this week—just as we moved from Yom HaZikaron to Yom Ha’atzmaut—many were asking: is this a Divine message, and if so, what are we meant to learn? 

Parshat Tazria-Metzora teaches about tzara’at, a condition that appeared not only on a person’s skin, but also on clothing and even homes. While some interpret skin tzara’at as a physical ailment, the afflictions on garments and houses have no medical basis. For this reason, Rambam explains that they are supernatural signs—stages of spiritual warning. He describes a progression: the lesions appear first on the home, then on clothing, and finally on the person, signaling increasing distance from God—often due to speaking negatively about others.

Yet tzara’at isn’t only a punishment. The Torah teaches that when the people enter the land of Israel they will have tzara’at on their houses.  Surprisingly, Rashi calls this a “besora,” good news, because hidden treasures left in the walls by the previous inhabitants would be uncovered through the affliction. What seemed destructive was actually redemptive. The kohen would then oversee a process of purification—restoring and renewing the home.

We may no longer live in a biblical world of manifest miracles or clear signs of reward and punishment. Yet tzara’at teaches us to listen more closely for God’s messages. As the chilling final words found on Shauli Greenglick’s phone after he fell in Gaza remind us: “God speaks to me much more than I speak to Him.” As we witness the fires on the outskirts of Jerusalem, we are called to reflect inward—on our land, our homes, and ourselves. It is a time to examine how we speak about others, and how, through that process, we might emerge renewed and draw closer to Hashem. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Shemini: Humility and Hope

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Reading Parshat Shemini after Yom Hashoah and before Yom Hazikaron and Yom Ha’atzmaut feels especially resonant this year. Aaron emerges as a model of leadership rooted in humility and responsibility, and finds the courage to live with hope despite deep grief.

The parsha opens with God commanding Aaron and the people to bring offerings—including a calf (egel). Midrash Tanchuma explains this was an atonement for the sin of the Golden Calf, in which Aaron played a significant role. Yet Moshe must tell Aaron a second time to draw near and bring the offering. Rashi notes that Aaron was ashamed and afraid, and only with Moshe’s encouragement did he step forward to atone for himself and the people. It is precisely Aaron’s humility, especially after his earlier failing, that enables him to lead the people toward forgiveness.

Aaron provides another lesson in leadership when, tragically, on the eighth day of the inauguration of the Mishkan, his sons Nadav and Avihu offer a “foreign fire” and are instantly killed by God. Their sin is not entirely clear. The Sages suggest various interpretations of what they did wrong: sacrificing a korban which was not commanded, teaching Torah in front of their teacher Moshe, entering the sanctuary naked, performing their duties while drunk, refusing to marry or have children. In the midrash, Nadav and Avihu are portrayed as irresponsible and full of hubris. In contrast, Aaron responds to their death with silent grief, yet finds the strength to carry on. As Moshe instructs him to forgo the usual mourning rituals, Aaron continues his service as Kohen Gadol.

Aaron, like many survivors and the heroes we have witnessed this year, is a model for leaders and all of Am Yisrael—to have humility before God and others, and, despite the grief, to find the strength to continue and to live. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Tzav and Pesach

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This week, Parshat Tzav coincides with Pesach—each centered on a sacrifice no longer offered, yet rich with enduring lessons about Jewish identity and observance.

The word “tzav” introduces the command to Aaron regarding the olah, the burnt offering. This sacrifice remained burning through the night, and each morning the priests began by clearing the ashes before starting anew. Rashi explains that tzav conveys zerizut—urgency and enthusiasm—applying both now and l’dorot for all generations. Chizkuni adds that such motivation was needed for a task done daily, which could easily become monotonous. How does this speak directly to our own lives today (l’dorot)? Just as the kohanim were called to maintain passion in their daily service, we are challenged to keep our Torah study and prayer fresh and meaningful despite their routine nature.

These same values—zerizut and l’dorot—are central to Pesach. As Bnei Yisrael prepared to leave Egypt, they were commanded to eat the korban Pesach b’hipazon: “with your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and you shall eat it in haste.” Though we no longer bring this offering, we recall it at the seder. We retell how the people marked their doorposts with its blood. There is a debate about whether the blood was placed inside, where only they could see it—Rashi explains this was to strengthen their observance and emunah—or outside, as Rambam suggests, a public rejection of Egyptian idolatry and immoral culture. Today, we need both: inward faith and outward expressions of Jewish identity.

The messages of these ancient offerings—bringing passion to our observance and strengthening our identity—are as relevant today as ever. Shabbat Shalom and Chag Kasher ve’Sameach – Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Vayikra: A Call to Achdut

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What is the call of “Vayikra” for the Jewish people today?

Numerous commentaries explain that parshat Vayikra is a direct continuation of Shemot, which ended with Moshe outside the Mishkan. Even Moshe, the greatest prophet of all time, could not enter the holiest place at all times. Vayikra teaches that when an individual was impure, they too could not enter the Mikdash. Human experiences of holiness have a rhythm of ebbs and flows, highs and lows. Similarly, Rabbi S.R. Hirsch teaches that the root of the word “korban” is “k.r.v,” meaning to come close. The korbanot in the time of the Mikdash (and today, our tefillot) are a way to draw closer to Hashem, highlighting that one cannot stay in a continuous state of holiness. We are human beings, not angels.

Perhaps Rashi alludes to this in interpreting “Vayikra” as an expression of God’s affection (hibba) for Moshe and an invitation to draw closer to holiness and hear God’s words. Rashi relates this to the call of angels in Isaiah—which we say in the kedusha of the Amidah—“And one called (ve-karah) out to the other, holy, holy, holy…” In entering the Ohel Moed, Moshe becomes angel-like. In standing with feet together and saying kedusha, we strive to be holy like angels (whose feet were like a straight foot). However, we can’t stay this way permanently.

Regarding the position of feet in prayer, Rav Kook writes that our feet are for both walking and standing. When we walk, legs apart, we advance and grow in Torah knowledge. When standing with feet together in prayer, we solidify ourselves through unity (achdut).

There is also a rhythm within the Jewish nation. There are times when we, as a people, can debate constructively and move in different directions, at different paces. And then there are times when we need to pause in order to solidify, to draw closer in holiness, and to focus on achdut. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Pekudei: Unity with Diversity

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Parshat Pekudei is the parsha of hitachdut—the bringing together of the parts of the Mishkan. It serves as a model for unity alongside diversity within the Jewish people today.

The Mishkan was the ultimate joint project. Betzalel was its chief architect, Moshe raised it up, and the entire endeavor was commanded by God. Yet, the parsha attributes its completion to Bnei Yisrael: “Thus was completed all the work…The Israelites did so; just as the LORD had commanded Moses, so they did.” Nechama Leibowitz notes that Bnei Yisrael did not physically craft the Mishkan—the artisans did—so why do they receive credit?

The Or Ha-Hayyim explains that since Betzalel was their chosen representative, they shared in the merit of his achievement. Moreover, the command to build the Mishkan was given to the entire nation. Just as the 13 raw materials were distinct yet interdependent in forming the Mishkan, so too, every Jew was bound together in a shared purpose. The Mishkan reminds us that we are one people, despite our differences.

Similarly, the Lubavitcher Rebbe sees the raising of the Mishkan as a lesson in the balance between individuality and collective identity within Am Yisrael. The Mishkan’s holiness emerged only when all its individual pieces were assembled. Likewise, each Jew must recognize their place within the klal—their unique contributions gain meaning when rooted in collective unity.The Mishkan’s message is clear: Every Jew has a role to play in building and strengthening the nation. Bnei Yisrael’s joint building of the Mishkan is a call to Jews today to remember that our diversity can thrive only when based on a foundation of standing and working together. Chazak chazak ve’nitchazek. Shabbat Shalom – Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Vayakhel: Leadership from the Bottom Up

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One of the defining features of the Mishkan’s construction, as described in Parshat Vayakhel, is the collective participation of the entire nation. While Betzalel was appointed by God as chief architect, the contributions of the people were essential. Two midrashic insights into this dynamic between leadership and the people resonate deeply with Israeli society today.

First, after Bnei Yisrael—particularly the women—generously donated materials, the tribal chieftains (nesi’im) brought onyx stones. Rashi, citing Bamidbar Rabbah, questions why they gave last instead of leading. The midrash explains that they were offended they had not been asked first and waited to see what was needed, only to find that the people had already given beyond expectations. Left with little to contribute, they brought onyx stones. Learning from this, they were the first to donate at the altar’s dedication in Bamidbar. This teaches that when leaders falter, the people can rise to the occasion and ultimately inspire their leaders to follow. 

A second model of leadership emerges from the midrash on Moshe’s role in constructing the Mishkan. At the end of Shemot, the Torah states that all the components of the Mishkan were brought to Moshe, and “the Mishkan was raised.” The midrash, noting that it would be impossible for one person alone to lift it, teaches that the Divine spirit rested upon Moshe, enabling the Mishkan to be assembled. Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein points out that while many skilled craftsmen contributed, none could see the full picture of the Mishkan. Moshe, who had not personally contributed materials, played a different yet critical role—humbly uniting the collective efforts of the people into a completed whole.

The Mishkan teaches that true leadership is one which unites the whole nation and that sometimes it is the people who ultimately lead the way. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Ki Tissa & Purim: Modern Day Esthers

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As we enter Shabbat Ki Tissa, which coincides with Purim, a common theme emerges: finding faith in moments of crisis and ensuring its message endures l’dorot, for generations to come.

The sin of the Golden Calf stands as one of Am Yisrael’s greatest failings, to the point that God initially intends to destroy them. Moshe pleads for their salvation, even offering to be erased from the Torah. The Sages teach that its effects linger in every generation: “There is no generation that does not bear an ounce of the sin of the Golden Calf.” Many commentaries see the Mishkan as a tikkun (atonement) – particularly through the donation of gold, transforming the very substance of their downfall into a means of holiness. Yet, the lasting message is clear: do not lose faith so swiftly when Moshe and God’s presence seem out of reach.

Similarly, according to the Talmud, Esther had to persuade the Sages to record her story for future generations (kitvuni l’dorot). While they hesitated, she understood the ongoing relevance of Megillat Esther: a model of faith when the face of God seems hidden. Perhaps for this reason, the laws of Megillah reading are so stringent. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi teaches that the obligation to read it twice—once at night and once in the day—is derived from the verse in Psalms: “O my God, I call by day but You do not answer; and at night, and there is no respite for me.” Reading the Megillah serves as an antidote to the natural feeling of divine abandonment. It is a written reminder for every generation of God’s hidden presence, even in the darkest times.

Today, returned hostages who have shared stories of bravery and faith, despite overwhelming despair, serve as a modern manifestation of kitvuni l’dorot. Like Esther, they remind us of the power of faith, even when redemption seems distant. Purim Sameach and Shabbat Shalom🎭🇮🇱-Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Terumah: On Bees and National Responsibility

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Parshat Terumah’s description of the building of the Mishkan—a holy sanctuary built through the collective effort of the Jewish people—offers a powerful model for the relationship between Jews and the State of Israel today.

The word terumah (contribution) appears three times at the beginning of the parsha. Rashi explains that these refer to three distinct donations: two which were “chova” (required) and given equally by everyone, known as the machatzit hashekel, and one which was “nedava” (voluntary), giving as much as their “heart inspires” them. What emerges is two kinds of giving: the first ensures giving at a national scale while upholding the equal and noteworthy value of each individual offering, while the second embraces individual diversity and personal devotion. Rav Amital, based on the Maharal, taught that this combination is necessary within Jewish life, a balance between first, “chova” (required commitment) and then, “nedava” (voluntary dedication). 

Similarly, The Lubavitcher Rebbe interprets the different materials of the Mishkan as representing the diversity of the Jewish people, with different levels of Torah commitment and religious practice. The Mishkan only works if it includes everyone. The Mishkan was a great unifier, including even those who think or practice differently. 

These ideas were reinforced for me during a recent visit to a bee farm, where I observed how bees work together as a community, each fulfilling a unique role to sustain both their hive and the environment. A thriving society depends on the ability of all its members to contribute and collaborate in shaping their shared home. Just as every individual played a role in constructing the Mishkan, every Jew who seeks to live in or be connected to Israeli society must find their place in shaping and sustaining the State of Israel as both a spiritual and national home. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson 

Parshat Mishpatim: Between Cruelty and Compassion

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Children – dependent, vulnerable, defenseless – are the litmus test of our humanity. -Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks 

Parshat Mishpatim teaches what real compassion looks like. It highlights that cruelty, especially toward children, is a mark of unfathomable evil, whereas prioritizing and educating children in moral values is the greatest statement of hope for the future. 

The Torah commands us not to oppress the ger, the widow, or the orphan—the most vulnerable members of the biblical world: “If you mistreat them, as soon as they cry out to Me, I will hear their outcry.” The double language—aneh ta’aneh, tza’ok yitzak, shamoa eshma—underscores that just as the victim feels their pain deeply, God hears and responds with urgency.

Rabbi Sacks looked to the Shoah to contrast unimaginable evil with extraordinary humanity toward children. Janusz Korczak, a Polish-Jewish doctor and educator, exemplified moral courage and compassion when he refused to abandon the orphans in his care, even as they were sent to their deaths.

In Judaism, cruelty toward children is especially heinous because they embody our hope and future. Talmud Sotah teaches that after Israel crossed the Yam Suf, the infants were among the first to sing to God, recognizing His miracles. To the sages, children symbolize pure faith, goodness, and unshakable hope. That is why when we remember the redemption from Egypt, they are at the heart of our collective memory and moral responsibility.

Ariel and Kfir Bibas symbolize the stark contrast between their society and ours: theirs is steeped in cruelty, while we are rooted in compassion, faith, and hope. May we honor all the children we have lost by securing and shaping a country and future worthy of the next generation. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson