Then, Parshat Tazria talks about tzaraat. Tzaraat is a plague, of sorts. Only a kohen, a priest, could correctly diagnose this leprosy-esque disease. It would show up on an individual’s clothing, house, or even body. If the tzaraat showed up on clothing or a home, the damaged area would be destroyed, and if it showed up on the person’s skin, they would leave the community and live alone outside the encampment until the tzaraat went away. The main cause that would give someone tzaraat is if they partook in my favorite aveira: lashon hara.

I’ll admit it: I love gossip. It’s fun; it’s easy to talk about other people when struggling to come up with a conversation topic that goes beyond generic small talk; it’s easier to talk about other people than to talk about yourself. Who doesn’t love knowing all the backstory, all about why one of your friends is treating another weirdly and what’s really going on within that friend group you’ve always hated?

But Parshat Tazria (and its sister parsha, Parshat Metzora, which is next week’s parsha) is an annual reminder that even lighthearted gossip has its consequences. That it’s an actual sin. I’d hate knowing others were talking about me behind my back. If I ever do find out that that’s going on, I become obsessively curious—what exactly were they saying? And who started the conversation? And what was the tone of voice used? And who else was there, was it just their friends or was it any of mine?

And if I hate the mere thought of being spoken about, why am I comfortable putting others in that situation? If I have something nice to say, shouldn’t I just say it to their face? If I have something mean to say, who does it benefit to say it out loud? What use is there in spilling secrets and sharing backstories if it isn’t remotely relevant to me?

The Talmud talks about how lashon hara harms three people: the speaker, the listener, and the person it’s about. You’re held accountable for gossip even if all you do is overhear it, even if you don’t spread it yourself. If you do spread gossip yourself, you’re not just hurting the person it’s about, but also yourself and the person you’re confiding in. There’s real harm in these seemingly “small talk”-like conversations.

We may no longer get tzaraat as punishment for speaking lashon hara, but lashon hara is just as harmful as it always was. Let’s focus on ourselves—other people’s personal business is irrelevant to our everyday lives.

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Rules regarding who can eat which kinds of korbanot are thoroughly explained. As the different kinds of korbanot are mentioned, there’s a lot of repetition. When the verse tells us that “any of Aharon’s male descendants may eat from this, for it is the holy of holies,” the same phrase pops up a couple verses later, and then just a bit later. Another concept that’s often repeated throughout the parsha is that of karet, a soul being cut off from the rest of the Jewish nation. If an impure person eats from the peace offering, their soul is cut off; if a person touches something impure and then eats of the peace offering, their soul is cut off; if anyone eats the fat of an animal that was brought as a fire offering, their soul is cut off; if someone eats any blood, their soul is cut off.

Karet, a soul being cut off, is one of the worst punishments in Jewish canon. What does it mean to be cut off from the Jewish nation?

Having a sense of community is important. It holds you accountable; it reminds you who you are and who you want to be. When you lose a community, you lose a part of yourself.

In life, we need people to look up to. We need people with similar values who can notice when we’re slipping, who will inspire us to do better and remind us that this isn’t who we are. (Like in this iconic tweet exchange, except magnified to the communal level.) When you lose your community, the implication is that you’ve fallen so far behind that even they are incapable of helping you or inspiring you. Losing one’s community implies that they are beyond hope, beyond saving, because if they weren’t, they’d still be given the chance to be inspired by others enough to repent.

How come a sin that seems so small, like eating something you’re not supposed to, results in such a harsh punishment? Well, maybe eating forbidden foods isn’t such a small sin after all. There’s a reason why we are supposed to make brachot, blessings, before eating food; we’re asking G-d for permission to eat from His creations. Eating something you’re not supposed to, eating something G-d hasn’t permitted you to eat, isn’t that akin to stealing from G-d? Karet comes into play, in this parsha, when you not only disobey G-d, but disobey G-d by stealing from Him.

I wonder if there’s a connection, then, between thievery and being so beyond redemption that you don’t even deserve to be a part of your community any longer. (In Noah’s generation, after all, the big sin was stealing from one another, and that led to the world’s destruction.) The act of stealing contains within it a blurring of boundaries, forgetting or ignoring that others’ possessions are not their own. If one steals from G-d, they need an important reminder of what boundaries are, and a boundary is drawn around the rest of the nation that they, as a cut-off soul, are not included in.

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There were different sacrifices to offer depending on your situation; some would be brought as thanks, others brought in apology; some would be eaten by the priests, others would be consumed completely by fire. Each korban would be brought with salt. According to this piece from Chabad.org, salt adds flavor. Offering your apology and your gratitude are all good and well, but if you offer a sacrifice without really meaning it, it’s not worth nearly as much. The same way salt must be included in every korban, meaning is necessary for every fully-lived life.

Meaning is hard to find. Harder to hold onto. Sometimes I think I’ve found all the meaning I need, that my beliefs are unshakeable, only to fall into a rough patch and suddenly lose grasp of all the meaning that was once so closely within reach. I guess what I have to do in those moments is add some salt. Meaning isn’t always internally-rooted; internal feelings aren’t always strong enough to keep your life meaningful. In those moments, you have to sprinkle on some salt, sprinkle on some external meaning. Learn something new; seek out a mentor who can help you reconnect with your sense of purpose; take on a new mitzvah; find a new hobby. In life, you might not always “feel it.” But you can always add some salt, add some external flavor when your inner self isn’t providing enough of it.

When we Jews still brought korbanot, we had to bring animal sacrifices. Now, prayer is the standard substitute for sacrificial offerings. It’s so much easier nowadays, in theory. You can do it from the comfort of your own home; you don’t have to buy an animal to fulfill the commandment. Convenient! Free! Still, somehow, it’s so hard for me to actually do it, actually sit down and pray. I suppose the question to ask here is How can I sprinkle salt onto this sacrifice? Which external motivation can I use to find meaning in prayer?

Something that’s helped me connect with prayer in the past is learning more about what the prayers mean, how each prayer is relevant to me in my own life. Knowing what I’m saying is what transforms my prayers from a routine of rote recitation to a personal request. Another way I’ve found meaning in prayer is by engaging in hitbodedut, the Hasidic practice of talking to G-d in your own words. G-d becomes less abstract, more of a close friend, when I speak to Him in casual words and on a more regular, less restricted basis. We don’t have korbanot nowadays, in a time period where we still don’t have the Temple, but we do have prayer. Instead of adding salt to my korbanot, I’ll add salt to my prayers and really, really mean them.

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Everything that G-d had commanded to Moshe, which he then relayed to the Israelites, they did now. When the craftsmen and their assistants finished building, they brought the mishkan and its vessels to Moshe, and Moshe, seeing that they’d done everything right, exactly as they’d been commanded to do, he blessed them.

They set up the mishkan and everything in it: the menorah, the altars, gates all around and dividing curtains. Moshe anointed everything with the special anointing oil that he had prepared. Then, he anointed his brother Aharon and Aharon’s sons. Aharon would be the kohen gadol, the High Priest, and his sons would be kohanim. The priesthood would continue in their lineage forever.

A cloud would lead them as they traveled in the desert. It rested on the mishkan when it was time to stop traveling, and it would rise once it was time to travel again.

The past few parshas all centered the building of the mishkan—the dimensions they would follow, the clothing they would make for the kohen gadol. But it was all projections for the future, not really any acting on what they said they’d do. Finally, in Parshat Pekudei, it all came to fruition, words becoming actions and plans for the future coming true. It’s great to make goals. Even better to outline the steps you’ll take to achieve them. But the ideal is to actually take the steps. Prove that you don’t just talk for the sake of talking, that your words hold some weight; show that when you say you’ll do something, you’ll actually do it.

Proving yourself goes beyond acting on your plans and fulfilling your promises. It also includes proving your worth or integrity to other people. The Midrash Tanchuma, an interpretation on Tanach composed in the early Middle Ages, discusses how Moshe Rabbeinu accounted for everything, every donation, no matter how small. He knew the Israelites were contentious (Sefaria’s translation, not mine), and in an attempt to ease their argumentative spirits, he preemptively gave them the exact accounting of all the donations and all he’d used them for.

It’s hurtful to be doubted. Hurtful when people assume the worst of you. And when questioned, maybe you want to lash out, double down. But people asking for proof that you are who you say you are, people asking for some guarantee that you can be trusted, are not inherently accusing you of not being trustworthy. And even when it does stem from a place of aggression, you don’t need to stoop to their level of bad faith arguments. You can do what Moshe did when the Israelites tried catching him in a lie, didn’t have faith in his integrity, wanted him to prove himself. He listed all his calculations and what all the donations were used for. He did just what the Israelites wanted him to do, even though they were going in with an argumentative perspective: he proved himself. 

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Not only did they donate all that was needed, each individual bringing their jewelry and wool clothing and whatever else they had to offer, but they donated even more than that, so much that Moshe had to tell them to stop bringing things. They built the mishkan and all its furnishings: a solid gold menorah they lit every day, altars to bring sacrifices on, a table always stacked with twelve fresh loaves of bread, an ark with two carved cherubs atop it, and a washbasin made out of copper mirrors.

Moshe refused to accept these copper mirrors at first. Mirrors represent superficiality, vanity, a prioritization of external appearances. G-d instructed Moshe to ignore the usual connotations, to accept the donated mirrors. In Egypt, the Israelite women would use these mirrors to beautify themselves for their husbands. The Egyptians, in an attempt to depopulate their Israelite population, separated wives from husbands and overworked them so they wouldn’t have the time, much less the energy, to conceive any more children. With their copper mirrors, says the medieval commentator Rashi, the women would beautify themselves, seduce their husbands, and conceive more children.

I taught a classroom of middle school students this week, as a substitute teacher. They were scheduled to learn about middot, character traits. I didn’t have any material prepared to teach, so instead we launched into a discussion on character traits as a whole, and I brought up the book Orchot Tzaddikim. The book, anonymously written in the fifteenth century, details a multitude of human character traits, elaborating on how each one can be used for good and for bad. One of the main messages is that, with very very very few exceptions, no character trait is inherently good or inherently bad. Like, a seemingly positive trait, kindness, can become negative if you never stand up for yourself and allow others to walk all over you like a doormat. Or a seemingly negative trait, jealousy, can be used in a positive way if you use your jealousy of others’ accomplishments as inspiration to do better. I love the concept. I love thinking that it doesn’t matter if certain normally-positive traits are hard for me to strengthen, or if I’m inclined to normally-negative traits. Because even the traits we see as negative, even the traits we see as character flaws, can be (twisted around/etc/idk what word to use here) and used for good.

In Egypt, the Israelite women used their mirrors in a positive way; they transformed the normally-negative traits of vanity and superficiality and seduction into positive ones, using them for good, using them to raise their husbands’ spirits and help the Israelite population grow. They’re an inspiration for us, teaching us that the purpose of (metaphorical) mirrors is whatever we choose to use them for. It’s not about the character traits that come more naturally to you. It’s about how you use these innate traits.

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Within the mishkan, they would craft a washbasin. “They’ll wash with water so that they won’t die,” instructed Hashem. “They’ll wash their hands and feet so that they won’t die.” Sounds like some germaphobe propaganda! Moshe would also brew up an anointing oil, infused with myrrh and cinnamon and other spices, with which to anoint all the vessels of the mishkan. After receiving his instructions, Moshe, who was up on Mount Sinai, was given two stone tablets.

The problem? The Israelites weren’t great at calculating time, and they mistakenly believed Moshe was supposed to have descended one day earlier. Terrified at the thought of losing their leader, an angry mob went to Moshe’s brother Aharon and demanded that he create a new god for them. Afraid he’d be killed and trying to buy time, Aharon agreed, instructing them to bring all their gold jewelry, which they would melt down and craft a golden calf statue out of to serve as their new leader. Black magic got introduced into the mix and the melting went a little faster than Aharon had anticipated. Hashem told Moshe about what was going on down below and said He would punish the Israelites, which Moshe begged Him not to do. But when Moshe descended Mount Sinai and saw the Israelites serving this golden calf as an idol, he got upset and broke the tablets he carried down with him. He destroyed the golden calf next, then had the instigators put to death.

Moshe ascended Mount Sinai once more, in order to get new tablets with the entire Torah inscribed on them, and he again begged Hashem to forgive the Israelites for their sins.

When he descended, a new set of tablets in hand, Moshe was glowing. Literally. Light shone from his face, so brightly he had to wear a veil when talking to the Israelites.

Moshe Rabbeinu, the first leader of the Israelites, teaches important lessons about leadership. What does it mean to be a leader? 

It means enforcing accountability: the people most responsible for the sin of the Golden Calf were killed. Accountability was not theirs alone: there’s a Talmudic concept that all Jews are responsible for one another, kol Yisrael areivim zeh bazeh. The sin of the Golden Calf, in specific, wasn’t a sin for which only its generation was culpable. Elsewhere, the Talmud also states that every sin has hints of this sin, the sin of the Golden Calf, within it.

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, being a leader means caring about the people you’re leading. Leadership can’t just be a job or role to you—it has to truly matter to you. Moshe was desperate to get Hashem to forgive the Israelites. Sure, he was upset at them too; they had effectively tried to replace him with a statue and completely forgone G-d in the process. Even so, he did everything he could to convince Hashem to forgive them, even saying that if G-d wouldn’t forgive them, He should erase Moshe from the Torah completely.

Too often, we see people in leadership positions sacrificing the wellbeing of the people they’re supposed to be leading for their own personal benefits. Corrupt politicians are all the norm; school boards prioritize donors over students; leaders seem to no longer care about their followers, if they ever did. Moshe, in this week’s parsha, reminds us what a leader is truly supposed to be—caring.

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The Torah then, in describing korbanot, sounds like a cooking show host, describing precisely how to sacrifice specific animals and how to make the bread you bring them with.

Aharon and his sons were to be anointed, and the Torah describes every step of every day that the process lasted. It was a seven-day-long purification process.

Finally: the laws of incense. Yup, you read that right. Incense, special spices, also called ketoret, were brought to the altar, located in the holiest room of all the holies and inaccessible by anyone but the kohen gadol at specific times.

This week’s parshah is almost too specific, from all the details about outfits to all the details about bringing korbanot. It’s almost like a celebrity lifestyle blog, creepily fixating on everything the highest echelon of society, the priests, wore and ate. What’s up with that? Why does Hashem want us to know all these wardrobe details, and more specifically, what can I learn from it? Maybe, since we don’t know which generation Mashiach will come in and when the priests will begin wearing these clothes and bringing these sacrifices, we should be ready to revive the practice at any given moment, learning the protocols’ details preemptively even before they become relevant.

Maybe, though, there’s an implication that caring about clothing isn’t as shallow as I generally perceive it to be. When I see someone spending too long fixating on what to wear or how to accessorize it, I scoff at them in my head. Why spend so long on superficial, shallow parts of yourself when you can spend this time doing something else? While I do think I’m correct to not obsess over appearances, not my own nor those of the people I encounter, I think there’s a degree of nuance to introduce to the conversation. Clothes are important.

We’ve all heard the saying that “Clothes make the man” (or, similarly, Shakespeare’s “The apparel oft proclaims the man”) or the one instructing us to “Dress for the job you want, not for the job you have.” These aren’t Jewish concepts, per se, but the general idea surrounding them is that your clothes influence both how you see yourself and how others see you.

This isn’t a new idea—I’ve been approached by Jewish strangers in the past, offering rides or asking for directions, my long skirt and sleeves showing that I’m Jewish too. Would they have asked for or offered help had they not guessed my religious identity? Maybe. But because of my clothing, they didn’t need to guess, my clothes being a defining quality. It’s not great to define others or be defined by your clothing, but it makes life easier in a sense. If you’re in a hospital, scrubs or lack thereof signify a stranger’s ability to help you or if they’re just another patient. In a retail store, employee’s uniforms show that they’re the ones to ask for help.

When you’re getting dressed, you are representing yourself, and if you present as a Jew, be it with tznius clothing or a kippah or a magen David necklace, you are also representing the Jewish nation as a whole. That’s why the way you present yourself, clothing-wise, is so important. If you want to represent yourself in a positive light, dress in a put-together way. The trait of pride can be used in a good way when it stops you from wearing clothing that is dirty or torn, says the anonymously-written Orchos Tzaddikim.

Take pride in yourself, then. Take pride in the way you present yourself, and be specific about what you wear.

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“Na’aseh v’nishma,” the Israelites proclaimed. “We will do and we will listen.” No questions asked, they would follow these rules Hashem gave them. Moshe climbed Mount Sinai to confer with Hashem, and he stayed there for forty days and forty nights.

Life is full of rules. Some written, some unwritten; some fair, some seemingly unjust. Some rules are given to us by others: a boss, societal expectations, et cetera; any interpersonal bond we create comes with its own guidelines, specificity depending on the individuals involved in the relationship in question. And some rules are the kind we enforce upon ourselves.

This week, it feels like all I’ve done is enforce rules on myself. I give myself a bedtime (not that I quite keep to it—rules are meant to be broken, right?); I make countless to-do lists so I don’t lose track of a single task; I only talk about certain things with certain people and others with others. And while some broken rules go unpunished, not so with the rules I’ve enforced for myself. Breaking one of my own rules—oversharing to the wrong person; making it to class a few minutes late—results in a steady stream of internal beratement.

I don’t think it’s healthy to be so hard on myself. If you set unrealistic standards for yourself, you can’t be furious at yourself for not living up to them.

Introspection is invaluable for the purposes of understanding yourself and deciding which shortcomings to work on, but there’s a fine line between introspection and obsession I seem to keep blurring—this week especially, the first week of a new semester with a new schedule to follow and new obligations to fulfill. How do we maintain the balance? How do we manage to not allow introspection to tip over into obsession and not allow laid-backness to tip into neglect?

The answer, I think, lies in the Israelites’ response to their new chunk of commandments: na’aseh v’nishma. It’s no accident that na’aseh, the acting on commandments, preceded nishma, listening to commandments, understanding them, internalizing them. It teaches us a lesson about how we are supposed to observe Jewish law: just do it! If you can then understand the law, find meaning in it, connect with the mitzvah in question, that’s fantastic. But even if you can’t find meaning: do the mitzvah anyways.

Do what you do, stop thinking so much. Do what’s right, don’t let a lack of understanding block you from doing the right thing. Relentlessly overthinking your identity never leads to any good.

There’s value, of course, to setting rules for yourself. Setting rules and routines gives you a practical plan to make yourself into your best self. But there’s a danger in it too; you create a monster of your own mind, an unnecessary evil in a world already full of many.

If you want to make yourself into your best self, do the things you know are right. Stop thinking about the things you’ve done wrong. You need to stop overthinking everything, everything, everything; no use in driving yourself insane over things you can’t change. Sometimes, you just need to get out of your head. Stop thinking. Stop creating countless rules when you already have so many mishpatim, so many rules to follow—societal, G-d-given, interpersonal. Don’t overthink. Just do.

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The next day, Yitro saw Moshe sitting all day hearing cases the Israelites brought to him and judging them, and Yitro rebuked him. Yitro essentially said that Moshe was burning himself out and advised him to appoint good, G-d-fearing Israelites, in a hierarchical format shaped not unlike a pyramid, so that they could hear the queries of the Israelites. If they were unqualified to offer the Israelites a satisfactory answer, they would pass the case on to the judge just above them, and so on. Therefore, only the most difficult questions to answer would go to Moshe, as opposed to every single little question, and if even he could not answer it, he would ask G-d.

Moshe listened to Yitro and enacted this proposed policy, and Yitro left, back to Midian, in order to convert the rest of his family to Judaism.

The Israelites arrived at the Sinai desert, and they camped opposite Mount Sinai. There, they (we?) made a covenant with G-d, promising to keep His commandments. The first ten were given, by G-d Himself: to believe in G‑d, to not worship idols, to not take G‑d’s name in vain, to keep the Shabbat, to honor their parents, to not murder, to not commit adultery, to not steal, to not bear false witness, and to not covet another’s property. The Israelites were overwhelmed by the Voice of G-d, and they asked Moshe to give the rest of the commandments over himself, in his own voice.

Yitro—both the parshah and the individual—reminds me of the importance of familial connections. While not his biological father, Yitro was almost a father to Moshe. The very phrase “father-in-law” being used to describe Yitro alludes to his relationship with Moshe, says Rashi. Yitro called himself Moshe’s father-in-law, with pride at being related to the leader of all the Israelites. When he arrived at the Israelites’ camp, Moshe greeted him with love and respect. When he noticed Moshe biting on more than he could chew, he rebuked Moshe gently, gave him advice on how to balance himself and his responsibilities more efficiently.  And then, when Yitro left the Israelite camp to go back to Midian, he left in order to convert the rest of his family—he had seen the power of the G-d of the Hebrews, and he wasn’t going to leave the rest of his loved ones in the dark; rather, he’d share this revelation with them.

Later on, as the Israelites were camped by the mountain, the Torah refers to them in the singular sense rather than the plural. At the point of receiving the Torah, the nation felt a sense of unity so strong that they were like one individual with one heart. It’s so important to remember: we Jews are not just a nation. We are a family.

And even the Ten Commandments included an allusion to family connections, with the commandment to honor one’s father and mother. The Talmud says that there are three partners in creating an individual: the father, the mother, and G-d. When this individual later honors their father and mother, it is as if they are also honoring G-d.

Two caveats must be made here. Valuing one’s family is a crucial element of practicing Judaism, which I would argue is the reason why it plays such a role in the parsha in which the Torah is first given. However: valuing family sometimes takes the form of tough love. Yitro came with Tzipporah and her and Moshe’s sons because Moshe had sent them away earlier. He intended to bring them with him to Egypt as he redeemed the Israelites, but his brother Aharon rebuked him, saying enough people were already suffering in Egypt and they didn’t need to add more. Sending away his wife and children was, although tough love, one way Moshe kept them safe. Furthermore: sometimes, family is not what you are born into but who you chose. Proverbs 27:10 says a close neighbor is better than a distant brother, and this is relevant because Midrash Rabbah defines the close neighbor as Yitro, with the distant brother being Yaakov’s brother Esav.

The role family takes in every individual’s life varies by the individual. In your relationship with your family, do you prioritize tough or unconditional love? Are you closer with your blood relatives or your chosen family? More importantly: are you so close to the people you consider family that you’re almost like one person with one heart?

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After Yaakov’s passing, his descendants travel to Chevron to bury him in the Machpelah Cave, as he’d requested. They’re accompanied by a whole procession of Egyptian ministers and citizens.

Yosef’s brothers are sure that he has secretly held a grudge against them all along and was only keeping up appearances of peace for their father’s benefit. They’re worried that now that Yaakov has passed, Yosef’s cordiality has expired, and he will kill them. When they confront him about it, Yosef cries. He can’t believe his brothers really think that. Yosef understands that no matter what they did to him, everything happened because G-d wanted it to, and he therefore holds no resentment towards his brothers. He comforts them and tells them that he will take care of them in Egypt, where he serves as viceroy to the Pharaoh.

Then Yosef realizes that he is near death. It’s kind of morbid how long our ancestors spent talking about their impending deaths, but I guess they’re wiser than we are? Like his father before him, he requests that his bones be buried in Canaan, in the Machpelah Cave. He tells his extended family, the Israelites, that G-d will remember them and take them out of Egypt, and then he, too, passes away. But instead of burying him in Canaan, they embalm him, and he remains in Egypt.

Parshat Vayechi brings up a lot of thoughts about atonement and forgiveness. I often wonder about repentance, and the purpose of regret. Once you’ve atoned for your sins and wiped them away, is there any use to regretting these mistakes?

Shimon and Levi sinned against the people of Shechem with good intentions; Reuben, too, sinned with good intentions, and he spent the remainder of his life repenting for his mistake. Still, they did not get blessed along with their brothers at Yaakov’s deathbed. Regardless of whether they regretted what they’d done, the mistakes had been made, and there was no undoing of them. This teaches us to take our actions with the weight they deserve, to not expect that we’ll simply repent later on for what we did. In the moment, we must be sure we are doing the right thing.

But after Yaakov’s death, when Yosef’s brothers apologize him, the Torah is reassuring us that no matter how bad our mistakes, there’s no use torturing ourselves for it. Sure, there are negative repercussions as a consequence of the things we do wrong, but either way, whatever happens fits into G-d’s plans.

The structure of these two ideas fits together nicely. Shimon, in specific, had originally argued that they should kill Yosef. Reuben had failed to save him. When even Yaakov did not fully forgive them for the sins they’d done in the past, they may have turned to hopelessness. How much more can I repent? How can I fix what I did if there’s no going back in time? But Yosef’s assurances that he had long forgiven them must have assuaged it somehow. Sure, there’s no fixing the past. But if Yosef could forgive them, then at least they could move on towards living an unburdened future.

Ideas like this are a big part of why I love learning Torah. Even just thinking about it is soothing, reassures you that no matter how badly you messed up, moving on towards the future is possible.

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