A Reminder of What is Possible (Tetzaveh)
Imagine what it is to be the High Priest.
Not in theory. Right now. Step into the role. You are Aharon, appointed by your brother Moshe. There is no precedent for the kind of leadership expected of you. You and your children are being initiated as the religious core of a newly freed people, a community still trembling from generations of enslavement, straining to understand a God who was silent for centuries and then suddenly roared into history with fire and redemption. You stand in the breach, bearing the weight of their fragile faith.
Your garments are more than fabric; they are symbols, reminders. Gold and linen, jewels engraved with the names of the tribes resting on your shoulders and your heart. The ephod, the breastplate, the robe — all of it designed to make you a living conduit between the people and the Divine. And then there’s the tzitz, the golden headband inscribed with the words: “Kodesh L’Adonai — Holy to God” (Ex. 28:36). Every step you take, every moment of your life, you are meant to embody holiness. It is not a metaphor. It is your reality.
And yet, you are still human.
The Torah gives us another detail, one that sings with meaning. The hem of your robe is adorned with golden bells and pomegranates, alternating in careful rhythm. Why?
“So that the sound of it is heard when he comes into the sanctuary before God and when he goes out, that he may not die” (Ex. 28:35).
The High Priest must be heard. There must be a reminder. A reminder to whom? To the people? To God? Or to the High Priest himself?
Perhaps all three.
Holiness is not an abstraction. It is weighty. It carries danger. Proximity to power — any power — requires consciousness. The bells are a check, a balance, a call to self-awareness. Who among us does not need that? Those of us granted influence, given roles of leadership, entrusted with decisions that shape communities — how do we ensure we remain accountable? How do we ensure that our actions reflect holiness? Sometimes that means raising our voices; sometimes it means holding silence. Sometimes it means stepping forward; sometimes it means stepping aside.
Unlike Aharon, we no longer have a High Priest. Rabbis are not intermediaries, only teachers. We are, all of us, a community of equals. But that does not mean we are free from the call to holiness. On the contrary, it means the call belongs to all of us.
And so, I offer this: If the tzitz of the High Priest proclaimed, “Holy to God,” what is written upon us? What do our actions, our words, our choices declare? If the bells of the priest’s robe reminded him of his purpose, what serves as our reminder?
Perhaps our children. Perhaps the future itself.
All of our children are watching. They are our gems, our reminders, our responsibility. When we feel lost, when we lack wisdom, when we struggle to act with justice and compassion — perhaps the answer lies in their eyes, in the generations to come, in the sacred obligation to build a world worthy of them.
And so, may we listen carefully for the bells of our own choices. May we carry holiness with humility. May we never forget that we, too, are called to stand in the breach, to embody holiness, to be — each in our own way — a reminder of what is possible.
