Parashat Tetzave: The Legacy we Choose to Preserve

In Parshat Tetzavé, the children of Israel are commanded to bring pure olive oil to keep the Ner Tamid, the eternal lamp in the Mishkan, burning continuously. 

This light did not descend from heaven in a miraculous way, like the manna. Instead, it was up to human beings to keep it burning. It required effort, perseverance, and dedication. It was not merely a physical flame but a symbol of humanity’s commitment to preserving the presence of light in the world.

Today, in a time when the world seems engulfed in shadows of violence, uncertainty, and despair, the Ner Tamid takes on an even deeper meaning. We cannot sit back and wait for the light to return on its own; it is our responsibility to fuel and sustain it. Our commitment, our voices, every act of kindness, every pursuit of justice, every word of truth is a drop of that oil that keeps the flame alive.

History has shown us that even in times darker than the one we are experiencing as a people, there were always those who held onto that light, ensuring it never fully went out. Now, it is our turn to do the same.

This Shabbat is doubly significant: it is both Shabbat Tetzavé and Shabbat Zachor. In Tetzavé, the Torah also speaks of the garments of the Kohen Gadol, reminding us of the importance of Being, Appearing, and Doing.

Rabbi and author Ilene Schneider offers this insight into the Kohen's garments:

“… Among the garments worn by the Kohen Gadol (High Priest) was a robe that symbolized atonement for sins related to speaking ill of others. Its color (sky blue) served as a reminder that our words rise to Heaven, and thus, we must be mindful of what we say. The robe’s neckline was tightly woven and never torn, reminding us to restrain our mouths when we feel tempted to speak disparagingly of others.

The coat also had golden bells that made noise and fabric pomegranates that were silent, hanging from its hem—indicating that there are times when we must speak and times when we must remain silent.”

There are many interpretations of each garment, and in fact, the Torah offers no explanation. Today, I choose to reflect on these.

A robe representing the sin of speaking ill of others. Today, that affliction goes by different names: fake news, incitement to violence, glorification of crime, the brutality of a language that allows no room for mediation. Today, words have been desecrated. We must clothe ourselves once again in words that uphold our dignity. This does not mean submission or surrender. It means resistance.

We will clothe ourselves in words that seek dialogue, that aim to rebuild this broken world. We will do so because we are strong. We will do so because the blue of the priest’s robe reminds us that our lives have a transcendent purpose. A purpose that extends beyond the thirst for vengeance, beyond the urge to win an unfair and dishonest battle today. A purpose that, though it reaches toward Heaven, is fundamentally rooted in those who are watching us now, observing how we act.

The Torah itself tells us: “The sacred garments of Aaron shall pass to his sons after him, for them to be anointed and ordained in them. The son who succeeds him as priest and enters the Tent of Meeting to minister in the Sanctuary shall wear them for seven days.” (Shemot - Exodus 29:29-30)

Garments are passed down to the children. The ways we act and react, our values and banners, are the attire we bequeath to the next generation. This symbolic and profound legacy will allow them to face moments of darkness—may there be no more—with clean souls and heads held high.

And like the priest’s robe, our symbolic garments will have bells on their edges. Because even without playing their game, we will make noise. We will mark our presence. And why not? We will also make music. Because we will not stop singing and dancing, nor will we stop resonating with the harmonious melody of our existence, an existence that does not corrupt, that does not enter the madness that always invites wrongdoing.

And we will also choose when to remain silent. When to mourn our pain. When to accompany with words, with an embrace, with prayer, with melody, with the soul, even when we do not share the same spaces.

At the same time, Shabbat Zachor calls upon us to remember and never forget what Amalek represents: indifference and senseless cruelty. It is a call to active memory, not just to recall the past but to stand firm and act with conviction in the present.

We are not a people who glorify violence or vengeance. We do not build our history on martyrdom, nor do we pass down hatred for generations, seeking blood in retribution for our lost loved ones.

However, this Shabbat and its Haftarah urge us not to forget those who seek to destroy us. They compel us to remain vigilant, knowing that Amalek has existed, exists, and will continue to exist in different forms, always striving for the destruction of the People of Israel.

May we learn from Parshat Tetzavé the duty to be guardians of light, tirelessly, until clarity triumphs over darkness. May this parashah and this Shabbat Zachor inspire us to act with dignity, to spread lights of kindness around us, and to keep our memory alive and watchful.

May this Shabbat strengthen us, help us find clarity and light, and allow us to move forward with determination and hope—the hope that all the Jatufim, those kidnapped from life, will return to their families, and that we will soon see peace.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Gustavo Geier