This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, April 17.

---

The spring calendar asks something enormous of us. Within the span of just days, we will move from the depths of grief to the fragile edge of pride. From sirens that stop a nation in its tracks to celebrations that fill the streets with song. It’s almost disorienting, how quickly we’re meant to shift, how much we’re meant to hold. And yet, this is the rhythm of Jewish life: to remember, to mourn, to honor, and still to rise.

In Tazria and Metzora, we encounter the strange and intricate world of tzara’at, a condition that appears on skin, garments, even homes. The priest is tasked with careful examination: לראות, to see. They look, they wait, they look again. When someone is afflicted, they are set apart from the community, not as a permanent rejection, but as part of the healing process. And then, just as carefully, there is a path of return. The Torah outlines rituals of reentry, moments of being seen again, restored to the fullness of communal life.

These parshiyot are, at their core, about seeing, about not turning away from what is difficult, painful, or unsettling. And that is exactly what this season of Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, and Yom HaAtzmaut demands of us.

On Yom HaShoah, we refuse to look away from the horror of what was done to our people. We bear witness to absence, to loss that cannot be repaired. We say: we will see it, we will remember it, even when it is unbearable. On Yom HaZikaron, we narrow our gaze again, this time to the faces and names of those who gave their lives for the Jewish people and the State of Israel. The grief is particularly piercing. Each life is a world. Each loss, a tear in the fabric of our collective story. And then, almost impossibly, Yom HaAtzmaut arrives. A day of return. Of stepping back into the fullness of Jewish life, of celebrating resilience, continuity, and the fragile miracle of a homeland. Not in denial of what we have seen, but because we have seen it.

Tazria-Metzora teaches us that to be a community is to develop the courage to see clearly, and the compassion to bring one another back in. After isolation, there must be return. After rupture, the possibility of renewal.

As we move through this series of sacred days, don’t rush past any part of it. Just as you let yourself feel the weight of memory on Yom HaShoah. Honor the cost of survival on Yom HaZikaron. And when Yom HaAtzmaut arrives, allow yourself, even if it feels complicated, to notice the light.

Pay attention to who around you is carrying grief. Pay attention to who struggles with celebration. And let us be the kind of community that knows how to hold both. Because to be a Jew, in this moment, is to see deeply, to remember honestly, and still—to choose life, יחד, together.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” We know this isn’t true. Words can wound deeply—and also heal. In this week’s double portion, Tazria-Metzora, the Torah offers a layered exploration of both the power of words and the potential for healing, inviting us to reflect on speech, gratitude, and the journeys—physical and spiritual—we take toward wholeness.

Parshat Tazria opens with a woman’s recovery after childbirth, detailing a ritual of purification and offerings. In ancient times, childbirth was not only spiritually significant, but perilous. The Torah’s acknowledgment of that danger—followed by the mother’s eventual reintegration into communal and spiritual life—echoes a profound truth: survival itself is sacred. Today, when a parent safely delivers a child, we still carry this awareness. It’s reflected in the blessing of Birkat HaGomel, recited by those who emerge from danger: “Blessed are you . . . who bestows goodness upon the undeserving and has granted me all good.” It’s a powerful reminder that recovery calls not only for relief, but for gratitude.

Later, the parshah transitions into a discussion of tzara’at, a skin affliction often interpreted by the rabbis as a spiritual consequence of lashon hara—harmful speech. This theme continues into Parshat Metzora, where the afflicted person undergoes not only physical inspection and quarantine, but ultimately, a ritual of release and renewal. A live bird is set free, symbolizing reintegration and new beginnings. Like the mother after childbirth, the metzora is welcomed back into community—restored, renewed.

Though tzara’at may no longer appear on our skin, its lessons linger. Harmful speech still isolates. Gossip still wounds. But just as the body can heal, so too can relationships, when we take responsibility and seek repair. And just as we recite Birkat HaGomel for physical healing, perhaps we might imagine a blessing for the restoration of our words—when our speech turns from tearing down to building up.

Our siddur offers us such a model. Each morning, we begin Pesukei d’Zimra with Baruch She’amar—“Blessed is the One who spoke, and the world came into being.” God’s speech is not destructive, but creative. It builds worlds. If we are made in the divine image, then our words, too, can create. They can comfort, connect, and bless.

So this week, what if we treated our words and our health as equally sacred? What if we offered gratitude not only for physical healing, but for the chance to speak kindly, to start fresh, to repair what was broken? In doing so, we echo both Birkat HaGomel and Baruch She’amar—giving thanks for survival, and honoring the creative holiness within every word.

May our speech be life-giving, our gratitude expansive, and our healing—physical and spiritual—a source of blessing for ourselves and others.

How many of you have had the experience over the last four years of looking at someone who was coughing or sneezing (or had any signs at all of being under the weather) and pulled back just a little because “Oh no, Covid”? How many times did you have to excuse your seasonal allergies so that you weren’t shunned for “Covid-like symptoms?”

In a pre-Covid world, we might have assumed the best, if you can call a cold or allergies “the best.” In our post-Covid world, we have to do extra work to decipher what’s a cold, what’s the flu, what’s allergies, and what’s a potentially life-threatening virus we can spread to others. That’s not to say these other illnesses can’t be deadly or highly contagious, but simply that we have a whole new understanding of how to recognize and classify symptoms.

The truth is, our Torah has been guiding us on quarantining and recognizing ailments since the very beginning, and it kicks off in this week’s double Torah portion of Tazria-Metzora. The text of these parshiyot tell us of the laws for the purification of our homes and our bodies after disease or death has occurred. The laws remind us that our bodies and our places of residence need to be treated with the utmost respect. We also have the obligation to help one another maintain healthy lifestyles and support one another when we find ourselves with impurities. 

It’s interesting, in our modern, post-Covid world, to read laws about how we purify ourselves (sanitizer, anyone?) and about quarantines well before modern medicine and our current support systems were in place. What it comes down to is the human connection we feel when we care for one another. Illness doesn’t mean that you’re somehow morally flawed; it means that we have work to do to bring healing. As we read this week’s double portion, we’re reminded just how important it is to be both aware of our own bodies and respectful enough of others to keep our fellow community members safe.