This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on February 28, 2026.

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Have you ever gone shopping and forgotten where you parked? How often do you walk into a room and can’t quite remember what you came in for? Forgetfulness can be harmless. Sometimes it’s just a sign of distraction, and it’s easy to get distracted. But there’s another kind of forgetting that is far more consequential: forgetting who we are, what we stand for, and what we owe one another. Judaism understands this deeply, because memory, in our tradition, is not merely passive nostalgia; it is moral responsibility. This Shabbat brings that truth into sharp focus as Parshat Tetzaveh coincides with Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat of remembering. 

Parshat Tetzaveh focuses heavily on ritual details like the ner tamid, the eternal flame that must burn continually, and especially the elaborate priestly garments worn by Aaron and his descendants. The Torah describes the ephod, the breastplate set with twelve stones, the robe adorned with bells and pomegranates. One verse stands out in particular: Aaron is instructed to carry the names of the children of Israel engraved on the breastplate “over his heart” whenever he enters the sanctuary. Medieval commentators note that this was not decorative symbolism, but a theological statement. Leadership means holding the people close, remembering them individually, carrying their stories and needs constantly before God. 

That message resonates powerfully with Shabbat Zachor, when we are commanded to remember what Amalek did to us: attacking the vulnerable, the stragglers, those least protected. We read this reminder on Shabbat Zachor because Jewish tradition links Amalek directly to the Purim story, where Haman, described as an Agagite, emerges as Amalek’s spiritual descendant. Amalek represents a world where people are reduced to targets, where memory and moral responsibility disappear. The priestly breastplate, by contrast, insists that every tribe, every name, matters. 

But interestingly, do you know whose name is left out of this parshah? Moses. Moses’s name is strikingly absent from this entire Torah portion of Tetzaveh. There’s a parallel with Purim here too, because which name doesn’t appear in the Megillah? God. God is never explicitly mentioned in the Book of Esther. Yet, in each case, hiddenness does not mean absence. Redemption unfolds through human courage, solidarity, and a refusal to forget one another. The holiday reminds us that even when divine presence feels obscured, our responsibility to remember and act with care remains. 

The call of this Shabbat, then, is simple, but critical. Remember who we are. Carry people in our hearts, especially those on the margins. Refuse indifference. Yes, we have the sacred garments and ritual spaces mentioned this week, but those are not the only paths to holiness. Holiness is found in the daily act of remembering fellow humans with dignity and purpose. And in that remembering, again and again, we diminish the power of Amalek and move closer to the world Purim dares us to imagine and to celebrate.

When I was a teenager, my parents used to tease me lovingly about my bedtime routine. They called it the “fashion show.” Each night I would try on different outfits to determine what I would wear the next day. I would come walking into their room, the location of the only full-length mirror in the house, and check out what I’d put together. Some nights I would ask (multiple times) for their opinion to figure out what the appropriate outfit was for the next day based on what activities were planned. 

Each morning, as part of Birkot HaShachar, we recite the blessing Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, malbish arumim. “Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe, who clothes the naked.” At first glance, this blessing seems simple: a statement of gratitude for the basic necessity of clothing. But in Parashat Tetzaveh, we see that clothing is not just a physical necessity—it is also a spiritual one.

This parshah is unique to the book of Shemot in that it does not mention Moshe by name. Instead, its focus is on his brother, Aharon, and the other kohanim, who are given detailed instructions about their sacred garments. The bigdei kehunah, the priestly vestments, are described in exquisite detail: the ephod, the breastplate, the robe with bells and pomegranates, the turban, and the tzitz (golden headpiece) inscribed with the words Kodesh L’Adonai—“Holy to God.” These garments are not just decorative; they serve a higher purpose. The Torah tells us, “And you shall make holy garments for Aharon your brother, for honor and for beauty” (Shemot 28:2).

Why does the Torah devote so much space to describing these garments? Clothing, in Jewish thought, is not just about covering our bodies—it’s a reflection of our dignity, our responsibilities, and even our relationship with God. The priests could not perform their sacred service without these garments. The clothing elevated them, transforming them from individuals into representatives of the people before God.

This idea extends beyond the bigdei kehunah. Every morning, when we say Malbish Arumim, we recognize that God not only provides us with clothing but also imbues us with dignity. It’s a reminder that just as God clothes us, we must ensure that others have their dignity preserved as well. Providing clothing to those in need isn’t just an act of charity, it’s an act of holiness.

Parshat Tetzaveh teaches us that what we wear matters—not because of status or fashion, but because clothing has the power to sanctify. The Kohen Gadol’s garments set him apart for holy service; our clothing, too, can remind us that we are all created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, and that every act—even getting dressed in the morning—can be one of sanctity and gratitude.

A memory popped up in our photostream the other day of a time when I was working late and Duncan needed to entertain Shiri. Since the kids like baking together, he prepped a baking activity, but instead of following the recipe exactly, he simply put out all the ingredients (in reasonable quantities) like sugar, flour, eggs, oil, salt, chocolate chips, etc., and invited Shiri to create something. Even though Shiri decided the amount of each ingredient and what to do with it, they actually ended up making chocolate chip cookies that were fairly palatable. 

While baking is a precise science, Duncan can usually use this method himself when it comes to non-baked dinner combinations. He can take a mix of leftovers and whatever else we might have lying around and craft something fairly yummy. By contrast, I’m not a whiz in the kitchen, but I am exceptional at following a recipe to a 90% success rate, meaning what I make is edible and generally meets expectations. I’m not great at experimenting too far outside of my kitchen comfort zone, so I leave that to Duncan, who can put out ingredients and riff on some basic knowledge.

There are times when each of these methods is not only appropriate but also necessary. On the one hand, putting out supplies with no directions can encourage creativity and imagination and can allow people to have a unique and different experience with each interaction. On the other hand, it often makes it impossible to recreate the product, which, outside of the culinary world, might be more problematic than we think. 

Our Torah reading this week invites us into the possibility that both options (following directions or improvising) can be beneficial. Parshat Tetzaveh details the specific clothing items that a priest and those close to him are to wear. This is special attire that distinguishes them from others in their service to God. These clothes are meant to add an aura of holiness to the priests as they complete their sacred duties. Since these vestments and garments are to be used for such a unique purpose, God also gives a special instruction regarding who is to make them. After we receive these specifics, we learn about the details of what is on each garment.

In the Torah reading two weeks ago in chapter 24, the Israelites answer God with na’aseh v’nishma. “We will do it, and then we’ll understand it.” Commentators often refer to this text as the notion that to understand something, one must explore it, be active in it, and test it out. This week, however, as God is giving the instructions on how to install the priests, the opposite is described. First, God lists the materials that will be needed and then gives concrete, careful, exact directions on what to do and how to do it. To mess around with this order is to desecrate holy objects. When you read both portions, what’s clear is the Torah doesn’t just have one way of doing everything. In certain moments, it is imperative to explore, create, and experiment, and in others, there’s a precise formula to ensure safety, continuity, and balance. 

One of the most powerful experiences of living a Jewish life is the way in which tradition, values, and physical artifacts are passed down from generation to generation. To say a prayer and know that my great-great-grandparents also said that prayer, and know that generations that come after me will say it opens up an intense feeling of connectedness and peace in my heart and soul.

The connection of l’dor v’dor, from generation to generation, is one of the founding pillars of Judaism. There’s a reason that so many moments marked throughout the Torah and the rest of the Prophets and Writings use the phrase “As God promised Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” It is because our ethical, moral, and cultural behaviors are more than a story; they are a way of living that’s passed from one generation to the next.

We see some of the first elements of this in our Torah portion this week. Our Torah reading comes from Parshat Tetzaveh, which details the specific articles of clothing a priest and those close to him are to wear. This is special attire that distinguishes them from others in their service to God. These clothes are meant to add an aura of holiness to the priests as they complete their sacred duties. Since these vestments and garments are to be used for such a unique purpose, God also gives special instructions regarding who is to make them. After we receive these specifics, we learn about the details of what is on each garment.

When Aaron and his sons are elevated into the priesthood, Aaron is tasked with passing down not just the priestly vestments, that physical reminder of their place in society, but also the ethical role the priest will play. In other words, what Aaron is to leave as a legacy to his children and all the generations that come after him is more than a tangible, touchable artifact. It’s also the way in which they should act in the world as leaders, upstanders, and moral exemplars for the nation. 

I have beautiful physical possessions handed down to me from relatives, and I cherish them and look forward to handing them down to my children. But I also take comfort and pride in the knowledge that I’ll be handing down the values, experiences, and life lessons that my parents passed to me.

My husband Duncan has adopted the considerate habit of making a subtle noise, like snapping, when he walks into whatever room I’m in. It’s because he knows I startle easily in one very specific way. Spiders don’t usually scare me, and loud noises are more annoying than frightening, but for some reason I never hear Duncan approaching from the hallway to our bedroom, and when he suddenly appears or starts talking, I’ll scream and jump as though he was a stranger. My “mom ears” are so attuned to the noises our children make that it doesn’t happen with them. And at work, I can always hear the sound of shoes in the hallway at Neveh Shalom outside my office to know when people are approaching. However, after too many times of my own husband startling me, he has started snapping his fingers when he’s coming into a room when I’m alone so that I’ll know he’s coming. It’s a subtle, but incredibly helpful gesture. It’s all the little things we do that make a marriage work, right?

Believe it or not, this tactic is also taught in our Torah portion this week. Our Torah reading this week comes from Parshat Tetzaveh, which details the specific clothing items that a priest and those close to him are to wear. This is special attire that distinguishes them from others in their service to God. These clothes are meant to add an aura of holiness to the priests as they complete their sacred duties. Since these vestments and garments are to be used for such a unique purpose, God also gives a special instruction regarding who is to make them. After we receive these specifics, we learn about the details of what is on each garment.

As Aaron is given directions for the clothing to wear when he enters the Holy of Holies, we learn that he needs to attach bells to his outfit. While it seems clear that the bells serve an auditory function, why would that be necessary? If we believe in an all-knowing God, is it not strange that God wouldn’t know where Aaron was at all times? And if God is everywhere, how could Aaron be coming from a room where God wasn’t already present?

The common interpretation is that the bells are a general act of both courtesy and respect. First, no one, not even God, should be startled when “walking” into a space. Second, announcing ourselves is a way of respecting others by expressing kindness through greeting. And finally, by requiring that Aaron does this for God’s benefit, it’s the Torah’s way of modeling that it should be done for all people, as we are beings made in the image of God. 

Yes, marriages are built on honoring the other individual through all the little things we do, but so are entire communities. The reassurance of even a wordless greeting is just one way we show we’re in partnership with each other.