In Parshat Tzav, we read about the sacred responsibility of the kohanim to keep the altar’s fire burning continually:

“A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar; it shall not be extinguished.” (Leviticus 6:6)

This verse highlights fire as a divine tool—a force of transformation, dedication, and holiness. The altar’s fire was not just practical; it symbolized a constant connection between the people and God, an eternal flame of faith and service.

We recognize fire’s power beyond the Beit Ha’mikdash. Each week at Havdalah, as Shabbat departs, we recite the blessing:

“Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, borei me’orei ha’esh.”
(Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe, who creates the lights of fire.)

This blessing acknowledges fire’s dual nature—it provides warmth and light but can also destroy. Fire is both a gift and a responsibility.

We know this all too well. The recent wildfires in California reminded us of the devastating consequences of neglecting our duty as stewards of the earth. At the same time, fire is also a force for illumination—scientific advancements, protests for justice, and passionate voices standing up for what is right all represent the “fire” that refuses to go out.

There are the “fires” of hatred and division, but also the fires that can ignite hope—a candle in a dark place, a flame passed from one generation to the next, a community rallying to rebuild.

Parshat Tzav reminds us that fire should not be left untended. Whether it’s the fire of faith, justice, or compassion, we must actively sustain it. If we neglect it, it can burn out or become destructive. It’s up to us to ask: How am I tending my fire? Are we using our passion to bring light, or are we allowing destructive flames to spread? Are we keeping the fire of Torah and tradition alive, ensuring that it burns brightly for future generations?

As we recite Borei me’orei ha’eish at Havdalah, let it be a reminder that we are responsible for how we use fire—both the fire of our world and the fire within us. May we be inspired to nurture flames of peace, learning, and justice, ensuring that our fire, like the one on the altar, never goes out.

Have you made a burnt offering recently? Have you done a ritualistic cleanse or sacrificed grain? We tend to think of the sacrifices that were essential to our ancient Israelite ancestors as a thing of the past, but in fact, they’re not completely removed from how we observe the laws of Torah today. Let’s go to the source in this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Tzav. 

As the Israelites proceed along their timeline in the desert, the realization of the rules starts to set in. If you’re familiar with the cycle of Torah from previous years, you know how much time is spent on explaining what the people of this new nation can and cannot do. Part of the narrative also deals with things like the judicial system Moshe sets in motion and the priestly duties and structure. 

Leviticus chapters 6 – 8 contain instructions for the priests and the Israelites regarding offerings and sacrifices to God. Specifically, chapter 6 describes the law of the burnt offering, which was a voluntary offering made by the Israelites to seek forgiveness for sins or to show gratitude to God. This offering involved burning the entire animal on the altar as a symbol of complete devotion. Chapter 7 provides instructions for the grain offering, which was another form of voluntary offering made by the Israelites. This offering involved presenting a portion of the grain harvest to the priests, who would then burn some of it on the altar as an offering to God. Chapter 8 outlines the consecration of Aaron and his sons as priests. This involved a seven-day ceremony, during which they were washed, anointed, and dressed in their priestly garments. They were also given instructions regarding the burnt offering and grain offering described in the two previous chapters.

Overall, these chapters emphasize the importance of making offerings and sacrifices to God to demonstrate devotion and seek forgiveness. They also provide specific instructions for the priests regarding the proper way to carry out these offerings. As we look toward Passover in a month and how we put ourselves in the Exodus story, I imagine being an Israelite and wondering why exactly all this structure and status matters. After all, we just left Egypt where the hierarchy enforced by Pharoah led to oppression and forced labor.

The physical acts associated with our traditions aren’t some random set of procedures; they’re meant to keep us involved and present in our Judaism. They give purpose and intention to everything we do. You might think burnt offerings are a thing of the past, but it’s still traditional to save and burn a bit of the challah we bake before Shabbat. You might not have had the experience of being a priest and washing your hands before offering a sacrifice to God, but there’s a good chance you’ve washed and said the blessing for handwashing before eating. And that table you’re eating on? The Talmud even compares it to the altar of the Temple (BT B’rachot 55a). As Jews, it’s not a matter of being doomed to repeat history because we forget it. We remember and live in this history every day of our lives. 

As a community leader, it’s hard to find time to care for myself. My daily walks help, and occasionally I’m able to find time to relax, but I’m often so busy that self-care falls by the wayside. However, I’m also exceptionally blessed, because in those moments when I’m giving to others, so many give back to me. Whether it’s chocolate dropped off on a day when I’m feeling down, or a lasagna and bottle of wine left at my door because we’ve got a sick kid, or even a simple text to ask how I’m doing, it’s uplifting to see the genuine care we have for one another in our community. In those moments it refreshes my soul and mends my spirit. Caring for one another – whether parent to child, child to parent, friend to friend, congregant to clergy – is a way in which we humanize, connect, and lift up those close to us.

This act of mutual care appears throughout our Torah, but is poignantly described in our portion this week. In Parshat Tzav, God tells Moses about the sacrifices that the priests are to perform. The sacrifices are divided into two categories: sin offerings and burnt offerings. Sin offerings are offered to atone, while burnt offerings are offered as a way to show devotion to God.

The priests are also to undergo a process of ordination, which will make them holy and allow them to perform the sacrifices. As Aaron and his sons are being readied to lead the people as priests, there is a brief moment when Moses takes them and washes them. This act of cleansing serves both as hygienic and a purification ritual. But the point isn’t just that Aaron and his sons clean themselves; Moses does it for them. Like a bride on their wedding day being pampered, a baby being washed, or our traditional act of tahara, the ritual purification of the dead before burial, the act is tender and intimate, connecting through human touch. 

In this chaotic creation of a new society, Aaron and his sons are being pushed forward to lead, and you can imagine the pressure they must have felt. To read that this moment of cleansing and care comes from Moses to his brother and nephews reminds us that our most important job is not to lead or influence others, but to care for them. That is the core of our Torah.

On this Shabbat 100 years ago, a young woman named Judith Kaplan celebrated the first public bat mitzvah in an American congregation. It was March 18, 1922. Judith was the daughter of Mordecai Kaplan, the founder of Reconstructionist Judaism, and Judith herself went on to become a talented composer and renowned musicologist. 

Marking this anniversary, I can’t help thinking of my bat mitzvah, which, in its own small way, was a break from the norm at my synagogue. I was the first girl in my congregation to lay tefillin, and I fought to lead so many parts of the service that were considered inappropriate for women to lead in Conservative Judaism at that time. Yes, we’ve come a long way, and it’s important to acknowledge where we came from and to whom credit is due.

This week’s Torah portion, Parshat Tzav, begins with a review of the instructions for the priests with regard to various types of sacrifices. The instructions detail things like what the priests will wear, what time of day the sacrifices are to be made, and who should consume them. The text continues with instructions on kosher eating and concludes with a review of how priests are sanctified in their roles as leaders.

Toward the beginning of this week’s reading, we come to the commandments concerning who can eat of specific sacrifices. The Torah is clear in Leviticus chapter 6, verse 11 that only the males of Aaron’s descendants may eat of it because of their status as God’s holy ones. Since the beginning of Jewish law, this simple statement has been the reason women have been prohibited from taking leadership roles in the Jewish community. Why? Many explanations suggest that it was thought that men could understand the laws more clearly. Although when you consider how much of Judaism was guided, taught, and passed down by women and mothers, this argument is fundamentally flawed if not outright misogynistic.

Other explanations lean on women’s supposed lack of purity or focus, and we now know those arguments fail for their own reasons. So without any rational explanation for the practice of excluding women, the Conservative Movement eventually started ordaining women as rabbis. There was no longer a reason not to. (Of course there never was, but they didn’t realize that until later.) 

All humans are created in the image of the divine, and characteristics like gender and race don’t decide one’s leadership potential. And we should remember that having women leaders is about much more than proving a certain level of competence to men. It’s about showing other women what’s possible. 

Fourteen months ago, when Kamala Harris was sworn in as the first female, BIPOC vice president of the United States, regardless of your political leanings or the color of your state, this moment held immense significance. She was not the first woman to run for this office, but she was the first to take the vice presidential oath of office. Across the nation there were tears of triumph and joy at this further confirmation of what women senators, governors, Supreme Court justices, and presidents of other countries have been proving for decades.

Thank you to Judith Kaplan and women like Regina Jonas, Sally Priesand, and countless others who came before me, so that I could stand before you. 

Why is it always easier to jump to the negative and harder to keep focused on the positive? In my rabbinical school pastoral counseling class, we had many conversations about what is referred to as the “feedback sandwich.” You share something nice (the bread part), then give the troublesome news (the meat part), and then add the second piece of bread with something kind again. It can make it easier to share something difficult, but I tend to be more direct. As someone who always wants to just say what she means, the feedback sandwich can trip me up. For example, what if there simply is no bright side? Rom-coms have spoiled us with impossibly happy endings, but we know that isn’t really how life always works. 

The Torah struggles with this notion as well. In fact, when reading Torah, there are rules about how you can end an aliyah, and the section of verses can’t end in the middle of something terrible happening. Why? Perhaps it is because when we are left in that dark space, our minds wander in the negativity and imagine the worst possible outcomes . . . even when we already know how the story goes!

Our Torah portion this week, Tzav, exhibits this for us. Parshat Tzav begins with the instructions for the priests with regard to the different sacrifices. After discussing the need for the eternal flame, the text continues by teaching the prohibition against eating milk and meat together, and then offers up a final review of the sanctification ceremony of the priests and their roles.

The end of the parshah foreshadows what will happen next. It warns that if you don’t follow the rules, you will die. And in the very next section of text, Aaron’s sons break the rules, make their own rules, and end up paying with their lives. But the verses just prior to that moment seem to soften the blow by explaining “And Aaron and his sons did all the things that the Lord had commanded through Moses.” 

People are seldom purely good or purely evil. The same people who are kind or humble or philanthropic can also make mistakes, though some of those mistakes may have more dire consequences than others. The feedback sandwich isn’t just a way of sharing bad news or adding variety to a narrative. It’s also a reminder that individual actions don’t have to define us; rather, we are the sum of everything we do.