When my daughter was born, were the silly and sweet and various children’s books that people chose to give us. It is amazing the variety of children’s books nowadays. I feel like when I was a kid there was Dr. Seuss, there was the Very Hungry Caterpillar, there was Goodnight Moon, and there was the Rainbow Fish. Now there are Sandra Boynton books, and Pete the Cat books, and Ruby and Max Rosemary Well’s book series with Ruby and Max, and Mo Willems pigeon books and Piggy and Gerald Books. But one of the most wonderful books our daughter got was a book called Bodies Are Cool. On every page there are rhyming couplets with different kinds of bodies, showing the diversity of the human race.
“Big bodies, small bodies, dancing, playing, happy bodies! Look at all these different bodies! Bodies are cool!” “Dark skin, olive skin, every shade of brown skin, pinky pale or peach skin, bodies are cool!”
It’s a really beautiful book. But the page that I was reminded of as I was reading through this week’s Torah portion is a scene at the beach with various people in bathing suits. The text reads, “Faint scars, bold scars, stripes-from-getting-bigger scars, marks-that-tell-a-story scars, Bodies are cool!”
Marks that tell a story scars. That’s the fun part of the Torah we explored in our reading today. The details of various skin diseases like leprosy. This is what the Torah says when we read about the process of identifying these maladies:
ַוְיַדֵבּר ה’ ֶאל־ֹמֶשׁה ְוֶאל־אֲַהֹרן ֵלאֹמר׃ אָָדם ִכּי־ִיְהֶיה ְבעוֹר־ְבָּשׂרוֹ ְשֵׂאת אוֹ־ַסַפַּחת אוֹ ַבֶהֶרת ְוָהָיה ְבעוֹר־ְבָּשׂרוֹ ְלֶנַגע ָצָרַעת ְוהוָּבא ֶאל־אֲַהֹרן ַהכֵֹּהן אוֹ ֶאל־אַַחד ִמָבָּניו ַהכֲֹּהִנים׃
(1) God spoke to Moses and Aaron, saying: (2) When a person has on the skin of the body a swelling, a rash, or a discoloration, and it
develops into a scaly infection on the skin of the body, it shall be reported to Aaron the priest or to one of his sons, the priests.
First things first – to the priest? Not to a doctor?! Why does the priest have knowledge of these medical issues? Most of the commentators seem to understand this malady as being either unnatural or supernatural – this isn’t a regular disease, it has come about in order to help us recognize some sin that has been committed, or something that we should be recognizing in ourselves. Then we read further:
ְוָראָה ַהכֵֹּהן ֶאת־ַהֶנּגַע ְבּעוֹר־ַהָבָּשׂר ְוֵשָׂער ַבֶּנּגַע ָהַפְך ָלָבן וַּמְרֵאה ַהֶנַּגע ָעֹמק ֵמעוֹר ְבָּשׂרוֹ ֶנַגע ָצַרַעת הוּא ְוָראָהוּ ַהכֵֹּהן ְוִטֵמּא ֹאתוֹ׃
(3) The priest shall examine the infection on the skin of the body: if hair in the infected patch has turned white and the infection appears to be deeper than the skin of the body, it is leprosy; when the priest sees it, he shall pronounce the person impure.
ְוִאם־ַבֶּהֶרת ְלָבָנה ִהוא ְבּעוֹר ְבָּשׂרוֹ ְוָעֹמק ֵאין־ַמְרֶאָה ִמן־ָהעוֹר וְּשָׂעָרה ֹלא־ָהַפְך ָלָבן ְוִהְסִגּיר ַהכֵֹּהן ֶאת־ַהֶנּגַע ִשְׁבַעת ָיִמים׃
(4) But if it is a white discoloration on the skin of the body which does not appear to be deeper than the skin and the hair in it has not turned white, the priest shall isolate the affected person for seven days.
The Torah’s language is strikingly precise. When the kohen encounters a suspicious mark, the verse says
יִמים ְבַעתשִׁ ַגענַּהֶ ֶאת ירגְּוִהְסִ
—the kohen sees, and then isolates the negafor seven days (Vayikra 13:4).
Rashi, one of our most prolific Biblical commentators, reading this, explains that “ירגְּוִהְסִ” “he isolated,” means:
”יסגירנו בבית אחד ולא יראה עד סוף השבוע“
The person is shut away, separated from view, for a full week.
Most commentators follow this path, But there is a quieter, more radical reading preserved by Rav Yaakov ben Asher in the name of his father, Rabbeinu Asher ben Yechiel, known by his acronym “the Rosh”.
אולי
—perhaps—the Torah means exactly what it says.
“את והסגיר הנגע
”—it is the nega, the affliction, that is isolated, not the human being
עטפו את הנגע… שיכיר אחר כך אם התפשט הנגע
The affected area is covered, treated, and observed so that one can later determine whether it has spread.
כלל נסגר לא האדם
But the person themselves is not fundamentally shut away. The focus is careful, almost surgical: identify the issue, contain it, and give it time before making any sweeping declaration.
If we take that seriously, the Torah is teaching something profound: we are not defined by the blemish. Even when something is wrong, even when there is something that needs attention, the response is not to isolate the entire person, to declare them wholly impure, wholly broken. Instead, we isolate the problem. We name it, we watch it, we contain it—but we do not let it become the totality of someone’s identity.
And that same pattern appears in the laws of an afflicted house in parashat Metzora, the second half of our reading this morning. When the people arrive in the land of Israel, a plague erupts on the houses they inhabit, and the homeowner calls over the priest to examine the house by saying,
יתבָּֽבַּ ִ֖לי ִנְרָ֥אה ֶ֕נַגעכְּ
“Something like a plague has appeared in my house. The priest comes to examine the property, and if he diagnoses the house to be plagued, the same language is used as before.
“ָיִמים ְבַעתשִׁ ִיתבַּהַ ֶאת ירגְּוִהְסִ”
(Vayikra 14:38), the house shall be closed for seven days: Again, a period of waiting and reassessment.
After seven days if the affliction persists, the response is measured in a way that reminds us of the instruction with the leprous individual: “ַ
גענַּהָ ֶהןבָּ רשֲׁאֶ ָהֲאָבִנים ֶאת וּצלְּוִחְ”
“Remove only the stones that contain the infection (14:40). Not demolition, but discernment. Not total destruction, but targeted repair.
Taken together, these halakhot form a kind of spiritual discipline. When we encounter something troubling, within ourselves, within others, within our communities, the instinct might be to overgeneralize, to label the whole as flawed. But Tazria pushes us in the opposite direction. Look closely. Ask: is this
העור מן עמוק
, something deep and defining, or is it
העור מן עמוק מראהו ואין …נראה
, something surface-level that requires time and attention but not condemnation?
And perhaps most powerfully, the commentary of the Rosh reminds us: even when there is a nega, an affliction, we isolate the issue, not the person. We can acknowledge what needs healing without exiling someone’s entire being.
That is a deeply countercultural message. It asks us to resist the urge to tear down the whole “house,” whether that house is a relationship, a community, or a self-image, because of a single compromised stone.
Instead, we do the harder work: patient observation, precise response, and a commitment to preserve what is still whole while we tend to what is not.
This, then, is not only a set of ritual laws. It is a vision for a caring community.
Parashat Tazria and Metzora both begin by teaching us restraint and compassion: when a negaappears, we do not declare the whole person or the whole house ruined. We remove the infected stones, not the entire house. We attend to the wound without destroying the whole.
But when the Torah then turns to the law of the metzora, the leper, the instruction at first seems to be more difficult:
ִיְָקֽרא׃ ָטֵ֖מא ׀ ְוָטֵ֥מא
“Impure! Impure!” we call them.
וֹבשָׁוֹמ ֲחֶנהמַּלַ ץוִּמח בשֵׁיֵ ָדדבָּ
(Vayikra 13:46) “They shall dwell alone; their place shall be outside the camp.”
At first glance, this sounds like harsh abandonment. But within the larger vision of the parashah, it is something else.
The Ba’al Shem Tov, the founder of the chasidic movement in Judaism, offers a striking lens through which to read the language of aloneness and that word badad. Once the Baal Shem Tov was returning from the Mikvah, the ritual bathhouse, and he passed a group of Ishmaelites and feared they might harm him. Instead, he overheard one say to another: “Be careful of that Jew, lest he touch you and impurify you.” The Ba’al Shem Tov explained: this is the meaning of the verse from the book of Numbers
“ֹןכּשִׁיְ ְלָבָדד ָעם”
“the people of Israel remain distinct, set apart in their holiness, even while living among the nations. Misunderstood and at a distance, alone.
There is a painful truth in that image of separateness. Sometimes being “alone” is a mark of holiness and uniqueness. Sometimes it is also an experience of being unseen or misunderstood. Distance is dangerous. It causes us to misunderstand and even be fearful of “the other.”
Yesterday I had the honor of speaking and singing at the City of Columbus Yom HaShoah Observance and Holocaust Remembrance at City Hall organized with the help of JewishColumbus. What was most moving was seeing the groups of high school students from across the city who came to bear witness to the testimony of a child of a survivor of the KinderTransport from Germany, and to see some of our living
Holocaust survivors proudly standing up to light memorial candles alongside Columbus City Council President Shannon Hardin. At the end of the ceremony, all of the students, 100% of whom were not Jewish, walked to Battelle Park to place flowers at the base of the Freedom sculpture, sculpted by Holocaust survivor Alfred Tibor.
Inspirational moments like this bridge the gaps we have somehow created between each other.
That is one of the reasons I am so grateful for the opportunity to welcome our friends from the Interfaith Alliance of Columbus this morning to experience our Shabbat service and break bread with us at Kiddush lunch. When we can take moments to see and interact with each other, we can begin to break down distance.
And that is precisely why the Torah’s vision of community matters so deeply here.
The metzora, the leper, is not cast away forever. The Torah does not erase them from the people. Their place is just outside the camp, close enough to remain part of the life of the community, close enough that return is always possible, indeed expected. Their separation is temporary, purposeful, and bounded by care.
Most powerfully, at the end of that period, the community does not wait passively for them to find their own way back.
The Torah says:
“ֲחֶנהמַּלַ ץוִּמח ֶאל ֵֹהןכַּה ְוָיָצא”
(Vayikra 14:3) “the priest shall go out beyond the camp.”
The kohen goes out to them.
This may be one of the most beautiful images in the entire parashah. When someone has been on the margins, because of illness, grief, shame, brokenness, or whatever has set them apart, we do not simply say, “Come back when you’re ready.” We go out. We show up. We cross the boundary ourselves.
That crossing changes everything.
The caring community is not only the one that knows when to create distance for the sake of healing, it is one that refuses to let distance become abandonment. The priest goes out to say: you are not forgotten. You are not alone. We want you back.
That is the continuation of the vision begun in Tazria. First: do not condemn the whole because one part is afflicted. Then: if someone must be outside for a time, make sure they know they are still part of the whole. Healing is not complete until someone goes out to bring them home.
How many people in our communities live in that place of ֲ
חֶנהמַּלַ ץוִּמח
, just outside the circle? People who are grieving, ashamed, struggling, estranged, ill, uncertain whether there is still a place for them. The Torah teaches that our responsibility is not simply to wait for them to return. “ֵֹ
הןכַּה ְוָיָצא
”—we go out to them.
We show up. We cross the distance.
We say: you are not alone, and we want you back.
That may be the Torah’s most radical image of holiness: not merely guarding the sanctity of the camp, but extending the care of the camp beyond its borders, until the one who was isolated knows they still belong. Thank you for your presence today, and may we always take this vision to heart. Shabbat Shalom.
