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The Jewish Soul Aflame: Parashat Tzav, the Eternal Flame, and Combatting Exhaustion through Modern Practice

This week’s Torah portion is Parashat Tzav, which further details the sacrifices needed in the Mishkan and introduces us to the roles of the priests. It’s a hard portion to read, especially through a modern lens. How do we contextualize so much death found in this portion? How do we read this portion and gather any kind of lesson applicable to the modern world?


Hence, a lot of people skip Parashat Tzav. That’s understandable. It’s filled with discussions about ancient rituals we no longer perform, including animal sacrifices, aspects of our religious past that we have grappled with how to explain for years. Many follow the theory of the Rambam (Maimonides), who believed that the sacrifices were a concession made by God to help the Israelites refocus on their connection with Him, in the expectation that eventually, they’d transition away from ancient pagan practices altogether. 


I tend to resonate more with the Ramban (Nachmanides), who surmised that there was a hidden meaning behind the sacrificial system that went deeper than ancient practices. If the Ramban is right, hidden within the seemingly mundane and ritualistic was a message of connection, redemption, and hope for a lost people looking for a way back to faith after generations of trauma and enslavement. 


But the real key to the entirety of the portion, the piece that ties everything together in a modern context, is found in the description of the Eternal Flame (the Eish Tamid) found in the Mishkan. 


Responsibility Versus Burnout

The Eternal Flame was the fire kept to consume sacrifices in the Mishkan. According to the Torah, the priests were instructed to keep the eternal flame burning at all times, even when they were traveling or on Shabbat. “A constant fire shall burn upon the altar; it shall never go out (Leviticus 6:6; Yoma 4:6).” And, according to tradition, during travel, they kept the flame hidden well in a copper bowl, but it continued burning nonetheless. It was believed to be a divine fire, initially lit by God and maintained by the priests. A symbol of divine presence, eternal connection, and mercy. 


It’s a small task, yes. But a weighty one nonetheless. I think of how much work that would take, day in and day out, lugging wood and clearing ash to maintain the flame, in addition to all of the other countless priestly duties and responsibilities. And, still, they did it. I wonder sometimes if the flames ever dampened so close to giving out, or if the weight of replacing the fuel for the fire randomly throughout the day ever made the task more difficult. Somehow, they managed to balance it all and be the main individuals connecting the people to God on a regular basis. Without complaint. 


In life, we hear so often, “I just don’t have time…” when it comes to God or religion. Life in the 21st century has become so busy, exhaustion has become such a frequent friend, and we are constantly surrounded by news so overwhelming that simply surviving has become normalized and expected. When do we have time to feed our souls or reconnect with God? 


How do we preserve our energy in a world that is constantly asking more of us than we can manage? How do we keep our internal Jewish flame ablaze, our Divine Spark, in the spirit of the Eternal Flame in the Mishkan, when we live in a world where just being Jewish is seen as a crime of sorts? 


And, for people like myself, who face heightened barriers to worship, ritual observance, and self-compassion due to a disability or other challenge, time feels like a luxury we never have enough of. It’s easy to view ritual observance, even our own Jewishness, through the lens of Black and White Thinking; either we never make time for God, or we put everything aside for God and risk missing our purpose on earth and the beauty of our embodiment. 


The balance lies in what I think is the hidden meaning behind the sacrificial system: commitment based on what you have available to you. 


The Theme of Commitment in the Sacrificial System 

Every sacrifice God designed was based on what people had access to. Whether an animal, a bird, or bread, etc., there was equity in the sacrificial system. God never asked above what someone was capable of offering, a lesson that God sees the heart of the action and the intention of the person. Every effort we take to connect with God in the busyness of life is seen as an intentional sacrifice and a way to fuel the flame in our own lives. It’s maintenance, it's care. This is especially relevant for those who are limited in what they can give. 


The Lubavitcher Rebbe once stated, “No moment in your life is too exalted or too debased to sustain your passion and enthusiasm in the fulfillment of the purpose to which you were created, which is to raise up to G‑d the materials of your everyday existence.” 


What I take from his insight is that every moment of our lives is an opportunity to live in and experience holiness. God values consistency over intensity. Something as simple as the flame staying lit was meaningful enough for God. It was because of that flame that the sacrifices could happen and God could maintain a connection to Israel in the first place. Just this small effort made a world of difference for the fledgling nation. According to tradition, the flame didn’t go out for hundreds of years, and only once when it was transferred into the Temple. 


The Altar of the Everyday

The Eternal Flame was a divine fire carefully maintained by humans, showing us our task in the modern world is to be intentionally holy and committed to exploring life with God, not putting so much weight on rituals that they take away from our lives instead of adding to it. Learning to balance commitment to God with self-compassion and patience for ourselves to avoid burnout in a world constantly bombarding us with less-than-ideal situations. It is our responsibility to maintain the flame in our own souls and communities, and take intentional moments to clear away the ashes of overwhelm, negativity, and toxicity. It’s a ritual rooted in self-care, community building, and intentionality.

For those of us navigating barriers, whether physical, mental, or circumstantial, the lesson of Parashat Tzav is a revolutionary act of self-compassion. Some days, our "eternal flame" will feel like nothing more than a tiny spark, carefully shielded in a copper bowl as we navigate the complexity of our lives. Other times, it can roar. But maintaining it, and giving ourselves grace to bring whatever we can to our relationship to God, is what’s important. It’s up to us to never let the light go out in our lives and those in our communities. That’s how we bring the lessons in Parashat Tzav into a modern lens and allow it to inform our practice. 


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