The Portion That Doesn’t Shine
Some Torah portions dazzle. Creation. The plagues. The splitting of the sea. Revelation at Sinai. And then there is Parashat Tetzaveh. No dramatic speeches. No new miracles. No thunder. No towering narrative moment. Instead: oil. Clothing instructions. Tailoring details. Measurements. Daily procedures. At first glance, it can feel… technical. Almost forgettable. If you skim it, you might wonder what there is to say. But maybe that is precisely the point.
Because what Tetzaveh offers is not spectacle — it is sustainment.
Tetzaveh begins with a simple instruction: bring pure olive oil to raise up a light continually — a ner tamid. Not to create light. To tend it. To keep it going. The flame is not the miracle here. The maintenance is. And that shifts everything. This portion is not about revelation. It is about responsibility. Not about spectacle, but sustainment. Not about the dramatic moment that changes history, but about the quiet daily actions that keep holiness alive once the moment has passed. And so the Torah lingers — not on thunder — but on thread.
The priests’ garments are described in intricate detail — woven of gold, blue, purple, and crimson threads, “for dignity and for splendor.” The High Priest carries the names of the tribes engraved on stones over his heart when he enters the sanctuary. Nothing flashy. Everything essential. The Torah lingers over fabric and thread because holiness is not only an idea. It is embodied. It is worn. It is carried close to the heart. Oil. Thread. Names over the heart. This is what keeps the sacred alive.
We tend to love the dramatic chapters of life. The breakthroughs. The milestones. The big, obvious turning points. But most of life is Tetzaveh. Most of life is tending the flame. Showing up again. Wearing the role. Carrying the names of others with care. Doing the steady, often unnoticed work that allows something sacred to continue. There is something quietly reassuring about that. Holiness does not live only in thunder and lightning. It lives in repetition. In craftsmanship. In attention. In the slow weaving of something that will hold meaning for generations.
The longer I sit with Tetzaveh, the less “boring” it becomes. It is intimate. Textured. Patient. It asks subtle questions: Who trims the wick? Who embroiders the thread? Who keeps the light burning when no one is applauding? Maybe this portion feels hidden because it is about hidden work. And maybe that hidden work is what sustains everything else — long after the sea has split, long after the voice from Sinai has faded, long after the dramatic moment has passed.
Tetzaveh reminds us that the sacred does not survive on inspiration alone. It survives on oil. On thread. On daily care. On people who show up. And that, it turns out, is anything but boring.
,שבת שלום
Student Rabbi Ben