Parshas Tetzaveh: What Pressure Reveals
There’s a moment that happens every so often when a man walks into an unfamiliar shul on the right day of the week. The gabbai approaches quietly with a stack of aliyah cards and asks, almost casually, “Kohen, Levi, or Yisrael?”
The answer never changes, no matter how much you’ve grown, no matter what kind of week you’ve had, no matter how much responsibility you’re carrying.
For me it has always been simple.
Yisrael.
Clear. Fixed. Uncomplicated.
And yet earlier in the Torah, before Sinai, before the mitzvos are given, we are told something that widens the frame entirely:
וְאַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ לִי מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים
“You shall be to Me a kingdom of Kohanim.”
Not a tribe, not a narrow lineage, but men, women, and children — an entire people called into priesthood. Identity came before instruction, before garments, before roles were assigned.
Parshas Tetzaveh does not restate that calling so much as it shows how it begins to take shape, and it begins not with fabric or gold threads, but with an olive.
“וְיִקְחוּ אֵלֶיךָ שֶׁמֶן זַיִת זָךְ, כָּתִית לַמָּאוֹר”
Before the Kohen Gadol wears the Ephod, before engraved stones rest over his heart, before קֹדֶשׁ לַה׳ is placed across his forehead, there is pressure.
The olive is crushed and oil emerges. The Menorah does not burn on theory or intention alone, but on what has actually been pressed out.
Oil does not light itself. It must be gathered, measured, and lifted deliberately into flame. Left unattended, it remains only potential. The difference is not in the olive, but in what is done with what comes out of it.
Priesthood is not about never being crushed; it is about what happens next.
Oil has no agency. I do.
The difference is not in what emerges, but in how I lift it.
When pressure reveals something in us, how we carry it matters. When we enter a room, the tone we bring matters. When our thoughts scatter, what we return to matters.
——
The gabbai may still ask, and I will still answer Yisrael. But Parshas Tetzaveh reminds me that before Sinai we were called to something larger, not to change who we are, but to live like a kingdom of priests when pressure comes.
Last week, the gold was shaped for a Menorah in fire. This week, the oil is crushed for its light. Different materials, the same avodah: to shape what was formed in survival and to lift what is revealed under pressure.
The very parts that once protected us now shape how the light emerges.
We each carry our own oil. How we tend it determines what kind of light we give.
Good Shabbos,
Berke
The answer never changes, no matter how much you’ve grown, no matter what kind of week you’ve had, no matter how much responsibility you’re carrying.
For me it has always been simple.
Yisrael.
Clear. Fixed. Uncomplicated.
And yet earlier in the Torah, before Sinai, before the mitzvos are given, we are told something that widens the frame entirely:
וְאַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ לִי מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים
“You shall be to Me a kingdom of Kohanim.”
Not a tribe, not a narrow lineage, but men, women, and children — an entire people called into priesthood. Identity came before instruction, before garments, before roles were assigned.
Parshas Tetzaveh does not restate that calling so much as it shows how it begins to take shape, and it begins not with fabric or gold threads, but with an olive.
“וְיִקְחוּ אֵלֶיךָ שֶׁמֶן זַיִת זָךְ, כָּתִית לַמָּאוֹר”
…pure olive oil, crushed for the light.
Before the Kohen Gadol wears the Ephod, before engraved stones rest over his heart, before קֹדֶשׁ לַה׳ is placed across his forehead, there is pressure.
The olive is crushed and oil emerges. The Menorah does not burn on theory or intention alone, but on what has actually been pressed out.
Oil does not light itself. It must be gathered, measured, and lifted deliberately into flame. Left unattended, it remains only potential. The difference is not in the olive, but in what is done with what comes out of it.
There are weeks when life presses in similar ways, when responsibilities stack, sleep thins, and expectations tighten.
That is the crushing. Under that pressure, something surfaces.
Sometimes it is patience or steadiness. Sometimes it is the very habits that once helped us survive. And sometimes it is edge, impatience, or the instinct to withdraw rather than carry.
What emerges is real, and I do not always choose well in the first moment. Sometimes the edge speaks before the clarity does, and the first reaction is not the one I am proudest of.
Priesthood is not about never being crushed; it is about what happens next.
Oil has no agency. I do.
The difference is not in what emerges, but in how I lift it.
The first response is not always the final one. I get to choose again. And sometimes I have to choose again more than once.
——
Only after establishing the oil does the Torah turn to the Kohen Gadol and his garments.
The Ephod rests on his shoulders, bearing the names of the tribes. The Choshen carries those same names over his heart. The Me’il, with its bells, makes his presence audible as he enters and leaves, while the Tzitz, inscribed with קֹדֶשׁ לַה׳, rests at the forefront of his mind.
Responsibility has weight, and what we carry cannot only be burden; it must also be cherished. Presence is rarely neutral. What sits at the front of our consciousness shapes how we walk into a room.
Oil comes first and garments follow, because substance precedes posture.
And not every garment is gold.
The Torah begins with the Kohen Gadol, which shows us the aspiration, but it grounds us in something more basic.
Every Kohen wore four simple garments: the Ketonet, the Avnet, the Michnasayim, and the Migbaot.
There were no jewels, no engraved stones, no bells — only discipline. A tunic to cover what needs covering, a belt to bind what must be held in place, trousers where there must be boundaries, and a covering for the head to steady the mind.
Before anyone carries names on their shoulders, they must first learn to carry themselves. Without that foundation, the gold threads are only costume.
——
Mamleches Kohanim was never only about lineage, nor was it only about one family of men serving in the Mishkan.
It was about responsibility, about how we respond when life presses, about what we allow to take shape under weight and fatigue.
——
Only after establishing the oil does the Torah turn to the Kohen Gadol and his garments.
The Ephod rests on his shoulders, bearing the names of the tribes. The Choshen carries those same names over his heart. The Me’il, with its bells, makes his presence audible as he enters and leaves, while the Tzitz, inscribed with קֹדֶשׁ לַה׳, rests at the forefront of his mind.
Responsibility has weight, and what we carry cannot only be burden; it must also be cherished. Presence is rarely neutral. What sits at the front of our consciousness shapes how we walk into a room.
Oil comes first and garments follow, because substance precedes posture.
And not every garment is gold.
The Torah begins with the Kohen Gadol, which shows us the aspiration, but it grounds us in something more basic.
Every Kohen wore four simple garments: the Ketonet, the Avnet, the Michnasayim, and the Migbaot.
There were no jewels, no engraved stones, no bells — only discipline. A tunic to cover what needs covering, a belt to bind what must be held in place, trousers where there must be boundaries, and a covering for the head to steady the mind.
Before anyone carries names on their shoulders, they must first learn to carry themselves. Without that foundation, the gold threads are only costume.
——
Mamleches Kohanim was never only about lineage, nor was it only about one family of men serving in the Mishkan.
It was about responsibility, about how we respond when life presses, about what we allow to take shape under weight and fatigue.
When pressure reveals something in us, how we carry it matters. When we enter a room, the tone we bring matters. When our thoughts scatter, what we return to matters.
——
The gabbai may still ask, and I will still answer Yisrael. But Parshas Tetzaveh reminds me that before Sinai we were called to something larger, not to change who we are, but to live like a kingdom of priests when pressure comes.
Last week, the gold was shaped for a Menorah in fire. This week, the oil is crushed for its light. Different materials, the same avodah: to shape what was formed in survival and to lift what is revealed under pressure.
The very parts that once protected us now shape how the light emerges.
We each carry our own oil. How we tend it determines what kind of light we give.
Good Shabbos,
Berke