Rabbi Doniel Staum

Immersion and Integrity

Our Parsha opens with the words: “Emor el ha’Kohanim bnei Aharon, v’amarta aleihem—Say to the Kohanim, the sons of Aharon, and you shall say to them” (Vayikra 21:1). The Torah then outlines the prohibition for a Kohen to become tamei through contact with the dead, aside from specific exceptions for close relatives or a meis mitzvah (see Kiddushin 29a).

The opening formulation immediately raises a classic question. Why the apparent redundancy of “Emor… v’amarta—Say… and you shall say”? Already noted by Rashi, the Torah here conveys a fundamental principle: L’hazhir gedolim al ha’ketanim—To warn the adult Kohanim about the children.” The obligation of the adults entailed educating and ensuring that the younger generation would uphold these laws.

The Chozeh of Lublin offers an alternative insight.

“Emor el haKohanim, bnei Aharon”—first and foremost, tell the Kohanim who they are. Remind them, “You are the sons of Aharon.” Before any halachic directive, there is an identity to be affirmed. A Kohen must internalize his lineage, his spiritual inheritance, and the legacy of Aharon HaKohen.

What was that legacy? The Mishnah (Pirkei Avos 1:12) teaches: “Be of the students of Aharon—love peace and pursue peace; love other people and bring them close to Torah.” Aharon’s greatness was not merely ritual, but relational. He saw the good in every individual and brought them nearer to Hashem through genuine care. This, says the Chozeh, is the first message: remember who you are. A Kohen is not simply one who performs avodah in the Beis Hamikdash, but someone who embodies Aharon’s love for people.

But then the Pasuk continues: “V’amarta aleihem… l’nefesh lo yitama b’amav—And you shall also say to them, ‘Do not become tamei’” (Vayikra 21:2). Here lies the second, balancing message.

One might think that loving others means fully immersing oneself in their world, even at the cost of one’s own spiritual integrity. The Torah responds: no. Love deeply, but do not lose yourself in the process. Do not become spiritually defiled by the very environments you seek to uplift. A Kohen must live with a dual awareness, wherein on the one hand, he is compassionate and engaged with others, and yet on the other, he ensures he guards his own kedushah and high standards.

This delicate balance is a difficult challenge in life. It requires one to give without being diminished and to uplift others without descending from one’s own spiritual standing.

In truth, this message extends far beyond the Kohanim. The Torah describes all of Klal Yisrael as a “Mamleches kohanim—A kingdom of priests” (Shemos 19:6). Each of us is called to live with this same tension: to remember who we are, and at the same time, to engage the world with love and responsibility.

Emor… v’amarta. Remember your identity. And protect your integrity.

Rabbi Shlomo Horwitz

Just A Moment

There is a striking halachic reality in Parshas Emor. A Kohen who has become tamei may not partake of terumah (Vay-ikra 22:6; see Yevamos 74b). He is, in a very real sense, held at a dis-tance. What, then, is his path back?

He immerses in a mikveh, ful-filling the required act of purifica-tion. Yet even then, he is not fully restored. Something is still lacking. And then, the Torah states: “U’ba ha’shemesh v’taher—The sun sets (nightfall), and he becomes pure” (Vayikra 22:7). Just like that. No additional action. Simply the passage of time, and suddenly, everything changes. With nightfall, he is tahor. He may once again partake of terumah (though he waits until the morrow when he can partake of sacrifices; see Berachos 2a). The transformation is instantaneous.

This halachic phenomenon sheds light on a deeper idea embedded in the structure of our daily lives.

The opening Mishnah in Mesech-ta Berachos (ibid.) asks: “Me’eimasaisai korin es Shema b’arvin—From when does one recite the evening Shema?” The answer given is strik-ing: “From the time the Kohanim enter to eat their terumah.” Why define nightfall in such an indirect way? Why not simply say, “From sunset”?

The Avnei Nezer, the great Sochatchover Rebbe, explains that Chazal are not merely providing a time marker, but teaching us the essence of Krias Shema. Look at the Kohen. Moments earlier, he was restricted, unable to partake in holiness. And then, in a single moment, with the arrival of nightfall, everything is reversed. No new action has been performed, yet his status is entirely transformed.

That, says the Avnei Nezer, is Shema. A person may feel distant, entangled in layers of tumah, estranged from Hashem, spiritually held back. And yet, in one moment of authentic kabbalas ol malchus shamayim, accepting the yoke of Heaven, when he declares: “Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad,” something shifts. That inner commitment has the power to  reorient the entire self.

Externally, perhaps little has changed. No visible transformation can be detected. And yet internally, everything is different. The person stands once again in relationship with Hashem. Just as the Kohen, at nightfall, is suddenly permitted to re-enter the realm of kedushah, so too a person, through a moment of genuine acceptance of Hashem’s sovereignty, can return—immediately—to Him.

This is why Chazal frame the time of Shema through the Kohen’s partaking of terumah at nightfall. It is not merely about when night begins. It is about what Shema makes possible.

It is the power of acceptance and the sense of closeness and belonging it brings about. And all from the quiet, profound power of a single moment.

Rabbi Jeremy Golker

A Living Model

There is a well-known difficulty in the opening Pasuk of Parshas Emor: “Emor el haKohanim bnei Aharon, v’amarta aleihem—Say to the Kohanim, the sons of Aharon, and you shall say to them” (Vayikra 21:1).

As Rashi notes, the Torah appears repetitive. Why the double expression, “Emor… v’amarta”? Quoting Chazal, Rashi explains succinctly that the adults are commanded to instruct and guide the youth. Chinuch is not incidental, but part of the very language of the Torah.

Yet, as many commentaries point out, the reading is not entirely smooth. The Pasuk says, “Say to the Kohanim, the sons of Aharon, and you shall say to them.” The Pasuk’s final words “And say to them” goes back to the adult Kohanim, mentioned at the beginning of the Pasuk. But if the Torah’s intent is to command the adults to teach the children, the Pasuk should not say “You shall say to them,” but “You shall say to your children.”

Given the way the Torah is worded, an insightful explanation emerges. The Torah is teaching not only that one must educate, but how one educates. The most effective form of chinuch is not through instruction alone, but through lived example. The Pasuk thus reads: “Say to the Kohanim… and you shall say to them”—you yourselves must internalize and live these halachos with integrity. In doing so, you will naturally transmit them to the next generation. The child learns less from what is said and far more from what is lived.

This principle finds a striking parallel in the narrative of Shimshon in Sefer Shoftim. When the angel appears to the wife of Manoach, informing her that she will bear a child who is to be a Nazir from birth, detailed instructions are given regarding abstention from wine and impurity. Manoach, though, later requested that the angel return (Shoftim 13:9). Why did he do so? The instructions had already been given.

Rav Shimon Schwab zt”l explains that Manoach’s concern was how a parent can demand of a child a standard that he himself does not live by. How can one raise a Nazir without embodying, at least in part, the discipline that defines him? The request of the angel to return and repeat his instruction repetition was not redundant. It was directed to Manoach himself: you must also live this life. Only through personal example can the child be formed. Chinuch demands congruence.

This idea is echoed further by the Chizkuni in explaining why the service of the Mishkan was ultimately transferred from the firstborn to the Levi’im. Had the bechorim retained the service in the Mishkan, a structural problem would arise: a father who is not a bechor would be tasked with raising a son who is. The child would lack a living model, a home environment steeped in the rhythms and discipline of avodah.

By contrast, the Levi’im form a hereditary class. Their children grow up immersed in the sights, sounds, and demands of Divine service. They do not merely learn it, but absorb it. The avodah becomes second nature because it is witnessed, lived, and experienced daily.

Chinuch, then, is ultimately the transmission of not simply instruction, but identity.

Rabbi Moshe Don Kestenbaum

Constant Celebration

There is a beautiful and subtle remez (hint) brought in the sefarim regarding the structure of Sefiras Ha’Omer. The days are divided into two segments: thirty-two days, followed by Lag BaOmer, and then an additional seventeen days leading to Shavuos.

This pattern, notes the Bnei Yissaschar, is alluded to in the Pasuk: “Lev tov mishteh tamid—A good heart is a constant feast” (Mishlei 15:15). The word “lev” has a gematria of 32 and “tov” has a gematria of 17, together reflecting the structure of the Omer: 32 days, Lag BaOmer, and then 17 more days.

A remarkable observation is made regarding the Rema (Rav Moshe Isserles), whose running commentary fills the pages of the Shulchan Aruch and whose yahrzeit falls on the festive day of Lag Ba’Omer. At the very end of his halachic work on the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chaim 697:1), the Rema concludes with this very Pasuk: “Lev tov mishteh tamid—A good-hearted person feasts continuously (Mishlei 15:15).

But beyond the remez lies a message. Lag Ba’Omer is associated with the yahrzeit of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and the revelation of the inner light of Torah. It is a day of fire—“Ner mitzvah v’Torah ohr”—the flame of mitzvos and the illuminating light of Torah. The question, however, is, how does one access that fire? How does one merit the kedushah and transformative power of Torah?

The Mishnah Berurah, in the laws of Simchas Torah (Orach Chaim 669:11), brings a striking teaching in the name of Arizal. The Arizal testified that the extraordinary spiritual levels he attained were not only through his intellectual mastery, but through his overwhelming joy—simchah shel mitzvah. He rejoiced in mitzvos with his entire being, and it was that joy that opened the gates to deeper Torah and higher avodah.

Torah is not only acquired through effort, but joy. Perhaps this is why the Rema concludes with “Lev tov mishteh tamid.” A “good heart”—a heart that feels gratitude, joy, and inner expansiveness—creates a constant state of spiritual celebration. It becomes the vessel through which Torah can truly reside.

On Lag BaO’mer, then, we have the privilege to recognize the immeasurable privilege of being part of Klal Yisrael and appreciate every opportunity to perform a mitzvah and learn Torah. If we can cultivate that lev tov, that joyful and appreciative heart, then “mishteh tamid,” our connection to Torah becomes continuous, vibrant and alive.

Rabbi Yechezkel Hartman

The Well of Torah

Lag Ba’Omer is not merely a pause in mourning, but a celebration. After the devastating loss of the students of R’ Akiva, the future of Torah She’baal Peh seemed uncertain. Yet five students  endured—Rabbi Meir, Rabbi Yehuda bar Ilai, Rabbi Yossi ben Halafta, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, and Rabbi Elazar ben Shamua—and through them, the Torah She’baal Peh was rebuilt and transmitted to all generations.

It is therefore fitting that Lag Ba’Omer, the yahrzeit of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, serves as the focal point of this celebration. He stands as a central student of Rabbi Akiva and as a primary conduit through which the depth and inner light of Torah emerged into the world.

A remarkable insight is brought in the name of the Vilna Gaon, as transmitted by R’ Menachem Mendel of Shklov.

The Be’er Miriam—the well that sustained Klal Yisrael in the wilderness—symbolizes Torah She’baal Peh. Just as the well provided life-giving water in a hidden, miraculous way, so too Torah She’baal Peh flows beneath the surface, drawn out through effort, interpretation, and transmission, most fully articulated through Rabbi Akiva and his students.

The Pasuk describes that this well was accessible from a place called “Yeshimon.” Rashi explains that one who stands in Yeshimon can see the well (Bamidbar 20:21). But what is Yeshimon?

The Gaon reveals a stunning remez: Yeshimon is an acronym—Yossi, Shimon, Yehudah, Meir, Nechemia—corresponding to the five students of Rabbi Akiva.

If one seeks access to the Be’er—to Torah Shebe’al Peh, to the living, flowing well of Torah—one must pass through Yeshimon: through the transmission of Rabbi Akiva and his students. They are the channel, the gateway, the living bridge through which Torah reached us.

Lag Ba’Omer is the celebration of that bridge. It is the day we reconnect not only to the light of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, but to the entire framework of Torah She’baal Peh as it was rebuilt after destruction, through students who carried forward their rebbe’s legacy. To celebrate Lag Ba’Omer is to recognize that Torah was renewed and to recommit ourselves to entering that mesorah through learning and internalizing and thereby become further links in that eternal transmission.

Rabbi Elazar Meisels

Be A Chiddush

For an athlete, there are moments that define everything. For a basketball player, it’s the feeling of hitting the game-winning three-pointer as the clock winds down. For a baseball player, it’s the grand slam in the bottom of the ninth. For a football player, it’s that perfect touchdown in the end zone. Those are the peaks. The moments of exhilaration, accomplishment, and triumph.

What is the equivalent for a ben Torah?

We know the classic answer. It’s when you say a geshmake chiddush (novel idea). You uncover a new insight, a well-grounded svara, perhaps even one previously said by Reb Chaim or the Rashba. That moment, when something clicks, when Torah opens up, is electrifying. There is a joy that radiates outward. You can see it on a person’s face when he walks in smiling and uplifted. Without saying a word, you know: “He said a chiddush today.”

But what if a person is no longer a yeshiva bachur? What is now he is busy with his family, burdened with work, and left with limited time? Is he excluded from that joy?

In a powerful letter written in 1936, Rabbi Chatzkel Levenstein zt”l challenges the very definition of a chiddush. People assume that a chiddush exists only in learning a sugya. But that is a mistake. A true chiddush can be created in avodas Hashem.

Every single day, a person is presented with opportunities. The yetzer hara places an obstacle in front of him and says: “Go ahead.” And the person responds: No. That moment, says Rav Chatzkel, is a chiddush. In that moment, the person did something new and something rare. Something that not everyone does. And in Heaven, that is a chiddush.

Every day, a person has the opportunity to reach greatness. Not only through what he learns, but through how he lives.

So every day, say a chiddush. And every day, be a chiddush.