Kedoshim
The Meaning and Manifestation of Holiness
What does it mean to be holy?
The Torah tells us plainly: "Kedoshim tihiyu, ki kadosh Ani Hashem Elokeichem" – You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.
But what does this truly mean? Rashi, citing the Midrash, says: wherever we find a boundary around sexual conduct, we find holiness. Ramban, by contrast, explains that holiness is about sanctifying what is otherwise permitted—elevating even the mundane. Maharal consistently defines holiness (kedusha) as havdalah, separation, transcendence.
Why would God tell us to be holy because He is holy? What does it mean to emulate God's transcendence? The answer lies in how we define ourselves. Are we primarily our bodies, our appetites, and our animal instincts? Or are we more than that?
Transcendence and the Self
Chazal tell us it is better to go to a house of mourning than to a party. Not because mourning is enjoyable—but because it clarifies our essence. At a party, the attitude is often, "Live for the moment, indulge the senses." But in a house of mourning, we are reminded that the body is just a shell.
Eventually, it will be shed, and the soul will ascend. There, we begin to see ourselves not merely as biological organisms, but as eternal beings.
God created a world in which we must eat, engage physically, form relationships, and live within the material—but our unique role is to sanctify all of it. That is what makes us holier than angels. The angels do not have free will in the physical world. We do. And we can choose to infuse even eating, speech, and love with Divine purpose.
To be holy is to relate to the inner dimension of things. A table is not just wood or energy—it is what it serves: connection, learning, nurturing. When we see things for what they can be, we elevate them.
Mother and the Body
Perhaps this is why the first mitzvah after the call to holiness is: "A person shall revere his mother and father." Our first encounter with the world is through the body, and our body comes from our mother. As infants, she is our everything—source of food, comfort, existence. But to grow beyond infantile selfishness, we must learn not just to need her, but to revere her. To see her not as a servant, but as a sovereign. That’s maturity. That’s holiness. “Al titosh Torat imecha”—do not abandon the teachings of your mother.
A Personal Encounter with Holiness
Let me share a personal story. One Shavuot, I traveled by plane to a distant city to teach Torah. There, I met a man around my age, with a similar mystical inclination. We were both invited to give classes across the community, alternating and sometimes building on each other’s teachings. Naturally, we listened to each other’s classes, riffing off each other's ideas.
After the long night of teaching, he invited me back to his home to meet his wife and have a bite to eat.
After dinner, we retired to his study. Having heard me reference the Maharal, the Ohr HaChaim, Chabad, and other Chassidic masters, he asked if I’d ever studied mysticism in the original works— real "Kabbalah." I replied honestly: never. I’d never had a good experience with mystics. In fact, most seemed to have a distaste for me.
I told him the story of how, at age 18, I went with friends to receive a blessing from a well-known mystic. When it was my turn, the holy man reached out to place his hand on my head—but stopped short, as though burned. He pulled back as if my head were fire, then waved me away without a word. I left bewildered. What was wrong with me, spiritually? I asked my rebbe, who said, “Nothing’s wrong with you.” Still, the experience left a mark.
Another rabbi, more rooted in halacha and Mussar than mysticism, once looked at me, puzzled. We sat in his office, after he had known me, as a student, and then a member of the organisation for almost eight years. I had built programs, led communities, inspired many—and yet, I had also burned bridges in manic fits. No one could figure out how I could be so clear and wise one day, and so unstable the next. He looked at me with pity and confusion in his eyes, smiled sadly but empathetically and finally said, with a sigh, “There’s something wrong with you.” Not as a question. As a truth he couldn’t - or wouldn't, explain.
The Night of Fire
Back in the study on that Shavuot night, my mystical host asked if I wanted to try studying Etz Chaim, the foundational Kabbalistic work of Rav Chaim Vital. "Sure," I said. I'm always open to new texts.
He passed it to me to open. The moment it touched my fingers, I felt a wave of nausea unlike anything I had ever experienced.
I doubled over, and then it began—projectile vomiting, uncontrollable, torrential.
It spewed in a stream that felt supernatural. It soaked the floor, the bed, my clothes. They scrambled to grab towels and buckets, yelling in astonishment and confusion. I kept vomiting. More than I had eaten. More than seemed possible. Something inside me was being expelled.
Finally, it stopped. Pale, shaking, I was led upstairs to a spare room. I collapsed into the bed, unconscious. When I awoke the next morning, the sun streaming in, I found myself in clean pajamas. The sheets were fresh. The floor had been mopped. But the room still smelled—something primal, strange, like burnt incense and bile.
That was my first and last attempt to study raw Kabbalah. It taught me something important: holiness is not a game. It is fire. And it must be approached with reverence—or not at all.
Elisha Ben Avuyah and the Enigma of the Soul
For much of my life, I’ve identified—perhaps too much—with a tragic figure in the Talmud: Elisha ben Avuyah, known as Acher, the Other.
He was one of the teachers of Rabbi Meir, author of much of the Mishnah. Elisha, like me, loved secular literature. The rabbis tell stories about Greek books falling from his cloak. He sought understanding in many worlds—and yet, he was considered a heretic.
Rabbi Meir never left him. He kept learning from him, even when others protested. They asked: How can you tell when he’s teaching Torah and when he’s spreading heresy? Rabbi Meir replied: I can tell. I know.
I’ve always felt this story in my bones. My study partners and even students can tell, often by the tone of my voice, when I’m grounded and when I’m flying off into madness. I have bipolar disorder, though I wasn’t diagnosed until years later. The Talmud speaks of the person who is itim chalim, itim shoteh—sometimes sane, sometimes not.
That’s me. And holiness is a razor's edge for people like me. Inspiration comes fast and hard—but so does fire. The mind soars and then burns.
Bipolar life is a rollercoaster. Or better yet, a mechanical bull. You learn to hold on. You gain skills. But as you age, the ride speeds up. All you can do is breathe, drink water, lie down, and wait for it to stop. Then you walk out of the theme park. You try to make it home. You thank God that you're still here.
This Is Holiness
Holiness is not sainthood. It is not perfection. It is the capacity to channel fire into light. To live with awe and boundaries. To see the Divine not only in the Temple, but in your neighbor. And in yourself, broken as you might seem to others.
And so we return to the heart of the parsha:
“V’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha – Ani Hashem.”
Love your neighbor as yourself. I am God.
Because I am your neighbor. I dwell in the other. In your mother. In your friend. In the stranger. In your self. For you cannot possibly even begin to love your neighbour, or God for that matter, until you first love yourself.
Every baby in it's mother's arms feels this love. Allow yourself to be held by your loving Creator, and I promise you, you will feel that love for life as well. It the law of Nature.
When you recognize that, you begin to live holy.
And that is what the Torah is all about.
The Torah tells us plainly: "Kedoshim tihiyu, ki kadosh Ani Hashem Elokeichem" – You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.
But what does this truly mean? Rashi, citing the Midrash, says: wherever we find a boundary around sexual conduct, we find holiness. Ramban, by contrast, explains that holiness is about sanctifying what is otherwise permitted—elevating even the mundane. Maharal consistently defines holiness (kedusha) as havdalah, separation, transcendence.
Why would God tell us to be holy because He is holy? What does it mean to emulate God's transcendence? The answer lies in how we define ourselves. Are we primarily our bodies, our appetites, and our animal instincts? Or are we more than that?
Transcendence and the Self
Chazal tell us it is better to go to a house of mourning than to a party. Not because mourning is enjoyable—but because it clarifies our essence. At a party, the attitude is often, "Live for the moment, indulge the senses." But in a house of mourning, we are reminded that the body is just a shell.
Eventually, it will be shed, and the soul will ascend. There, we begin to see ourselves not merely as biological organisms, but as eternal beings.
God created a world in which we must eat, engage physically, form relationships, and live within the material—but our unique role is to sanctify all of it. That is what makes us holier than angels. The angels do not have free will in the physical world. We do. And we can choose to infuse even eating, speech, and love with Divine purpose.
To be holy is to relate to the inner dimension of things. A table is not just wood or energy—it is what it serves: connection, learning, nurturing. When we see things for what they can be, we elevate them.
Mother and the Body
Perhaps this is why the first mitzvah after the call to holiness is: "A person shall revere his mother and father." Our first encounter with the world is through the body, and our body comes from our mother. As infants, she is our everything—source of food, comfort, existence. But to grow beyond infantile selfishness, we must learn not just to need her, but to revere her. To see her not as a servant, but as a sovereign. That’s maturity. That’s holiness. “Al titosh Torat imecha”—do not abandon the teachings of your mother.
A Personal Encounter with Holiness
Let me share a personal story. One Shavuot, I traveled by plane to a distant city to teach Torah. There, I met a man around my age, with a similar mystical inclination. We were both invited to give classes across the community, alternating and sometimes building on each other’s teachings. Naturally, we listened to each other’s classes, riffing off each other's ideas.
After the long night of teaching, he invited me back to his home to meet his wife and have a bite to eat.
After dinner, we retired to his study. Having heard me reference the Maharal, the Ohr HaChaim, Chabad, and other Chassidic masters, he asked if I’d ever studied mysticism in the original works— real "Kabbalah." I replied honestly: never. I’d never had a good experience with mystics. In fact, most seemed to have a distaste for me.
I told him the story of how, at age 18, I went with friends to receive a blessing from a well-known mystic. When it was my turn, the holy man reached out to place his hand on my head—but stopped short, as though burned. He pulled back as if my head were fire, then waved me away without a word. I left bewildered. What was wrong with me, spiritually? I asked my rebbe, who said, “Nothing’s wrong with you.” Still, the experience left a mark.
Another rabbi, more rooted in halacha and Mussar than mysticism, once looked at me, puzzled. We sat in his office, after he had known me, as a student, and then a member of the organisation for almost eight years. I had built programs, led communities, inspired many—and yet, I had also burned bridges in manic fits. No one could figure out how I could be so clear and wise one day, and so unstable the next. He looked at me with pity and confusion in his eyes, smiled sadly but empathetically and finally said, with a sigh, “There’s something wrong with you.” Not as a question. As a truth he couldn’t - or wouldn't, explain.
The Night of Fire
Back in the study on that Shavuot night, my mystical host asked if I wanted to try studying Etz Chaim, the foundational Kabbalistic work of Rav Chaim Vital. "Sure," I said. I'm always open to new texts.
He passed it to me to open. The moment it touched my fingers, I felt a wave of nausea unlike anything I had ever experienced.
I doubled over, and then it began—projectile vomiting, uncontrollable, torrential.
It spewed in a stream that felt supernatural. It soaked the floor, the bed, my clothes. They scrambled to grab towels and buckets, yelling in astonishment and confusion. I kept vomiting. More than I had eaten. More than seemed possible. Something inside me was being expelled.
Finally, it stopped. Pale, shaking, I was led upstairs to a spare room. I collapsed into the bed, unconscious. When I awoke the next morning, the sun streaming in, I found myself in clean pajamas. The sheets were fresh. The floor had been mopped. But the room still smelled—something primal, strange, like burnt incense and bile.
That was my first and last attempt to study raw Kabbalah. It taught me something important: holiness is not a game. It is fire. And it must be approached with reverence—or not at all.
Elisha Ben Avuyah and the Enigma of the Soul
For much of my life, I’ve identified—perhaps too much—with a tragic figure in the Talmud: Elisha ben Avuyah, known as Acher, the Other.
He was one of the teachers of Rabbi Meir, author of much of the Mishnah. Elisha, like me, loved secular literature. The rabbis tell stories about Greek books falling from his cloak. He sought understanding in many worlds—and yet, he was considered a heretic.
Rabbi Meir never left him. He kept learning from him, even when others protested. They asked: How can you tell when he’s teaching Torah and when he’s spreading heresy? Rabbi Meir replied: I can tell. I know.
I’ve always felt this story in my bones. My study partners and even students can tell, often by the tone of my voice, when I’m grounded and when I’m flying off into madness. I have bipolar disorder, though I wasn’t diagnosed until years later. The Talmud speaks of the person who is itim chalim, itim shoteh—sometimes sane, sometimes not.
That’s me. And holiness is a razor's edge for people like me. Inspiration comes fast and hard—but so does fire. The mind soars and then burns.
Bipolar life is a rollercoaster. Or better yet, a mechanical bull. You learn to hold on. You gain skills. But as you age, the ride speeds up. All you can do is breathe, drink water, lie down, and wait for it to stop. Then you walk out of the theme park. You try to make it home. You thank God that you're still here.
This Is Holiness
Holiness is not sainthood. It is not perfection. It is the capacity to channel fire into light. To live with awe and boundaries. To see the Divine not only in the Temple, but in your neighbor. And in yourself, broken as you might seem to others.
And so we return to the heart of the parsha:
“V’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha – Ani Hashem.”
Love your neighbor as yourself. I am God.
Because I am your neighbor. I dwell in the other. In your mother. In your friend. In the stranger. In your self. For you cannot possibly even begin to love your neighbour, or God for that matter, until you first love yourself.
Every baby in it's mother's arms feels this love. Allow yourself to be held by your loving Creator, and I promise you, you will feel that love for life as well. It the law of Nature.
When you recognize that, you begin to live holy.
And that is what the Torah is all about.