Tzav:
The Threefold Soul of the Kohen or
Ah, Look At All The Lonely People
The Threefold Mission of the Kohen, and the Spiritual Blueprint of Every Jew: The Garment of Solitude
The verse that opens this section of the Torah is deceptively simple:
“And the Kohen shall don his linen tunic (*mido bod*), and linen trousers he shall wear upon his flesh, and he shall lift up the ashes from the burnt-offering which the fire consumed on the altar, and place them beside the altar.”
*(Vayikra 6:3)*
Why does the Torah specify linen here (*bod*) and emphasize that the Kohen wears it "on his flesh"? Why is the first ritual of the day the quiet, humble act of removing ashes?
Rav Meir Kahane zt"l, in his commentary on Parshat Tetzaveh, teaches that *bod* means not just linen, but "solitary."
“Linen is actually something of a 'theme' surrounding those who minister to God... *Bod* means 'single and alone.' The linen garments are a symbol of solitude, a reminder that God created and directs the world alone, and that those who serve Him must also be capable of solitude.”
Rav Meir Kahane, Parshat Tetzaveh
And in the words of Rainer Maria Rilke:
“What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours — that is what you must be able to attain. To be solitary as one was as a child, when the grown-ups walked around so busy and distracted by things that seemed important because they were big and the child knew that they were just nonsense. If you can go into yourself and find that firm place in the very deepest part of your being, then you will be able to live in the world.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, Letter 4
The Kohen is, first and foremost, a person who has learned to be alone with God. Not lonely, but inwardly whole. The linen garment, worn directly on the skin, represents this inner solitude. It is spiritual insulation from the world’s noise. Like a poet or prophet, the Kohen walks through the world with an inner stillness, a quiet channel to the Divine.
Real life example? A teenager today, surrounded by social media, peer pressure, endless buzz, who chooses to turn off the phone, step outside, and learn a few lines of Torah with focused attention. That moment is *bod* — solitude in service.
Solitude is not loneliness. It is the place from which clarity and conviction arise.
The Kohen and the Lonely
But holiness is not only a personal refuge; it is also a platform for outreach.
Imagine a high school hallway. A senior walks by and sees a freshman eating lunch alone, knees up, head down. The senior walks over: “Hey, it’s alright. Come eat with us. Tell them you’re with me.”
That is "Umichnesei bad yilbash al besaro" brought to life - which paraphrased, the verse means = and he [the Kohen] gathers in the lonely and [the Kohen] will dress the lonely man with garments of solitude. The Kohen, through his own spiritual solitude, gains the ability to clothe the vulnerable with their own inner quiet. To see the soul in exile and bring it home.
The Kohen's role is to be the safe presence that gives space to the alienated, the sinner, the confused Jew.
As Rav Kahane writes in another context:
“The Kohen, the Levi, is not meant to be lofty and aloof. He is meant to walk the streets and inspire by example, to teach by presence, to embody what it means to live with God.”
Outreach is not marketing. It is fragrance, like the incense the Kohen offers. It cannot be forced; it invites.
Real life: A woman hears about a neighbor whose daughter is no longer attending shul. Instead of gossip, she knocks gently and asks, "Can I bring challah this week? Want to talk?" That is Kohen-energy.
The Kohen and the Creator
To others, the Kohen is Avraham — kindness, warmth, drawing people close.
But before God, the Kohen is Yitzchak.
Yitzchak, the silent one, who lies bound on the altar. Who digs wells. Who never leaves the Land.
Yitzchak is the image of unshakable will. Of inner discipline and exactitude. This is the Kohen's private face: service without drama, without ego, without fanfare.
The Kohen wakes early to lift ashes. Not glorious work, but holy. Because the fire consumed yesterday’s offering, and what remains must be cleared to make space for today’s.
Rav Kook wrote:
“There is a holiness to consistency. To faithful, hidden service that does not draw applause.”
(Orot HaKodesh)
The Kohen's altar is a place of fire and water, emotion and learning. He stands between heaven and earth with exactitude.
Real life: The parent who never skips bedtime shema with their child. Who quietly bakes for the community every Shabbos. Who davens with tears when no one is watching.
The Kohen by Himself
As the Maharal explains on the second mishnah in Avot, the three pillars of the world include Torah. This is the Kohen's relationship with himself. This is what he does, with his precious solitude.
Here he is not Avraham, nor Yitzchak. Here he is Yaakov.
Yaakov is the scholar. The one who studies by night. Who dreams of ladders but lives in exile. Who builds the inner world with words of Torah.
Do not read 'your sons' (banayich), but 'your builders' (bonayich)."
Talmud, Berachot 64a
The Kohen learns Torah not to display brilliance, but to maintain his moral compass. The cities of Levi were not power centers. They were universities of integrity, surrounded by orchards and beauty, places of peace.
Rav Kook writes:
“The Kohanim and Leviim serve the nation not by rulership but by shining light. Their inheritance is not land, but spirit.”
(Ein Ayah)
Real life: A young man studying alone in a beit midrash after everyone else has left. A chavruta who shows up at 6 a.m. before work. A teacher who prepares a class with love and focus because even one soul matters.
Because holiness is never abstract. It is not thunder and lightning. It is the lifting of ashes. The smile to a stranger. A welcoming hand.
And if we want to build a society of meaning, of God-consciousness, then each of us must put on the linen.
And then go out, like the Kohen, into the world. To teach. To lift. To build.
The verse that opens this section of the Torah is deceptively simple:
“And the Kohen shall don his linen tunic (*mido bod*), and linen trousers he shall wear upon his flesh, and he shall lift up the ashes from the burnt-offering which the fire consumed on the altar, and place them beside the altar.”
*(Vayikra 6:3)*
Why does the Torah specify linen here (*bod*) and emphasize that the Kohen wears it "on his flesh"? Why is the first ritual of the day the quiet, humble act of removing ashes?
Rav Meir Kahane zt"l, in his commentary on Parshat Tetzaveh, teaches that *bod* means not just linen, but "solitary."
“Linen is actually something of a 'theme' surrounding those who minister to God... *Bod* means 'single and alone.' The linen garments are a symbol of solitude, a reminder that God created and directs the world alone, and that those who serve Him must also be capable of solitude.”
Rav Meir Kahane, Parshat Tetzaveh
And in the words of Rainer Maria Rilke:
“What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours — that is what you must be able to attain. To be solitary as one was as a child, when the grown-ups walked around so busy and distracted by things that seemed important because they were big and the child knew that they were just nonsense. If you can go into yourself and find that firm place in the very deepest part of your being, then you will be able to live in the world.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, Letter 4
The Kohen is, first and foremost, a person who has learned to be alone with God. Not lonely, but inwardly whole. The linen garment, worn directly on the skin, represents this inner solitude. It is spiritual insulation from the world’s noise. Like a poet or prophet, the Kohen walks through the world with an inner stillness, a quiet channel to the Divine.
Real life example? A teenager today, surrounded by social media, peer pressure, endless buzz, who chooses to turn off the phone, step outside, and learn a few lines of Torah with focused attention. That moment is *bod* — solitude in service.
Solitude is not loneliness. It is the place from which clarity and conviction arise.
The Kohen and the Lonely
But holiness is not only a personal refuge; it is also a platform for outreach.
Imagine a high school hallway. A senior walks by and sees a freshman eating lunch alone, knees up, head down. The senior walks over: “Hey, it’s alright. Come eat with us. Tell them you’re with me.”
That is "Umichnesei bad yilbash al besaro" brought to life - which paraphrased, the verse means = and he [the Kohen] gathers in the lonely and [the Kohen] will dress the lonely man with garments of solitude. The Kohen, through his own spiritual solitude, gains the ability to clothe the vulnerable with their own inner quiet. To see the soul in exile and bring it home.
The Kohen's role is to be the safe presence that gives space to the alienated, the sinner, the confused Jew.
As Rav Kahane writes in another context:
“The Kohen, the Levi, is not meant to be lofty and aloof. He is meant to walk the streets and inspire by example, to teach by presence, to embody what it means to live with God.”
Outreach is not marketing. It is fragrance, like the incense the Kohen offers. It cannot be forced; it invites.
Real life: A woman hears about a neighbor whose daughter is no longer attending shul. Instead of gossip, she knocks gently and asks, "Can I bring challah this week? Want to talk?" That is Kohen-energy.
The Kohen and the Creator
To others, the Kohen is Avraham — kindness, warmth, drawing people close.
But before God, the Kohen is Yitzchak.
Yitzchak, the silent one, who lies bound on the altar. Who digs wells. Who never leaves the Land.
Yitzchak is the image of unshakable will. Of inner discipline and exactitude. This is the Kohen's private face: service without drama, without ego, without fanfare.
The Kohen wakes early to lift ashes. Not glorious work, but holy. Because the fire consumed yesterday’s offering, and what remains must be cleared to make space for today’s.
Rav Kook wrote:
“There is a holiness to consistency. To faithful, hidden service that does not draw applause.”
(Orot HaKodesh)
The Kohen's altar is a place of fire and water, emotion and learning. He stands between heaven and earth with exactitude.
Real life: The parent who never skips bedtime shema with their child. Who quietly bakes for the community every Shabbos. Who davens with tears when no one is watching.
The Kohen by Himself
As the Maharal explains on the second mishnah in Avot, the three pillars of the world include Torah. This is the Kohen's relationship with himself. This is what he does, with his precious solitude.
Here he is not Avraham, nor Yitzchak. Here he is Yaakov.
Yaakov is the scholar. The one who studies by night. Who dreams of ladders but lives in exile. Who builds the inner world with words of Torah.
Do not read 'your sons' (banayich), but 'your builders' (bonayich)."
Talmud, Berachot 64a
The Kohen learns Torah not to display brilliance, but to maintain his moral compass. The cities of Levi were not power centers. They were universities of integrity, surrounded by orchards and beauty, places of peace.
Rav Kook writes:
“The Kohanim and Leviim serve the nation not by rulership but by shining light. Their inheritance is not land, but spirit.”
(Ein Ayah)
Real life: A young man studying alone in a beit midrash after everyone else has left. A chavruta who shows up at 6 a.m. before work. A teacher who prepares a class with love and focus because even one soul matters.
Because holiness is never abstract. It is not thunder and lightning. It is the lifting of ashes. The smile to a stranger. A welcoming hand.
And if we want to build a society of meaning, of God-consciousness, then each of us must put on the linen.
And then go out, like the Kohen, into the world. To teach. To lift. To build.