From the Bigdei Kehunah to Purim Masks: Seeing Beyond the Surface

This week’s Torah portion, Tetzaveh, is almost entirely devoted to clothing.
Not ordinary clothing. The Bigdei Kehunah — the priestly garments — described in painstaking, almost overwhelming detail. Fabrics, colors, threads of gold, precise measurements, engraved stones, woven patterns. Page after page of wardrobe specifications.

Make holy garments for your brother Aharon, for honor and for splendor (Shemot 28:2).
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that Kavod — honor — expresses the essential moral and spiritual content of a person’s character. Tiferet — splendor — is the external beauty that makes that inner character visible and esteemed as it should be. The garments were not mere decoration. They were a visible manifestation of the meaning of the Kehunah itself.

In fact, the garments were not optional. A Kohen who performed the service without them was disqualified. Without the garments, he was just another individual acting out of personal impulse. The sanctuary was not meant to showcase personality. It was meant to embody submission to God’s Torah.

Rav Hirsch emphasizes that without the priestly garments, the individual personality of the Kohen — with all its inevitable weaknesses — would stand exposed. Clothed in the sacred vestments, however, he does not appear as he is, but as he ought to be according to the dictates of God’s Torah. By donning the garments, he becomes conscious of his own inadequacy and of the higher standard he represents. The clothing transforms the man from private individual to representative of a sacred ideal.

Clothing is never just clothing. It expresses identity, shapes perception, and can reveal essence — or obscure it

Clothing, in this sense, dignifies not by concealing weakness but by calling the wearer upward.
Rav Hirsch goes even further. Clothing, he reminds us, began in Gan Eden. God Himself clothed Adam and Chava before sending them into the world. Clothing separates the human being from the beast. It is the first and most conspicuous indication of man’s moral calling. It proclaims that a person is more than instinct, more than impulse, more than flesh.

Clothing, at its best, dignifies.
At its worst, it does the opposite.

Which brings us to Purim. In the Megillah, clothing plays a starring role. Esther dresses carefully when she approaches Achashverosh — first to enter the palace, later to find favor before revealing her plea. Mordechai dons sackcloth in anguish. Haman is forced — against every fiber of his pride — to dress Mordechai in royal garments and lead him through the streets. And at the end, Mordechai emerges:

וּמׇרְדֳּכַי יָצָא מִלִּפְנֵי הַמֶּלֶךְ בִּלְבוּשׁ מַלְכוּת תְּכֵלֶת וָחוּר וַעֲטֶרֶת זָהָב גְּדוֹלָה וְתַכְרִיךְ בּוּץ וְאַרְגָּמָן 

... in royal apparel of turquoise and white, with a large gold crown
and a cloak of fine linen and purple.

The text lingers over the fabrics and colors.

• Clothing signals humiliation.
• Clothing signals power.
• Clothing signals reversal.

On Purim itself, we dress up. We wear costumes. We put on masks. We present ourselves as something other than what we appear to be the rest of the year. Sometimes it is humorous. Sometimes thoughtful. Sometimes profound.

Purim reminds us that reality is layered. The Divine Name does not appear in the Megillah, yet God’s hand is everywhere. Identities shift. Power reverses. The outer garment rarely tells the full story.
And then there is techelet — the blue thread of the tzitzit, discussed in recent weeks in Daf Yomi. The Torah commands us to place a thread of blue upon our garments, “so that you shall see it and remember.” The Sages explain: the blue resembles the sea, the sea resembles the sky, and the sky resembles the Throne of Glory. A single thread of color, woven into cloth, becomes a ladder of consciousness.

Garments can anchor memory.
Clothing can elevate vision.
Fabric can point heavenward.

Taken together, Tetzaveh, Purim, and tzitzit suggest a single idea:  Clothing is never just clothing.

• It expresses identity.
• It shapes perception.
• It can reveal essence — or obscure it.

I learned this lesson personally.
When I first entered the rabbinate, I resisted what I thought of as “rabbinic costume.” I wanted to help people, teach Torah, be authentic. I did not feel higher than anyone else. I told my wife — only half joking — that if I ever started talking about a Homburg hat and long frock, she should shoot me.

But over time I realized something humbling the hard way: it was not about how I felt. It was about what my congregants needed to see. The rabbi does not dress only for himself. He represents Torah. Dignity in dress was not ego — it was responsibility. Clothes do not make the man, but they frame the role he occupies. They signal aspiration. They communicate seriousness.

And yet — here is where we must tread carefully — clothing can also mislead.

In these difficult times — filled with pain, adversity, and far too much animosity between fellow Jews — Purim offers more than celebration. It offers direction.

In our own society, clothing has become a boundary marker. One group sees black hats and long coats and assumes a monolithic worldview. Another sees jeans and short sleeves and assumes spiritual indifference. We reduce individuals to uniforms.

But the Kohen’s garments teach something subtler. The clothing represents an ideal — not the flawless personality of the wearer. The mistake is not in dressing differently. The mistake is in imagining that clothing tells the whole story.

Purim exposes that illusion. The mask hides — but it also reveals. It reminds us that beneath every costume is a human being of complexity, struggle, and potential goodness. Beneath the royal robe may stand a threatened Jew. Beneath the sackcloth may stand a future leader. Beneath the external presentation lies a soul created b’tzelem Elokim.

In these difficult times — filled with pain, adversity, and far too much animosity between fellow Jews — Purim offers more than celebration. It offers direction.

Haman described the Jewish people as “a nation dispersed and separate from one another” (Esther 3:8). Chazal understood that accusation not merely geographically, but spiritually and socially. Fragmented. Suspicious. Divided.

It was only after Esther’s urgent call — “Go, gather all the Jews” (4:16) — that the tide began to turn. First they gathered to fast and pray together. Later they stood together to defend themselves. Unity preceded deliverance. Shared purpose preceded salvation.

And then came the transformation:

לַיְּהוּדִים הָיְתָה אוֹרָה וְשִׂמְחָה וְשָׂשֹׂן וִיקָר

For the Jews there was light, joy, gladness, and honor. Honor — yikar — the very word that echoes the language of kavod and tiferet in our parsha.

Purim is not merely about masks and merriment. It is about rediscovering what happens when a people once described as scattered and separate chooses to stand together.

If clothing can mislead, let it not divide us.
If garments can symbolize aspiration, let them call us upward together.
If masks remind us that reality runs deeper than appearance, let them teach us to look for the shared soul beneath every external difference.

In these challenging days, may we seize the opportunity Purim represents — to see beyond the surface, to gather rather than fragment, to recognize one another as fellow bearers of Divine image. And may we merit once again to live the verse not as history but as hope: Layehudim hayta orah v’simcha v’sason v’yikar — light, joy, gladness, and honor — not as isolated camps in different costumes, but as one people rejoicing together.

Published in the Queens Jewish Link

Lo Sachmod in a Culture of Pressure

The Ten Commandments occupy a unique and exalted place in the Torah. Much has been written by our sages about why these ten, of all mitzvot, were chosen to be proclaimed at Sinai and engraved on the Tablets. Without entering that broader discussion, it is clear that their selection reflects their foundational role in shaping Jewish belief and moral life.

Some of the commandments are readily understood. Others require deeper reflection. Perhaps the most difficult of all is the final one: Lo Sachmod — “You shall not covet.”

What does this commandment actually demand of us?

What if a thought simply pops into my head: My neighbor has a beautiful home, a car, a cow — or even a wife — and I wish that were mine. Have I already transgressed the prohibition against coveting? I can’t help it! My brain is wired this way. I see something, I like it, I wish it were mine. What fault is it of mine that the thought arose at all? Isn’t that just simple human nature?

This is a classic question, raised by many commentators. The most famous conceptual response is offered by Ibn Ezra, who begins with a critical premise: God does not command the impossible. To explain how Lo Sachmod can realistically be observed, he offers a striking analogy.

What is truly impossible is not desired

When a king and his entourage pass through a distant province, a simple villager may see the noble and beautiful princess riding by in her carriage. He does not fantasize about marrying her, because the idea never even enters the realm of possibility. She exists in an entirely different world. Similarly, no matter how loving and admirable a person’s mother may be, the thought of marrying her is inconceivable. It lies completely outside the borders of possibility.

So too, explains Ibn Ezra, must a person train himself to view what belongs to another. One’s neighbor’s spouse, home, or possessions must be regarded not merely as forbidden, but as fundamentally beyond reach — as removed from possibility as the princess is from the peasant. What is truly impossible is not desired.

Rabbeinu Bachya, in Kad HaKemach, deepens this insight by noting that the first and last commandments form a matched pair of bookends that inform all the others. If one genuinely believes that God alone governs the world and apportions to each person exactly what is meant for them, there is no reason to covet what belongs to another. Faith in Divine providence naturally leads to contentment with one’s own portion.

At first glance, Lo Sachmod might appear to be a lofty spiritual aspiration, similar to controlling anger or restraining greed. In truth, however, it is a binding halachic prohibition with serious real-world consequences.

Is it permissible to pressure someone to sell property they do not want to sell? May one try to obtain a job or position already held by another? Is it acceptable to pressure someone into a shidduch they are not interested in, or to push one side of a family to make financial commitments they are unwilling to make simply to complete a match?

These are not theoretical questions. They arise regularly in business dealings, communal negotiations, and personal relationships. This short essay is not the place to resolve them, but it is important to recognize that such situations may involve genuine halachic concerns that require serious consideration before entering into any difficult negotiation.

The Rambam, in the opening chapter of Hilchot Gezeilah — a telling placement in itself — formulates the rule clearly:

Anyone who desires the house, servant, or property of another, and pressures him repeatedly, or enlists others to apply pressure until he sells, has transgressed the prohibition of Lo Sachmod.

One who merely schemes in his heart how to acquire what belongs to another violates Lo Tisaveh, the prohibition governing inner desire.

Beyond the weekly Torah portion, the ethic of Lo Sachmod sheds light on troubling trends in contemporary Jewish life.

One such issue is the intense material striving that has taken hold in parts of the Orthodox community, particularly in America — a phenomenon I wrote about recently. The pressure to live, spend, and celebrate at levels far beyond one’s means is often fueled by constant comparison: looking at what others have, how they celebrate, and how they spend, rather than appreciating what God has provided. If there were less fixation on what others possess and more focus on what truly matters, much of this destructive pressure would simply disappear.

Demanding Support from the Unwilling

A far more serious problem, in my view, is the growing expectation among segments of the Charedi community to receive enormous resources from fellow Jews who are unwilling to provide them. This includes billions of shekels in stipends, child support, daycare subsidies, and funding for yeshivos, kollels, seminaries, and much more — demanded from taxpayers who themselves bear the burdens of military service, employment, and civic responsibility, and who are expected to support even those who refuse to serve in the army under any circumstances, including — and especially — those who are not learning full time.

There are, of course, many complex dimensions to this crisis that deserve separate and thoughtful discussion. My point here is narrower. For anyone sensitive to the principle of Lo Sachmod — the prohibition against desiring and scheming to obtain what belongs to another against their will — there is something deeply troubling about efforts to force others to give what they do not want to give.

This concern is only heightened when such demands are accompanied by incessant, traffic-snarling demonstrations, violence, name-calling, and other repulsive behavior, including political threats and coercion. Such tactics do not merely alienate fellow Jews; they undermine the moral authority of Torah itself and cause vast Chilul Hashem.

The same issue arises, though to a lesser extent, in fundraising and advocacy efforts that rely on false or exaggerated narratives — that it is impossible to be religious in the army, that religious Zionist yeshivot lack holiness, or that Jews who work for a living are somehow less committed. At the very least, such strategies raise uncomfortable questions about whether the spirit — and perhaps even the letter — of Lo Sachmod is being violated.

May we merit to see peace among Jews, and to foster an atmosphere in which Torah and Torah scholars are admired not through pressure or coercion, but through lives that exemplify integrity, responsibility, kindness, and genuine concern for others. Such an approach would inspire far more goodwill — and voluntary support — than any strong-arm tactic ever could.

Published on February 6, 2026 in the Jewish Press and Queens Jewish Link