Parashat Acharei Mot - Kedoshim: Living Up to Our So-Called Privileges

If there’s a concept often misunderstood, both in the reading of the Torah and even among those who consider themselves traditional within the People of Israel, it is Am Segulah, the so-called "Chosen People." 

It’s commonly interpreted as a label that grants the Jewish people a sense of superiority or special capability, as if that were the reason we’ve excelled in various fields or survived throughout history as a people of law, culture, and tradition.

But Am Segulah is not about privilege, it’s about mission. It’s not a mark of superiority, but a call to responsibility: to live ethically according to the values of the Torah. It is not a title of honor, but an invitation to commitment. And that call becomes even more powerful in moments of grief, loss, and darkness.

This week we read two parshiot: Acharei Mot and Kedoshim. And their sequence is no coincidence. Acharei Mot begins with a painful reminder: “After the death of the sons of Aaron.”

We remember the episode told in Parashat Shemini:

“Nadav and Avihu, sons of Aaron, each took his censer, put fire and incense in it, and offered before the LORD unauthorized fire, which He had not commanded them.” (Leviticus 10:1–2)

A strange fire. Perhaps the result of fanaticism, unbridled passion, or the illusion of absolute truth. The result: death. And a father left in silence. Do you remember?

Three weeks have passed since we read that story. Why bring it up again now?

The answer lies in what follows. God commands Moses to tell Aaron that he may only enter the Holy of Holies once a year: on Yom Kippur, the tenth day of the seventh month. On that day, all the sins of Israel will be atoned for. No work shall be done. Each soul must be afflicted.

The ritual is familiar: two male goats. One “for God,” whose blood will be used for atonement. The other “for Azazel”, a mysterious term. On this second goat, the High Priest symbolically places the sins of the people, and sends it into the wilderness, toward a steep and rocky cliff.

As Rashi explains: “Azazel: from עזז (strong) and אל (mighty), was a rugged, towering cliff.”

That scapegoat ends up bloodied and broken, carrying all the human failings of the people. The Torah teaches us that after pain, there must be healing. The death of Aaron’s sons opens the path to a ritual that brings collective restoration—from personal trauma to communal responsibility.

And then comes Kedoshim: “Kedoshim Tihyu, Ki Kadosh Ani” ,  “You shall be holy (or consacgrated), for I, the Eternal, am holy.”

There is a powerful progression here: from grief (Acharei Mot) to atonement (Yom Kippur), and finally to purpose: holiness.

The Torah does not present holiness as something abstract or unreachable. It gives us clear, tangible directives: do not steal, do not lie, do not oppress the stranger, do not curse the deaf, do not bear a grudge, do not remain indifferent to your neighbor’s blood.

Holiness is not about sacred objects or sacred spaces. It is about human behavior.

Holiness is not a status, it is a responsibility. It is not about being inherently different, but about choosing to act differently, with integrity and justice.

This Shabbat, we read: "Veahavta lereacha kamocha," “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

This well-known verse is not poetic filler. It is a compass. It teaches us that true greatness lies in empathy and mutual respect. Loving another as ourselves is not just a feeling—it is a way to consecrate our lives. It is the path to kedushah.

Today, as the Jewish people, we are living through our own Acharei Mot.

October 7th marked a painful turning point. Death, abduction, and the constant threat to our very existence have thrown us once again into collective mourning.

But the Torah does not allow us to remain frozen in grief.

Kedoshim Tihyu is not a distant religious ideal. It is an urgent ethical and human call. It reminds us that even after horror, we must choose to live with meaning.

Now more than ever, in a polarized world growing colder by the day, this message matters. To be “consecrated” is not to withdraw from the world; it is to engage with it. To fight injustice, uphold human dignity, and build bridges instead of walls.

Holiness reveals itself in our daily choices, how we treat one another, in our honesty, in our generosity. It is not an unreachable goal, but a conscious decision we make each day.

Abraham Joshua Heschel said: “Few are guilty, but all are responsible.”

And also: “The opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference.”

This gives real meaning to Yom Kippur’s atonement ritual: to reflect on how deeply we’ve embraced our calling. We may not be guilty, but we are responsible to better ourselves and the world around us.

Acharei Mot teaches us: do not remain paralyzed by pain.

Kedoshim teaches us: from that pain, build a life of meaning, of compassion, of ethical responsibility.

May we transform grief into responsibility, fear into ethics, and loss into a renewed commitment to life. May the path of the Torah not distance us from the world, but empower us to transform it with compassion, justice, and hope.

May we truly live up to what it means to be Am Segulah: not a people chosen for privilege, but a people chosen for purpose. Not inherently superior, but eternally responsible. May our holiness come not from separation, but from the sacred work of making this world more just, more human, and more whole.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Gustavo Geier