Parashat Tzav: Keeping the Flame in a World That Burns

We have all become experts in missiles and weaponry.

We have learned new words: shrapnel, cluster munitions, interception.

And in Israel, other words that feel etched into the soul like tattoos: dead, wounded, fear, disaster, sirens…

The question arises, almost out of nowhere: what meaning is there in continuing with so much ritual in a world that seems to be ruled by madmen—forcing us to choose between being swept away by terrorist attacks, taking lives in order to survive, or living under the oppression of hatred and injustice?

Does it still make sense to keep explaining ritual in such careful detail to a God we once longed to draw near to—remembering that the Hebrew word for offering is korban, from karov, closeness—yet whom we now perceive as increasingly distant?

“The diameter of a bomb,” writes Yehuda Amichai, “has no measure, because its devastation is infinite in space and time.”

And perhaps also because it burns away our ability to look toward the future with faith.

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Tzav, we are reminded again and again of the esh tamid, the perpetual fire that must remain burning on the altar.

Let me set the scene: there is an altar upon which offerings are brought, rising heavenward through fire. That altar had to remain lit at all times. This is not a metaphor—as we sometimes try to romanticize—but a concrete command: the altar must never be extinguished. It was an essential task within the sacrificial system of biblical times.

אֵ֗שׁ תָּמִ֛יד תּוּקַ֥ד עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֖חַ לֹ֥א תִכְבֶֽה

“Esh tamid tukad al hamizbeach, lo tichbeh”

“A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar; it shall not go out.”

In its original setting, we are speaking about sacrifices, priesthood, and a religious system we no longer practice. But from a contemporary and humanistic perspective, the question shifts:

If there is no longer an altar… where does that fire burn today?

Of course, it burns in the Ner Tamid, the Eternal Light that shines in every Beit Knesset, in every synagogue—but there is more.

Esh Tamid—the perpetual, constant fire—is not only ritual. It is presence, awareness, responsibility. Because that fire—if it truly burns—does not allow us to remain bystanders.

In Jewish tradition, fire is never only physical. It is energy. It is desire. It is commitment.

What stands out in the biblical text is the repetition of this command in closely placed verses in chapter 6 of the book of Vayikra:

“This is the law of the burnt offering: the burnt offering shall remain on the hearth upon the altar all night until morning, and the fire of the altar shall burn on it.” (v. 9)

“And the fire on the altar shall not go out, but the priest shall add wood to it every morning…” (v. 12)

“A fire shall be kept burning on the altar continually; it shall not go out.” (v. 13)

Scholars point out that verse 12 contains a crucial insight: this fire is not magical, nor of supernatural origin. It is the result of human awareness and persistence. The priests had to add wood every day so that the flame would continue to live.

The perpetuity of the fire is not a miracle—it happens because someone takes responsibility for sustaining it.

Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra (12th century) offers an interesting explanation for the repetition of the command not to extinguish the fire: “to add that it shall not go out during the day.” Even when it is not visible, we must know that the flame continues to burn.

This insight feels deeply meaningful to me: to maintain the fire when it is visible—at night—and also when it is unseen—during the day. In other words, to keep feeding the flame even when no one is watching, when there is no recognition, when it seems that nothing depends on us.

The Jerusalem Talmud, in tractate Yoma (chapter 4), comments:

“When they traveled in the desert, they covered [the fire] with a psikter (a vessel).”

Even under unlikely conditions, they found ways to keep that fire alive. They protected it from winds, from sandstorms, from the harshness of the desert. They took responsibility for guarding it, pushing back against the elements so that it would not be extinguished.

And Maimonides, in Guide for the Perplexed, writes of a small light as metaphor:

“A person dropped a pearl in his house, which was dark and filled with furniture. The pearl is there, but he cannot see it and does not know where it is. It is as though he no longer possesses it, since he cannot benefit from it until… he lights a lamp.”

From a contemporary perspective, that constant fire can take many forms: the capacity to feel outrage in the face of injustice, the desire to learn and question, the ethical responsibility we refuse to delegate, the memory that prevents us from forgetting.

But I insist—there is something essential here: the fire does not sustain itself.

It is not miraculous.

It is not automatic.

It requires constant human action.

After the destruction of the Temple, Judaism underwent a radical transformation: sacrifices were replaced by words, study, and action. It was a deeply humanistic shift. We no longer rely on priests to tend the fire—we ourselves became responsible for keeping it alive.

In a world saturated with information, noise, and urgency, the real danger is not the absence of fire—it is disconnection.

We grow accustomed to injustice.

We normalize hateful speech.

We lose our sensitivity.

And then, almost without noticing, the fire goes out.

That is why we must find—and protect—a personal fire strong enough to stand against the darkness created by the fires of hatred. The message of the eternal fire is not a privilege granted once and for all; it is a responsibility that must be renewed again and again.

We must guard our fire against those who would have us throw in the towel out of exhaustion or disbelief. We must protect it from despair that threatens to extinguish the very reason our message exists: life, offering, faith, community, sacred time, holiness.

We must keep it burning even when there is no need to display it to others. Because storms pass, headlines fade, and the normalization of tragedy is always lurking just around the corner. Social media shifts, narratives change, and collective foolishness looks for new victims of falsehood—even when we feel we remain a constant target through the years.

Let us not surrender to those who claim there is nothing left on the altar—nothing left to give, nothing left to live for.

So the question becomes:

Where do we find the wood to keep our fire alive?

In the strength of our spirits.

In the conviction to defend our values.

In the capacity to love—and to love without conditions.

In the courage to protect what is ours.

In the warmth of those who stand beside us.

In our community, which sustains our continuity and unites us in diversity.

I choose to believe that just as the diameter of destruction can be infinite, so too can be the reach of gestures that protect the light.

Perhaps the most urgent command of Tzav today is not ritual, but existential:

Do not let go of what makes you human.

Do not let your empathy fade. Do not silence your discomfort in the face of injustice. Do not abandon your desire to build something better. Because that fire—even when unseen—is what sustains community, memory, and dignity.

Today we enter the time of Shabbat HaGadol,, the Big Shabbat that moment before movement. Before departure. Before change. Before liberation and the beginning of redemption—whatever it is from which we must be freed—we must recognize the greatness of what still lies before us and the commitment we are called to embrace.

May this Shabbat find us holding fast to the fire—not the one that destroys, but the one that illuminates and calls us to responsibility.

May our freedom never become routine.

May our memory never become decorative.

And when we sit at the Pesach table, may we know—with honesty—that leaving our own Egypts does not end when the Seder night is over.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Pesach Sameach!

Rabbi Gustavo Geier