Tetzaveh: Finding the Vessels in Our Midst

Welcome to Torah in Harlem! As we move through each week, we’ll explore the stories and insights of the weekly Torah portion—the ancient text at the heart of Jewish life—and let them inspire conversation in our community. Our hope is to cultivate a gathering place where learning belongs, reflection brings joy, and we can all grow together. 

Artwork by Hillel Smith.

This week’s parsha, Tetzaveh, lingers over fabric and form. We are given intricate descriptions of the vestments of the kohen (the high priest), with threads of blue, purple, and crimson; gold woven into cloth; garments fashioned “for glory and for splendor.” Just last week, we read about the keilim, the sacred vessels of the Mishkan: the menorah, the altar, and the table. The Torah slows down to name each material, each texture, and each tool. It seems that holiness is stitched and hammered into being. It is not only found in lofty ideas, but it can also be in garments and in vessels — that is, in the tangible stuff of communal life.

Strikingly, these same words—keilim and fine fabrics—echo again at the beginning of Megillat Esther, when King Achashverosh throws his lavish feast. The megillah lingers over the linens, the goblets, and the dazzling display of wealth. And tradition notes that many of those vessels were in fact the very keilim taken from the destroyed Temple. The language is deliberate. Tetzaveh often falls in the shadow of Purim, and the Torah seems to whisper a quiet link: the sacred vessels of the Mishkan and the glittering goblets of Shushan share a vocabulary. The same objects can appear in very different settings.

But here is the deeper invitation. The story of Esther unfolds in galut, in the diaspora, far from the land of Israel and far from the rebuilt Temple. And yet, even there, in arguably the most secular of settings, the keilim are present. Tetzaveh reminds us that the garments of the kohen and the vessels of the Mishkan are not confined to one geography. Even in exile, even in a foreign palace, the materials of sanctity are still within reach — but only if we can recognize them. 

For us, too, this is a charge. We may not stand in the Mishkan today, robed in priestly garments. We may live in a world that looks a whole lot more like Shushan than Jerusalem. And yet the klei kodesh (holy vessels) are still here: the table around which we gather, the food we prepare, the conversations we hold, the ways we show up for one another. Holiness is not only where we expect to find it. It is hidden, waiting for us to discover it. It is woven into the fabric of our communal life. Our task is to identify the vessels in our midst, and to choose to use them for sacred purpose.