From Service to Sacrifice: Lessons in Leadership from Parshas Tzav

One of the first instructions in Parshas Tzav relates to the removal of the ashes from the mizbeach, the mitzvah of terumas ha-deshen. At first glance, this task seems minor, even mundane, in comparison with the dramatic rituals of bringing korbanos. Yet Chazal place great significance on this act, and several modern Torah thinkers see in it a profound model of leadership.

Rav Nissan Alpert, zt”l, writes in Limudei Nissan that there are sins that require distance and separation from kedushah, but there are also sins that, even in their aftermath, require careful closeness. He connects this to the act of clearing away the ashes, not to discard kedushah as refuse, but to begin the day’s service by respectfully tending to its remains. Leadership, he suggests, often begins not with bold initiatives but with dignified humility.

Flowing from this opening image of quiet devotion and humble labor, Parshas Tzav continues with detailed, step‐by‐step directives regarding the sacrifices and the service in the Mishkan. Every element, from the precise way in which the Kohanim are to handle the offerings to the careful maintenance of a constant fire on the altar, illustrates a system in which process is paramount. Even the slightest deviation from established practice could compromise the sanctity of the entire operation.

The passuk says:

וַיִּקַּח מֹשֶׁה אֹתָם מֵעַל כַּפֵּיהֶם וַיַּקְטֵר הַמִּזְבֵּחָה עַל־הָעֹלָה מִלֻּאִים הֵם לְרֵיחַ נִיחֹחַ אִשֶּׁה הוּא לַה׳ (ויקרא ח:כח)  (“Moshe took them from their hands and burned them on the altar in addition to the burnt offering; they were inauguration offerings for a pleasing fragrance, a fire-offering to Hashem“) Vayikra 8:28

On this passuk, Rashi HaKadosh comments as follows: “וַיִּקַּח מֹשֶׁה אוֹתָם מֵעַל כַּפֵּיהֶם – מְלַמֵּד שֶׁמְסָרָן לוֹ לְהַקְטִיר. וַיַּקְטֵר – מְשַׁמֵּשׁ שִׁבְעַת יְמֵי הַמִּלּוּאִים הָיָה מֹשֶׁה מְשַׁמֵּשׁ וְלֹא אַהֲרֹן. וּמַה בְּגָדִים לָבַשׁ? כְּתֹנֶת לָבָן שֶׁאֵין בָּהּ אִימְרָא, זוֹ הִיא חֲלוּק לָבָן.”

(“He [Moshe] took them from their hands – this teaches that they were handed to him to offer. ‘And he burned them’ – this shows that during the seven days of inauguration Moshe performed the service and not Aharon. What garments did he wear? A simple white tunic without a hem – this is the white robe.“)

During the seven-day inauguration of the Mishkan, Moshe Rabbeinu himself performed the role of the Kohen Gadol. The garments he wore, however, were neither the standard priestly garments (bigdei kehuna) nor everyday clothing (bigdei chol), but rather a simple white tunic known as a chaluk lavan.

The Transcendence of Moshe Rabbeinu: Rav Soloveitchik on Authentic Leadership

Flowing from this emphasis on sacred order and spiritual authenticity, Rav Yosef Dov HaLevi Soloveitchik, zt”l, in his weekly shiur at the Moriah Synagogue on Manhattan’s Upper West Side given on 20 Adar II 5738 (March 28, 1978), turned to a fascinating anomaly in the parsha. If Moshe Rabbeinu truly functioned as the Kohen Gadol during the seven days of milu’im, he asked, why was he not dressed in the required bigdei kehuna, and why was there no formal anointing or appointment (minuy) as there was with Aharon? Why is there no indication of Moshe undergoing the same consecration process?

The Rav answered that Moshe’s leadership transcended institutional forms. He was not merely a functionary or appointee; his kedushah was not conferred by external ritual but emerged from his intrinsic character. Unlike Aharon, who required anointment and the donning of priestly garments, Moshe required no visible sign of appointment. His authority was self-evident, derived from his complete dedication to Hashem and his singular relationship with the Divine Presence.

The Rav, in exploring the significance of the chaluk lavan, the simple white tunic Moshe wore, explained that it was not a garment of priestly status or ceremonial display but of purity and transcendence. This white robe symbolized a state of being beyond titles and roles,a reflection of Moshe’s elevation above conventional hierarchies. Moshe was simultaneously a prophet, a teacher, a judge, and a king. But none of these roles required formal installation because they emanated naturally from his essence. Moshe’s kedushah was inherent. In the Rav’s words, Moshe lived lifnei Hashem,in a constant state of presence before God. His very identity was his sanctification.

As explained by The Rav, this model challenges our assumptions about leadership by emphasizing the distinction between authority and authenticity. Institutional legitimacy may grant a leader formal power, but it does not bestow greatness. That can only come from the inner qualities of the individual, the depth of character, the clarity of vision, and a profound sense of divine mission. Moshe Rabbeinu, who stood apart from conventional structures and who bore no external symbols of office, served as the ultimate embodiment of this principle. His leadership emerged not from coronation or appointment, but from a life lived entirely lifnei Hashem, with unwavering dedication to the will of the Ribbono Shel Olam. The Rav teaches that the highest form of leadership is not driven by ambition or the pursuit of prominence but by the moral courage to serve, the integrity to remain humble, and the faith to bear the weight of responsibility with quiet strength and inner discipline.

Ultimately, The Rav teaches, Moshe’s chaluk lavan is the visual embodiment of his inner life.

Rav Shimon Schwab adds a further nuance to this portrait through his interpretation of the shalsheles on the word “וַיִּשְׁחָט” (Vayikra 8:23). The rare trop is used here to indicate Moshe’s emotional state as he performs the final act of the korban during the milu’im. Rav Schwab suggests that this musical notation reflects a moment of inner conflict and reluctance—not hesitation born of fear, but a longing to hold on to the spiritual intimacy of this unique avodah. Moshe, knowing that this would be the last time he would serve in this role before handing it over to Aharon, lingered in the moment. His heart was torn, not from resistance to Aharon’s ascension, but from his own deep attachment to the sanctity of the service he was now relinquishing. The shalsheles gives voice to a soul reluctant to part with kedusha, and in doing so, reinforces the depth of Moshe’s character and the authenticity of his leadership. It was plain and undistinguished but profoundly elevated. Through this, we learn that the leader who refuses pomp, who asks for no crown, and who does not need public affirmation can be the most exalted of all. His leadership, rooted in divine service and inner discipline, continues to stand as the gold standard of Torah leadership.

Humility as the Soul of Leadership

This ethos of inward trembling and moral awareness, so vividly modeled by Moshe Rabbeinu’s transcendent service, continues in the person of Aharon HaKohen. When the moment finally arrived for the dedication of the Mishkan, Aharon, though externally prepared, found himself internally frozen, beset by a profound sense of inadequacy. The Torah records (Vayikra 8:2) that Hashem instructs Moshe, “קָרֵב אֶת אַהֲרֹן” (Bring Aharon near), and Rashi adds, “דַּבֵּר אֵלָיו דְּבָרִים הַמּוֹשְׁכִין אֶת הַלֵּב” (Speak to him words that draw the heart). Aharon needed more than formal instruction—he required gentle persuasion, emotional reassurance, and spiritual support.

Chazal in Toras Kohanim (Shemini) and Rashi (9:7) teach that as Aharon approached the Mizbeach, the corners of the altar reminded him of the horns of the Eigel HaZahav. The painful memory of his role in that sin gripped him, and he was overcome with guilt. How could he, who had led his people into the depths of the sin of the Eigel, assume the highest tier of spiritual leadership? How could he possibly serve as the spiritual representative of the people?

Rav Yaakov Neuburger, shlita, in a penetrating analysis of this episode, underscores the theological and psychological depth of Hashem’s response to Aharon’s hesitation. Moshe is instructed to tell him: “לָכֵן נִבְחַרְתָּ” (For this you were chosen). As Rav Neuburger explains, this can be read not merely as a statement of destiny but as a validation of Aharon’s very humility. It is not despite your fear, but because of it; not in spite of your sense of failure, but because you have known failure and grown from it, that you are uniquely suited to lead. Your sense of inadequacy is not a liability but the very quality that makes you most capable of serving as Kohen Gadol.

Rav Neuburger teaches us that this moment establishes a Torah definition of spiritual leadership: it is not the confident voice nor the polished figure that defines greatness in Jewish leadership, but rather the one who is most deeply aware of the weight of responsibility entrusted to him. It is the individual who understands the pain of guilt, both personal and communal, and who therefore becomes the most prepared to guide others on the path of teshuvah. The leader who stands at the foot of the Mizbeach trembling, not out of fear of failure alone, but out of awe for the task, is the one most qualified to ascend it. For it is this inner turmoil, this profound humility before Heaven, which forges a leader who can carry others, not as a master, but as a servant, with empathy, compassion, and spiritual authenticity.

In this light, le’kach nivcharta emerges as a timeless and foundational principle of Torah leadership. Rav Neuburger, in a profoundly illuminating reading, supports this thesis with the insights of earlier gedolim. Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin interprets Hashem’s words to Aharon not as a declaration of destiny alone, but as a revelation of the inner spiritual criteria by which leaders are chosen. It is not the one who strides forward with confidence who is appointed to serve in the holiest of capacities, but rather the one whose very humility and trembling before Hashem testifies to his readiness. The sense of awe, of having been broken and refined through past failure, becomes the greatest qualification.

To further strengthen this thesis, Rav Neuburger brings a powerful parallel from the words of the Imrei Emes, the Gerrer Rebbe, who interprets Esther HaMalkah’s hesitation before entering Achashverosh’s palace as a deeply spiritual moment. Initially emboldened by Ruach HaKodesh, Esther is suddenly gripped by fear and a sense of unworthiness as she passes by idolatry in the palace. According to the Zohar, this experience reflects a time of hester panim, a sudden concealment of the Divine Presence. The Imrei Emes explains that this spiritual silence should not be viewed as a sign of rejection but rather as a divine summons to rise further. It is in those very moments of internal struggle and spiritual fog that one is called to ascend in faith and resolve. Just as Aharon’s hesitation testified to his worthiness, Esther’s faltering served as the crucible in which her leadership was refined. In this way, Rav Neuburger shows that the Torah’s conception of leadership is not shaped by uninterrupted inspiration but by the capacity to serve even in the shadows of uncertainty.

Rav Neuburger draws these insights into sharper relief by turning to a story that encapsulates this ideal of hesitant, conscience-driven leadership: the story of Rav Yitzchak Blazer, the renowned disciple of Rav Yisroel Salanter. At the age of just twenty-five, Rav Itzele was chosen by his rebbe to assume the position of Chief Rabbi of St. Petersburg, a post of enormous religious and political consequence. Representing Torah Jewry before the czarist government was both spiritually perilous and politically fraught, and the burden of responsibility was staggering. Despite his brilliance and yiras Shamayim, Rav Itzele hesitated. He doubted his readiness and feared his inexperience would render him unworthy of the task. But Rav Yisroel saw that this very fear, this hesitation born of humility and awe, was what made him fit to lead. His now-famous retort captures the heart of the Torah’s vision of leadership: “And who should I send? Someone who is not afraid?”

In the context of these teachings, the story of Rav Blazer, as cited by Rav Neuburger, serves to crystallize the central thesis of Parshas Tzav’s portrait of leadership: trembling before the task is not a flaw to be overcome but a spiritual qualification. It is the very hallmark of those most fit to lead, precisely because their fear is born of reverence, their hesitation grounded in conscience, and their acceptance of the burden, an act of inner strength and selfless service.

The message is clear: Klal Yisrael requires leaders who are not enamored with stature but who stand humbled by the privilege to serve. Le’kach nivcharta, for this humility, for this trembling conscience, you were chosen.

Enduring Leadership in Times of Crisis

Drawing forward the central message of le’kach nivcharta, the Late Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom, Rav Lord Jonathan Sacks zt”l, expands the definition of leadership by highlighting its forward-looking dimension. Leadership must not only be rooted in humility and moral responsibility, it must also possess the capacity for spiritual creativity in the face of historical rupture. In his essay “Why Civilizations Die” (Tzav 5771), Rav Sacks reflects on how the Jewish people, in the wake of the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash, responded not with paralysis or denial but with transformative vision. Under the guidance of leaders like Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai, they initiated a profound spiritual recalibration—redirecting the sacred energy once expressed through korbanos into practices that could endure in exile. Prayer became the avodah shebalev, Torah study was sanctified as a permanent bond to the Divine Word, and acts of chessed and communal responsibility replaced the unifying pilgrimages and offerings. These changes were not improvisations but inspired adaptations, deliberate, faithful, and forward-thinking. They preserved the essence of the korban system, its demands of devotion, surrender, gratitude, and repentance, and wove them into the ongoing life of a people in exile. In this way, they secured the continuity of Klal Yisrael’s bond with Hashem in every generation, even in the darkest chapters of our history.

While other civilizations faltered in times of crisis, succumbing to irrationality, paralysis, or nostalgia, the Jewish response was profoundly future-oriented. Rav Sacks notes that rather than turning inward in mourning, the leaders of the time built enduring institutions: the synagogue, the beis medrash, and the yeshiva. These became new centers of spiritual and communal life. The greatness of these leaders lay in their refusal to abdicate responsibility in the face of hester panim. Instead, they planned for generations to come, acting with both conviction and humility, guided by the belief that Torah and the Jewish people would endure.

This, too, is a form of le’kach nivcharta. The capacity to rise in the face of crisis, not with despair or rigidity, but with moral creativity and spiritual clarity, is the mark of enduring leadership. Such leadership requires not only strength of conviction but a deep well of humility, the kind that acknowledges the weight of the moment and draws from the reservoir of Torah wisdom to respond constructively. When others freeze or cling nostalgically to past structures, true leaders chart a path forward that is faithful to the past but responsive to the future. Whether through Moshe’s disciplined and transcendent service, Aharon’s trembling humility and moral hesitancy, or the visionary transformation of Jewish life by Chazal in the shadow of churban, Parshas Tzav affirms that authentic leadership is anchored not in certainty or charisma, but in yirah, in service, and in a vision that transcends the self and touches eternity.

Conclusion

Taken together, these portraits reveal that Parshas Tzav offers a multi-dimensional model of leadership that transcends generations. From the unwavering discipline and transcendence of Moshe Rabbeinu to the trembling humility of Aharon HaKohen, to the moral imagination and foresight championed by Rav Sacks—each paradigm reveals a distinct and essential dimension of what it means to lead in accordance with Torah values.

This timeless vision of leadership, as demonstrated by Moshe, Aharon, and the sages who rebuilt Jewish life after the churban, culminates in a clear Torah ideal: a leadership shaped by avdus. It is not glory-seeking but burden-bearing, not domination but dedication. In every generation, Klal Yisrael has intuitively known the difference between those who use power to exalt themselves and those who shoulder it to serve others. We have witnessed leaders who posture as strong yet leave a trail of division and degradation, those who manipulate truth, dismiss justice, and treat the community as a vehicle for personal ambition. But we have also merited leaders of a different kind, those who speak with restraint yet act with moral clarity, who listen before leading, who build where others break, and who uplift the downtrodden not for applause but out of deep responsibility.

It is not the volume of one’s voice but the softness of one’s heart that defines a Torah leader. Not the one who demands loyalty and rallies crowds with slogans of fear, but the one who inspires trust through humility, honesty, and compassion. The Torah rejects the cult of charisma, bravado, and strongman theatrics in favor of the ethic of conscience and moral restraint. Leadership that feeds on resentment, which thrives on vilification of the other, and that leverages power for personal glorification stands in direct contradiction to the Torah’s vision. We are called instead to seek those whose egos are small and whose hearts are large, leaders who hesitate, who reflect, who fear Hashem more than they crave applause, and who, despite their doubts, rise with yiras Shamayim and a soul bound in service to Klal Yisrael.

Le’kach nivcharta, for this, you were chosen. Not in spite of your fear, but because of it. Not in spite of your doubts, but because they reveal your depth. May we merit leaders who carry these truths forward—and may each of us strive to internalize these qualities in our own lives: to lead when called upon, to serve when others remain silent, and to tremble before the sacred responsibilities entrusted to us.

Let us resist the allure of leaders who rise on the backs of division, who trade in resentment, or who reduce moral complexity to slogans of anger and power. Let us refuse to bow to leadership, political or communal, that betrays Torah values while invoking their name. The Torah does not call upon us to worship strength but to revere truth. It does not ask for loyalty to power but fidelity to principle. We are summoned to act not only with humility but with courage: to speak out when others enable, to build when others burn bridges, and to ensure that the crown of Torah never rests upon heads that pursue kavod at the expense of achdus, integrity, or justice.

Let us not wait for certainty to act, but act with faith, humility, and a heart attuned to the weight of the moment and to the eternity of our responsibility.