This week’s double portion, Achrei Mot–Kedoshim, stands among the most spiritually demanding and ethically resonant sections of the Torah. It juxtaposes two modes of experience—grief and transcendence. The first words, “Acharei mot shnei b’nei Aharon”—“After the death of Aaron’s two sons” (Leviticus 16:1)—cast a long and mournful shadow. Yet only a few chapters later we hear the revolutionary imperative: “Kedoshim tihyu ki kadosh ani”—“You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy” (Leviticus 19:2).
That is the arc of the Torah’s vision: from trauma to holiness, from death to moral obligation. And it refuses to wait until we’re “ready.”
It’s worth slowing down here. The Torah is not offering self-help, nor merely religious comfort. It’s issuing a command—you shall be holy—and placing it precisely where you’d expect despair. One might have thought that kedushah, holiness, would come once we’re healed, whole, or at peace. But Leviticus insists: the call to holiness comes in the aftermath—in the unresolved space “after death.” Holiness is not a luxury for the serene. It’s the imperative for the grieving, the broken, and the morally weary.
What Holiness Actually Means
We tend to think of “holiness” as something ethereal or pious. But the Torah grounds kedushah in daily life: how we do business, how we speak, how we treat workers, strangers, and the disabled. The so-called Holiness Code in Leviticus 19 is one of the Torah’s most radical ethical blueprints. Consider just a few of its demands:
- “Do not place a stumbling block before the blind” (19:14)—interpreted by the Sages as a prohibition against taking advantage of someone’s ignorance or vulnerability.
- “Do not deal falsely or lie to one another” (19:11)—a standard rarely applied to politics, commerce, or even religious leadership today.
- “You shall not go about as a talebearer” (19:16)—a warning against gossip culture and the casual character assassination that defines so much of social media.
- “You shall not hate your brother in your heart… You shall not take vengeance nor bear a grudge… You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (19:17–18).
Ramban (Nachmanides) famously explains that these laws are not just a list of good deeds—they are a scaffolding for becoming more godlike. “Kedoshim tihyu,” he writes, is a general call to self-restraint and moral refinement, especially in areas where one might technically fulfill the law but still act without dignity or decency. A person can keep kosher, avoid theft, and still be, in Ramban’s phrase, a scoundrel within the bounds of Torah law (naval birshut haTorah).
Holiness is not checking boxes. It is a kind of moral posture, one that asks: Does this act reflect the kind of person I want to be?
The Moral Crisis of Our Time
We are living through a period where moral clarity feels increasingly elusive. It’s not that we lack opinions—we have more of them than ever. It’s that we’ve grown allergic to moral obligation. The dominant currency of public life is tribal allegiance, not principled action. Right and left, religious and secular, too many are guided not by what is right, but by who else is saying it.
But Leviticus is not interested in ideology. It is interested in character.
In this sense, the Torah’s demand for holiness is deeply countercultural. It says: You are not just a product of your circumstances. You are not reducible to your wounds. You are capable of choosing decency, even when no one else around you is doing it. And you must.
“Do not follow the crowd to do evil,” says Exodus 23:2. Or as the Talmud sharpens it: Bemakom she’ein anashim, hishtadel lihyot ish—“In a place where there are no people [acting with integrity], strive to be a person” (Pirkei Avot 2:6). That is Kedoshim’s challenge: be holy anyway.
After Death, What Now?
The echo of Achrei Mot—“after the death”—should not be ignored. The placement of the Holiness Code in the wake of tragedy is a theological statement. It suggests that the most powerful response to grief is not paralysis, but ethical recommitment.
We are familiar with the instinct to recoil after trauma. To protect ourselves. To retreat from the world’s pain. But the Torah asks something different. It says: Let your suffering deepen your empathy. Let your losses make you more just. Let your brokenness sensitize you to the brokenness of others.
Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote: “To be is to stand for.” To be holy is to stand for something—especially when it would be easier not to. The easy thing is to become numb. The holy thing is to stay soft-hearted in a hard world.
Loving Your Neighbor in an Age of Contempt
Of all the commandments in this portion, none is more famous—or more difficult—than Ve’ahavta l’reiakha kamokha—“Love your neighbor as yourself” (Lev. 19:18). It is often quoted, rarely practiced. As the Netziv of Volozhin warned, loving your neighbor is not about fuzzy feelings—it’s about disciplined empathy. The Baal Shem Tov added that to love your fellow is to seek the divine within them, even when it is hidden.
In an age when our ideological opponents are often seen as enemies, kedushah demands we refuse to dehumanize. We can debate, even fiercely. But holiness forbids contempt. It forbids gloating. It forbids the smugness of moral superiority.
A Theology of Nevertheless
In sum, Achrei Mot–Kedoshim offers us a theology of nevertheless.
After the death—nevertheless, be holy.
In a world of falsehood—nevertheless, tell the truth.
In an age of polarization—nevertheless, love your neighbor.
Amid loss, fear, exhaustion, and cynicism—nevertheless, live as if God expects more.
Because God does.
And so do we.
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