Don’t Look Away: The Communal Responsibility to Hold the Hurting Closing Sefer Vayikra with Torah, Compassion, and Courage

Introduction: When the Struggle Goes Unseen

There is a kind of suffering that rarely announces itself. It doesn’t cry out. It simply withdraws — showing up in empty seats, short conversations, and quiet disappearances. A child stops smiling. A teen avoids eye contact. A parent who was once active in the community fades quietly into the background. Their pain lives just beneath the surface — visible only to those who choose to see it.

Pain is like a flickering candle behind frosted glass. It doesn’t scream. It dims. Unless we’re watching closely, we may not even notice when the light begins to fade. But Torah trains us to notice — to respond before the flame goes out.

Too often, we let it pass unnoticed — not because we don’t care, but because we don’t quite know how to respond. But Torah demands that we learn how. That we sharpen our vision. That we refuse to look away.

Sefer Vayikra opens with the awe of the Mishkan — offerings, purity, and ritual sanctity. But as the chapters unfold, the Torah leads us from the holiness of the sanctuary into the heart of human experience. By the time we reach Behar and Bechukosai, we’re no longer standing beside the altar — we’re walking among people: navigating land, loans, suffering, and second chances. This is not just a structural shift. It’s a spiritual one. Holiness moves from ritual to relationship.

And as we come to the end of Sefer Vayikra, we are reminded that sanctity is not sealed in the Mishkan — it’s carried into the streets. It lives in our daily choices — in how we respond to suffering, in whether we show up for one another when it’s uncomfortable, and in the way we treat those who feel left behind.

The Torah closes this book not with lofty rituals, but with practical, human-centered laws and a moral vision that begins in the Mishkan and flows outward into the fabric of society.

This is not just the end of a sefer — it is the beginning of a charge: to carry holiness into our relationships, our communities, and into the lives of those who no longer have the strength to carry themselves.

1. A Torah That Commands Us to Notice

The Torah does not permit us to look away from those who are struggling. In Parshat Behar, amid laws of land, debt, and social stability, we are taught: “If your brother becomes impoverished and his hand falters beside you, you shall support him…” (Vayikra 25:35). This isn’t a suggestion. It’s a commandment to act before the crisis. The Ramban explains that the Torah intentionally uses the language of faltering — not falling — to emphasize our responsibility to intervene early, when someone begins to slip, not after they’ve collapsed.

This is more than financial guidance. Behar embeds compassion into every interaction. “Do not take interest from him” (25:36). “You shall not subjugate him with harshness” (25:43). The Torah recognizes something profound: people don’t break all at once — they weaken slowly. And we are expected to notice those early signs and step in — not with judgment, but with steadiness and care.

The Sfat Emet adds a deeper layer: true kedushah (holiness) is not found in removing ourselves from pain, but in drawing closer to it with open eyes and open hearts. Holiness does not mean perfection or purity in isolation. It means presence — the courage to see another’s struggle and to stand beside them in it.

This is not merely an ethical suggestion. It is the Torah’s definition of sacred community: a people who do not ignore the silent faltering of a neighbor. A people who carry each other before anyone falls.

2. The Pain That Hides in Plain Sight

We are living in a time when many teens and families are carrying emotional and spiritual pain that rarely surfaces in obvious ways. Mental health challenges like anxiety, depression, and disconnection are rising sharply — yet they often remain hidden behind silence, fear, or the pressure to appear “fine.” Parents shoulder invisible burdens they don’t always know how to articulate. Children and teens express their distress through withdrawal, irritability, or behaviors that are often misunderstood as defiance.

One teenager put it simply and honestly: “It’s not that I want to push everyone away. I just don’t believe anyone really sees me.” That quiet sentence reveals a broader truth. In too many homes and schools, suffering is not denied — it’s simply missed. And what goes unseen often grows.

And in those same homes, siblings are watching quietly — often confused, sometimes afraid, unsure of how to hold their own place in a family stretched thin.

The Torah does not ask us to wait until someone breaks before we care. It trains us to develop an inner awareness — to notice the changes in tone, the absence, the silence. It is not enough to avoid doing harm. We are called to actively seek out those who are hurting, even when they don’t — or can’t — ask for help.

True spiritual vision means looking beneath the surface, and responding to pain that isn’t loud.

3. The Families at the Edge of the Circle

In every community, there are families who begin to feel themselves slipping to the margins. A father who once proudly sat beside his child in shul now sits alone — the absence beside him grows week by week, but few ask why. A mother quietly stops attending events — not because she no longer cares, but because she no longer knows how to answer the questions.

These are not strangers — their lives still intersect with ours. But in their struggle, they often feel invisible. They sense that they no longer fit the image of what a “healthy” family should look like. And so, they retreat — not to avoid connection, but to avoid judgment, pity, or shame.

The Aish Kodesh taught that there are moments when even prayer becomes impossible — and that in those moments, silence itself becomes a form of emunah. Many parents live in that kind of silence. Not because they lack faith, but because they’ve run out of words. Because they’ve already cried behind closed doors. Because carrying that weight alone has become their new normal.

Our responsibility is not to explain or diagnose that silence. It is to meet it with presence. To remind these families — gently, quietly, consistently — that they are not forgotten. That they are still held. That their pain is not disqualifying, and that their place in our community remains sacred.

4. Why We Can’t Wait for Someone Else

In today’s world, compassion is often delegated. We assume that trained professionals — therapists, school counselors, or organizations — will handle the situations that feel too complex or too painful. And while these supports are essential, they are not a replacement for what only a community can provide: genuine, personal presence.

The Rambam, in Hilchot De’ot (6:3), teaches that someone who separates themselves from the community during its time of distress will not merit to share in its comfort. The implication is clear: healing is not a private affair. It is communal. It is covenantal. And it begins not in a clinic, but in relationship.

This doesn’t require a platform — just presence. It might mean sending a message that says, “You’ve been on my mind.” Offering to bring dinner. Sitting next to someone who seems alone in shul. Inviting a parent who’s withdrawn for coffee. Asking, “How are you holding up?” — and then staying to listen. Not to fix. Just to hold space.

These small, quiet acts — often awkward, always brave — are not gestures of pity. They are expressions of shared humanity and Torah values. They are acts of chessed, of presence, of holiness.

What we do in these small moments defines the character of our communities. Torah is not only learned in a beit midrash. It is lived in the way we respond to suffering that doesn’t make noise.

5. From Sacred Space to Sacred Obligation: The Torah’s Moral Climax

Sefer Vayikra begins in the Mishkan — a sacred, enclosed world of offerings, ritual precision, and spiritual purity. But by the time we reach Parshat Behar, the Torah has turned outward. We are no longer standing beside the altar. We are standing in the fields — navigating loans, land, poverty, and human dignity. The shift is dramatic — and deliberate.

At the heart of Behar are the laws of Shemitah and Yovel. On the surface, these are agricultural cycles. But at their core, they are ethical revolutions. Shemitah teaches that rest is not a luxury — it is a spiritual necessity for both land and people. It gives space for renewal.

Yovel goes further. Slaves are set free. Land reverts to its original owner. Debts are released. And perhaps most powerfully — every individual is granted a second chance to return home.

These mitzvot declare that no person is meant to be permanently defined by their lowest point. But the Torah insists there must be a path back — financially, emotionally, and spiritually. A society rooted in holiness must be built on that foundation.

Then, in Parshat Bechukosai, the Torah draws a line between collective responsibility and collective outcome. It presents a choice: “If you will walk in My statutes…” (Vayikra 26:3), blessings will follow. If we turn away, the consequences are painful and far-reaching. The repeated rebukes — sevenfold in intensity — reflect what happens when a society becomes indifferent to injustice and suffering.

Yet even in the midst of the tochachah, the Torah never severs the relationship. The Ramban highlights a critical verse: “I will not despise them, nor reject them to destroy them, to annul My covenant with them” (Vayikra 26:44). The covenant, he explains, is eternal — even when we violate it. Hashem’s commitment to us remains.

Bechukosai opens not with a theology, but with a behavior: “If you walk in My statutes…” The walk implies movement with others — not just private growth, but communal action. The blessings and rebukes are addressed to the entire people. Because in Torah, we rise or fall together.

Just as the land is given time to rest, so too must we create emotional space for people to heal. Just as every person is returned to their place in Yovel, so too must we ensure that no soul is left without a path home.

This is the Torah’s closing argument: holiness is not a private pursuit. It is the fabric of society.And the measure of that society is how it treats those most at risk of being forgotten.

6. Teshuvah as Return to Wholeness

But what happens when someone does return — when they seek a way back into the community, into connection, into belonging? That brings us to the heart of teshuvah.

As we absorb the moral urgency of Parshat Behar and Bechukosai, we are led toward a deeper spiritual truth: every soul can return. Teshuvah is not only a personal process — it is a communal one. It reflects the kind of environment we build. Whether we invite people back with dignity or push them further away often depends less on theology than on the atmosphere we create.

Rav Kook writes that teshuvah is not the act of becoming someone new — it is the act of returning to who we truly are. At our core, we are already connected to the Divine. Teshuvah simply peels back the layers of confusion, shame, or pain that conceal that truth. In this light, a child who has drifted is not rebelling against their essence — they are reaching for a way back to it, often without knowing how.

This reframes how we see those who struggle. The teenager who lashes out, the child who disconnects, the parent who breaks down — they are not far from holiness. They are on the edge of it. But they can only return if the community makes room for that return. Our job is not to demand transformation. It is to create the conditions that make it possible.

That means offering safety without shame. Love without conditions. Presence without pressure.The child in crisis is not “at risk” of losing their worth — they are longing for someone to remind them it was never lost.

That is teshuvah in its highest form: to come home, not because you’ve become perfect — but because you’ve remembered that you still belong.

7. If We Want Our Children to Believe in Torah…

To build such a path, we need more than patience — we need a paradigm shift.

If we want our children to believe in Torah, then they need to see that Torah believes in them.Not just when they’re compliant, respectful, or thriving — but precisely when they’re not. When they are defiant. When they are distant. When they are lost. They need to know that their struggle does not disqualify them — that pain does not erase their worth or their place in the Jewish people.

Throughout Sefer Vayikra, we are shown that even those in a state of impurity — whether due to illness, isolation, or sin — are not cast out permanently. They are guided back through process, time, compassion, and care. The message is consistent: you are still part of the people. You are still seen by G-d.

The same holds true for parents. We must create communities where vulnerability is not a liability but a doorway to deeper connection. Where asking for help is not a sign of failure, but an act of faith — in others, in G-d, and in the hope that healing is possible.

A holy community is not one where no one breaks. It is one where people can break — and still be held.

Holiness, in this sense, is not measured by perfection. It is measured by our willingness to rebuild — not alone, but together. That is the Torah’s vision for us. And it is within our power to live it.

8. Closing Vayikra with Courage and Compassion

The final verse of Sefer Vayikra reads: “These are the commandments that Hashem gave Moshe for the Children of Israel at Mount Sinai” (Vayikra 27:34).

It may seem like a simple summary. But it holds profound meaning. It reminds us that every law in this book — from korbanot to kashrut, from Shemitah to how we treat the impoverished — was given at Sinai. The same Divine voice that instructed the offerings in the Mishkan also commanded us to support the faltering hand of a neighbor, to restore dignity to the fallen, to return land and freedom during Yovel, and to never abandon a soul in exile.

The message is unmistakable: holiness is not confined to ritual spaces. The Torah’s vision extends from the sanctuary to the street, from the priest to the parent, from the offering to the overlooked.The entire structure of Torah rests on one foundational truth: we are responsible for one another.

We close Sefer Vayikra not with a dramatic finale, but with a moral charge. We are told to take what was revealed at Sinai — and live it. In our homes. In our communities. In how we treat the struggling teen, the exhausted parent, the person whose pain is hidden behind silence.

Our task is not to have all the answers. It is to show up. To carry each other before anyone falls.To build a community where no one suffers unseen — not because we are heroes, but because we are obligated to care.

This is how we sanctify life outside the Mishkan. This is how we bring Sinai into our streets. This is how we refuse to look away.

Chazak chazak v’nitchazek — be strong, be strengthened, and may we strengthen one another.

Yaakov Lazar

Executive Director, Kol Haneshamot