“When the Soul Cries, Who Will See?” - The Modern Kohen’s Role in Holding Space for the Struggling Soul

I. Introduction: The Torah’s Subtle Progression

What does it mean to truly see another soul — not in its perfection, but in its pain?

The parshiyot of Tazria and Metzora begin with life’s most sacred beginning — the birth of a child, a soul emerging into the world wrapped in light and possibility. But almost without warning, the Torah shifts: from purity to impurity, from birth to blemish, from joy to isolation. We move from the hush of new life to the cry of tzara’at — a spiritual affliction that can appear on the skin, spread to garments, and even infect the walls of a home.

At first glance, the juxtaposition feels jarring. But within this descent lies a profound truth. The Torah is not simply presenting laws. It is charting a spiritual map — one that mirrors the journey of every soul. From innocence to struggle. From light to concealment. From being seen clearly to being misunderstood.

And at the center of this sacred progression stands the Kohen.

He is not a doctor diagnosing. He is not a judge condemning. He is something far more rare — a figure of presence. The Kohen does not rush to verdict. He draws near, observes, waits. He sees not just the wound, but the one who bears it. He does not define a person by their blemish. He makes space for their return.

This is the Torah’s hidden invitation: to become a Kohen in our own lives. Not just in ritual, but in relationship. Not just in halacha, but in how we hold others — especially when they are struggling.

For educators, rabbanim, and community leaders, these parshiyot are not just ancient instructions. They are a guidebook for modern soul-care. A call to see beneath the stain, to wait when others rush, and to believe in the light that still flickers beneath the surface.

Because when the soul cries out, the question is not whether it can be healed.The question is: Who will see it?

II. From Birth to Blemish: The Fragile Journey of the Soul

Parshat Tazria opens with the laws of childbirth — a moment filled with purity, promise, and infinite potential. A new soul enters the world, untouched by failure, unscarred by experience. There is a tenderness to this passage — a sense of wholeness, of light.

But the Torah does not remain in this ideal state. Immediately, the narrative shifts to the laws of tzara’at — blemishes that surface on the skin, revealing something spiritually amiss. It is a jarring descent: from the holiness of birth to the isolation of impurity. What happens in between?

This shift reflects the fragile journey of the soul. Between birth and blemish lies the complexity of life: decisions made, pain endured, guidance missed. No soul remains untouched. And yet, the Torah does not turn away from this fall. Instead, it offers something sacred: a framework for response rooted not in judgment, but in presence.

The Ramban (Vayikra 12:2) explains that the period of impurity following childbirth reflects the paradoxical closeness between holiness and impurity — suggesting that moments of new light often carry vulnerability. The descent from birth to blemish is thus not incidental; it is part of a broader spiritual pattern in which sacred potential is accompanied by danger and fragility.

Likewise, the Midrash Tanchuma (Tazria 9) teaches that tzara’at emerges not only from lashon hara, but from a range of spiritual imbalances. At times, it is a Divine signal, a wake-up call to inner reflection. In this light, tzara’at is not punishment, but a cry for attention — a rupture that demands spiritual presence.

And who is called to respond? The Kohen — not to diagnose or punish, but to witness. His role is not to fix, but to draw near. His presence affirms that the soul, even in its most blemished state, is still worthy of compassion.

This is the calling for every educator, rav, and spiritual guide. When visible signs of inner struggle appear — in behavior, in speech, in distance — our role is not to recoil or correct, but to come close. The Torah’s progression from birth to blemish is not simply a fall from grace. It is a sacred call: to respond to brokenness with grace, and to see the soul still reaching for light.

III. The Role of the Kohen: A Model for Educators and Rabbanim

The Torah presents a remarkably nuanced process for how the Kohen must respond to tzara’at. He does not act as a doctor prescribing cures, nor as a judge issuing immediate verdicts. He is something else entirely: a spiritual presence called to enter gently into the sacred space of another’s visible struggle.

He approaches slowly. He observes in silence. He waits — sometimes days, sometimes longer — before speaking. And if clarity remains elusive, he returns again. This is not passivity; it is reverence. His restraint is not rooted in uncertainty, but in the refusal to harm a soul through hasty misjudgment. His quiet is not avoidance, but an act of love. His very presence is the beginning of teshuvah.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch (Vayikra 13:2) explains that the Kohen’s task is not merely ritual. He acts as a moral educator, guiding the individual toward inner clarity and spiritual reintegration. His role is not punitive but redemptive — a mirror of what every mechanech and rav is called to be: a source of elevation, not exclusion.

Even deeper, the Zohar (Metzora 53a) teaches that the Kohen’s gaze itself possesses power. It can either uplift or diminish the soul standing before him. The spiritual status of the afflicted — and their path toward healing — is shaped not only by laws, but by how they are seen. This is more than metaphor. It is a sacred truth: the way we are seen has the potential to define the way we return.

This is the paradigm for rabbanim, educators, and spiritual leaders. When a student acts out, withdraws, or resists — our instinct may be to correct, to label, to act. But the Torah calls us to a different model: one of closeness, humility, and deep patience. The blemish, it reminds us, is rarely the root. It is the echo of a deeper cry, a soul in hiding, awaiting someone willing to see past the surface.

The Kohen’s role is not to cure the tzara’at — it is to dignify the person bearing it. His gift is his gaze: a nonjudgmental presence that says, “I still see you. I will not turn away.”

How many of our students bear spiritual or emotional wounds that never reach the skin — or worse, that do, and are mistaken for defiance? How many walk our schools and shuls are misread, mislabeled, and left alone?

If we are to follow the Kohen’s model, our batei midrashim, our classrooms, our communal spaces must become places where wounds are not immediately judged but gently held. Places where souls are not measured by behavior, but accompanied on the long, sacred path of return.

IV. When the Struggle Spreads: From Body to Garment to Home

One of the most enigmatic aspects of Parshiyot Tazria and Metzora is the spreading nature of tzara’at. It begins subtly — a mark on the skin, deeply personal and bodily. But if left unaddressed, it migrates: first to clothing, then to the walls of one’s home.

Chazal teach us to read this not only as a physical phenomenon but as a spiritual progression. A disruption in the inner world — pain, shame, disconnection — can, if unacknowledged, ripple outward. What begins as a soul’s quiet ache can manifest in behavior, in relationships, in family and communal life. The invisible becomes visible. The internal becomes exposed.

And it is often at this later stage that rabbanim and educators are first called in — not when the struggle is still private, but when it has already begun to spread. The "garments" have changed: a student’s demeanor, language, attendance, or dress. Sometimes, even the "walls of the home" show signs of fracture — strained relationships, alienation from tefillah, emotional withdrawal.

But the Torah’s wisdom lies precisely here. It does not instruct us to recoil in judgment. It teaches us to trace these outer signs back to their origin. Just as the Kohen is commanded to examine not only the person but their garments and their home, so too must spiritual leaders take all manifestations seriously — not to condemn, but to uncover the deeper wound beneath.

As the Aish Kodesh writes, when a Jew suffers, their pain does not remain confined to the self — it spills into the very space around them. The Shechinah weeps with them, and the walls of their home become silent witnesses to that sorrow. When a child is in crisis, the tzara’at does not stop at the skin. It manifests in the energy of the household — in strained conversations, closed doors, forgotten laughter. The blemish becomes part of the air itself.

This is the spiritual discipline required of today’s educators: to respond not to the surface disruption, but to the hidden cry. To ask not “what’s wrong with this child?” but “what pain are they carrying that found no other way to speak?”

The marks on the garments are not grounds for dismissal. The blemishes on the home are not proof of failure. They are sacred invitations — to see deeper, to draw closer, and to respond not with judgment, but with dignity.

V. Seeing the Student, Not the Stain

To walk in the footsteps of the Kohen, a leader must learn the sacred art of discernment — to acknowledge what is broken without letting it define the soul. This is the Torah’s challenge: to see the blemish clearly, but to see the person more clearly still.

The Sfat Emet teaches that tumah is not an intrinsic impurity, but a concealment — a spiritual fog that veils the soul’s inner light. It rests on the outer garments of the person, while the essence remains pure and whole. The task of the spiritual guide is not to punish impurity, but to help clear space for that light to shine again.

Rav Kook, in Orot HaTeshuvah (14:36), echoes this truth. Teshuvah is not the act of rebuilding a shattered identity, but of uncovering the deeper self that never left G-d to begin with. Struggle, in this view, is not a deviation from holiness — it is part of the journey toward it. A child in crisis is not off the path. They are walking through one of its hardest — and holiest — turns.

The Baal Shem Tov adds a luminous metaphor: every Jew is a letter in a Torah scroll. When a letter is cracked or smudged, we do not discard the scroll — we repair it. Because every letter matters. The Torah is not whole until every soul is seen as sacred again. A damaged letter is still part of the scroll — and a struggling child is still part of our collective story.

Rav Dessler, in Michtav MeEliyahu (Vol. 1), offers another key perspective: the idea of nekudat habechirah — the point of free will. Each person’s spiritual struggle is uniquely calibrated. What looks like failure on the outside may actually be the child’s highest spiritual effort. A teen who lashes out, distances from tefillah, or breaks rules may still be choosing growth in ways invisible to others. This reorients our perception: a child isn’t “off the derech” — they are on their derech. And if we dismiss them too quickly, we risk misjudging the most sacred battle of their soul.

This is the calling of a mechanech, a rav, a spiritual leader: to see the student who distances from prayer, who acts out, who tests every limit — and still remember: this is a letter in the scroll. They belong. They are sacred. And they are not to be erased.

When our leaders see not only the pain, but the person behind the pain — when they look not only at the disruption, but at the deep effort behind the resistance — they create the conditions not for punishment, but for return.

VI. Rabbinic Patience as a Form of Redemption

In a world that demands immediacy, the Torah teaches something quietly radical: slow faith. The Kohen is not instructed to diagnose quickly. Instead, he is told to approach, to observe — and to wait. Sometimes, he offers no verdict at all. He simply returns.

This waiting is not hesitation. It is a sacred form of presence. Through his steady return — וְרָאָה הַכֹּהֵן... וְהִסְגִּיר — the Kohen shows the afflicted that they are not forgotten. His silence says: I still believe in you. Healing, the Torah shows us, does not arise from pressure — it begins with presence.

So too with our educators, rabbanim, and spiritual leaders. When a child stumbles, what they most need is not a sentence passed, but a soul who is still watching with love.

As Pirkei Avot (5:16) teaches: “Ahavah she’einah teluyah b’davar, einah batelah l’olam” — love that is not conditional never disappears. This is the Kohen’s model: not love that hinges on success, but love rooted in essence — the unwavering belief that beneath every blemish is a soul worth waiting for.

To lead this way is to carry the torch of quiet redemption. Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin teaches that when we believe in someone more than they believe in themselves, we awaken that buried potential. Belief becomes prophecy. And patience becomes a portal to return.

A Chassidic mashal tells of a prince, lost for years, found in rags, covered in dust, unable to even speak the royal language. Messengers are sent to retrieve him, but they recoil. “Too far gone,” they say. Finally, an old teacher volunteers. He sits in the dust beside the boy. No speeches. No demands. Just presence. Day after day, he whispers softly — until one day, the prince whispers back a single word in the royal tongue. The teacher weeps — not because the boy is restored, but because the spark has returned.

This is the work of the modern Kohen: not to rescue with force, but to redeem with faith. To sit quietly beside a soul, speaking to its royalty until it remembers who it is.

And just as the blemish in the parsha moves from skin to garment to home — slowly expanding — so too must our response expand with care. The Torah teaches us not to rush to conclusions, but to walk step by step with each soul, restoring the world one quiet return at a time.

But even the Kohen does not stand alone. The next step in the journey — and in the essay — is the sacred partnership between leaders and parents. One watches from the altar. The other carries from the heart. And when they align in compassion, something holy can begin: the path home.

VII. Parents and Leaders — A Sacred Partnership

If the Kohen stands outside the soul — observing, waiting, gently holding space — then the parent is the one standing inside the fire. Parents do not encounter the struggle at a distance. They live it. They absorb the sleepless nights, the spiraling questions, the guilt that won’t let go. And when they finally reach out to a rabbi, teacher, or spiritual mentor, they are not simply seeking advice — they are asking for help carrying what has become too heavy to hold alone.

This is where the Kohen's role becomes more than a metaphor. Just as the Kohen does not diagnose and disappear, our leaders cannot offer quick judgments and distant counsel. The parent arrives not just with a crisis — but with a soul. One they fear is slipping away. And how we respond — as rabbanim, mechanchim, or mentors — can determine whether they leave feeling shamed or supported.

A mother once came to a rosh yeshiva, tearfully explaining that her son had been caught smoking on campus — again. The administration was ready to expel him. “He’s testing every boundary,” she admitted. “But he still davens with a minyan. He still comes home for Shabbos. He still lets me hug him.” The rabbi nodded slowly. “Then he hasn’t left us,” he said. “He’s asking if we’ll leave him.”

The yeshiva didn’t expel the boy. Years later, he became a madrich for other struggling teens.

This kind of leadership isn’t leniency — it’s holiness. It reflects the Kohen’s sacred vision: not just to notice the blemish, but to see the soul. Healing does not begin with discipline. It begins with someone who refuses to give up.

Rav Wolbe, in Alei Shur (Vol. I), teaches that a true educator must cultivate an ayin tovah — an eye of kindness — that searches not for flaws, but for openings. It is this eye, he writes, that creates connection. When a teacher or rav looks at a child with love, with belief, with hope, it reshapes how that child sees themselves. This is not just emotional wisdom. It is spiritual responsibility. How we look at others — especially in their most vulnerable moments — becomes the mirror through which they learn to see their own worth.

The Midrash in Shir HaShirim Rabbah (1:3) tells of a king whose son rebels and flees. Courtiers urge the king to disown him. But the king replies, “He is still my son. Let him come back even a little, and I will come the rest of the way.” So too, say Chazal, does G-d treat His children. But implicit in that Midrash is a deeper charge: G-d entrusts His educators and leaders to do the same — to meet the child where they are, and walk with them from there.

The parsha begins with birth — a soul newly welcomed into the world. But that journey may pass through confusion, blemish, even exile. The question is not if the child will fall. The question is whether, when they do, the parents and leaders in their life will stand together — not at the edge of judgment, but at the threshold of healing.

VIII. Conclusion — Becoming Modern Kohanim

We no longer have the Mishkan or the Beit HaMikdash. We no longer wear the garments of kehuna or tend the fire of an altar. But we have classrooms. We have batei midrashim. We have shuls. And above all, we have souls,  fragile flickering souls entrusted to our care.

Parshiyot Tazria and Metzora begin with birth and descend into blemish — but they do not end there. They chart a sacred path of return: not only for the afflicted, but for the entire community’s way of seeing. They teach that what is most holy is not only what is whole — but what is held patiently through its brokenness.

This is the calling of the modern Kohen.

To see beyond the outer stain.

To wait when others rush.

To believe when others despair.

To guide not with pronouncement — but with presence.

A teacher who lets a student stay.

A rebbe who checks in again and again.

A rav who answers the late-night call with softness instead of scorn.

These are our Kohanim. They don’t offer quick fixes. They offer space. They offer belief. They offer the quiet courage to stand beside what others push away — and to whisper hope back into the silence.

Rav Kook wrote that “the tzaddik sees not only what is, but what could be — and chooses to speak to that future self” (Orot HaTeshuvah 14:32). And the Aish Kodesh, taught that even when all outward signs of holiness are stripped away, the inner spark of a Jew can never be extinguished — only hidden. To be a Kohen today is to hold faith in that spark, even when no flame is visible.

As leaders, educators, parents, and community members, we are all called to carry forward the legacy of the Kohen. The Torah never commands us to be judges of one another’s blemishes. It commands us to be guardians of one another’s light.

Because in every child, every student, every soul we encounter, there remains the echo of that first cry at birth — the untouched, radiant potential of the neshama. Our task is not to erase the blemish. It is to remember the light beneath it. To stay long enough, patiently enough, faithfully enough, for that light to return.

That is what it means to be a modern Kohen.

And that is how we bring our people back home.

Yaakov Lazar

Executive Director, Kol Haneshamot