Where Love Begins: A Torah Vision for Holding the Hurting

How Acharei Mot and Kedoshim Reveal a Path of Compassion, Presence, and Sacred Parenting

I. Loving Through the Fire: The Journey from Acharei Mot to Kedoshim

The Torah’s call to holiness does not begin with triumph. It begins with grief.וַיְדַבֵּר ה׳ אֶל מֹשֶׁה, אַחֲרֵי מוֹת שְׁנֵי בְנֵי אַהֲרֹן, בְּקָרְבָתָם לִפְנֵי ה׳ וַיָּמֻתוּ“Hashem spoke to Moshe after the death of Aharon’s two sons, when they approached Hashem and died” (Vayikra 16:1).

This is not a passing narrative note. It is the sacred context through which the journey toward kedushah begins. Before commanding the Yom Kippur service or outlining the call to sanctity, the Torah confronts us with tragedy — the sudden, devastating loss of Nadav and Avihu. It is from that place of silence and sorrow that the Torah moves forward. As if to say: holiness does not emerge from the absence of fire, but from its aftermath.

This forms the bridge between Parshat Acharei Mot and Parshat Kedoshim. The first warns of the danger of unbounded closeness to the Divine — the risks of spiritual fire that lacks grounding. The second offers a restorative path, inviting us to rebuild that closeness through purpose and presence.

קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ, כִּי קָדוֹשׁ אֲנִי ה׳ אֱ-לֹקֵיכֶם“You shall be holy, for I, Hashem your God, am holy” (Vayikra 19:2).וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ, אֲנִי ה׳“Love your fellow as yourself. I am Hashem” (Vayikra

19:18).

Together, these verses trace a movement from rupture to renewal, from disconnection to dignity, from loss to love. They are not only instructions for ritual practice — they are a roadmap for anyone who has lived through relational breakdown, emotional distance, or the fear that something vital has been lost between parent and child.

Rabbi Akiva, in Pirkei Avot (3:18), teaches: חביב אדם שנברא בצלם — “Beloved is the human being, for they were created in the image of God.” His teaching does not hinge on behavior or conformity. A person is not beloved because they act righteously; they are beloved because they exist. We are cherished not because we are flawless, but because we are formed in Divine light.

This truth becomes especially urgent in parenting. One mother once described sitting quietly outside her daughter’s locked bedroom door. The teenager hadn’t spoken to her in days. The mother didn’t knock or demand to be let in — she simply stayed nearby. When asked why, she answered, “Because I want her to know I’m still here.” That moment wasn’t about fixing. It was about presence. About staying close, even in silence.

This quiet act reflects the deeper teaching of Chapter 32 in Tanya, where the Alter Rebbe explains that real love is rooted not in behavior, but in the neshamah. The soul is what unites us, because all souls are rooted in the same Divine source. “If a person sees their body as primary and their soul as secondary, love will always be limited,” he writes. “But if they center their identity in the soul, they will find unity with others, because all souls are one.”

This is not theoretical mysticism. It is a transformative way of seeing. When a teen lashes out, shuts down, or walks away from everything they once cared about, the instinct may be to tighten control, enforce rules, or retreat in hurt. But the Torah invites us to look deeper — beyond behavior, beyond mood, beyond rebellion — and to witness the soul beneath it all.

A soul that aches. A soul that hides. A soul that is still holy.

To love our children as ourselves means to extend the same understanding, patience, and compassion that we long for in our own moments of struggle. Even when words fail, even when the door stays shut, even when the path forward is unclear — we can still say: “I see you. I believe in you.”

This kind of love does not excuse harmful behavior or reject responsibility. But it refuses to abandon the relationship. It insists that the journey to holiness does not begin once everything is resolved — it begins the moment we choose to stay, even in the fire.

II. The Holy of Holies and the Inner Soul

In Parshat Acharei Mot, following the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, Hashem introduces the avodah of Yom Kippur — a carefully choreographed day of return, reflection, and reconnection. At its center lies a moment of sacred intimacy: the entry of the Kohen Gadol into the Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies. Once a year, and only then, he steps beyond the curtain — alone, without distraction or ego, bearing only incense, humility, and the prayers of a nation.

But this entry did not happen impulsively. The Kohen Gadol prepared for days through separation, purification, and deep introspection. He approached the holiest place on earth with reverence — not only because of where he was going, but because of whom he was representing. That preparation was a sacred labor.

In the same way, when parents and educators seek to reach the soul of a struggling child, they must first prepare themselves. To enter another’s sacred emotional space — especially one clouded by pain or withdrawal — demands humility, discipline, and a willingness to quiet our own ego. We cannot rush in with judgment or correction. We must arrive with softened hearts.

Chassidic thinkers teach that this moment of entry was more than a ritual. It was a spiritual map. The Mishkan was not merely a building — it mirrored the human soul. The Sfat Emet explains that just as the Mishkan was layered — with an outer courtyard, an inner chamber, and a hidden sanctum — so too is each person. Our outer layers are visible in mood, speech, and behavior. But deep within lies our personal Kodesh HaKodashim, where the Shechinah still dwells, untouched and unbroken.

This has profound implications for how we relate to others, especially those who are struggling.וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ — Ve’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha — is not simply a call to kindness. It is a call to sacred regard. Just as the Kohen Gadol approached the inner sanctum with awe, so too must we approach the soul of another with care. We cannot enter with assumptions, frustration, or the urge to fix. We must step in gently, offering only presence, empathy, and belief in the goodness that remains beneath the surface.

This is especially true in the role of a parent. When a child is acting out or growing distant, our instinct may be to correct or contain. But often, what that child needs most is not control — it is quiet faith. Someone who stays. Someone who believes.

The Aish Kodesh, writing from the depths of the Warsaw Ghetto, teaches that even when the outer vessel is shattered, the נקודה פנימית — the innermost point — remains whole. The sanctuary within is never destroyed. It waits.

For parents of teens in pain, this can be both comforting and agonizing. There are moments when nothing seems to reach them. When every word feels wrong, and the distance grows wider. But beneath the silence and beneath the struggle — the soul has not disappeared. It is still there. And it is still holy.

To parent from this awareness is not passive. It is active devotion. It is the sacred readiness to wait outside the curtain, not to force a return, but to be present when the soul dares to peek out again and whisper, “I’m still here.”

Often, what we see as rebellion is actually armor. What sounds like rejection is fear. When we understand this, we stop reacting and start witnessing. We offer not just correction, but safety. We move from trying to fix to holding space.

The Ramban, in his commentary on the Mishkan, notes a striking phrase:וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם — “I will dwell among them” (Shemot 25:8).Not “in it” — the sanctuary — but “in them,” within the people. Hashem’s presence is not confined to a building. It is carried in every soul.

This changes everything. It reminds us that the child who pushes you away still holds a sanctuary inside. That the student who seems unreachable still carries the Divine. That even in brokenness, something unbreakable remains.

And sometimes, the deepest expression of love is not what we say or do, but the quiet conviction we carry — the unwavering belief in the soul behind the silence. A belief that whispers:I still see your holiness.Even if you don’t.Even if the path is long.Even when I can’t yet see the light —I will stay. Because somewhere inside you, that light still burns.

III. Soul-Vision in Tanya – Seeing Past the Outer Garments

In Chapter 32 of Tanya, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi offers more than moral instruction — he offers a transformative way of seeing. His message is both radical and simple: genuine love and unity are only possible when we stop relating to people as bodies and begin to see them as souls.

The body divides. It holds our differences, our egos, and our reactive emotions. It is where conflict brews and judgment takes root. But the soul unites. Every soul, no matter how different it may appear externally, is rooted in the same Divine source.

As the Alter Rebbe writes:כִּי כֻלָּם מִצַּד נֶפֶשׁ וּנְשָׁמָה אַחַת“For all are truly one in soul and essence.”

When we relate to others through behavior, opinion, or mood, our love becomes conditional. It fluctuates with circumstance. But when we look deeper — when we recognize the neshamah beneath the outer layers — love becomes steady. Not because the person is perfect, but because we are seeing what is eternal.

For parents of struggling children, this isn’t abstract theology. It’s survival. When a child begins to pull away — from halachah, from family, from themselves — the instinct is often to tighten control. But the Alter Rebbe offers something different: not withdrawal and not permissiveness, but vision. A deeper seeing that says: You are not only your behavior. You are still who you’ve always been. And I will not forget.

Reb Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev once saw a Jew wrapping tefillin while smoking on Shabbat. Others might have reacted with outrage. But Reb Levi Yitzchak turned to Heaven and said: “Ribbono Shel Olam — look how precious Your children are. Even while struggling, they still reach for You.” That wasn’t naivety. That was emunah — the choice to focus not on the smoke, but on the spark.

This kind of vision becomes sacred practice for a parent. To believe in the soul of a child who is distant or defiant is not blindness — it is loyalty. It is the quiet voice that whispers: I still know who you are, even if you’ve forgotten.

In Chabad thought, this kind of soul-anchored love is not a luxury. It is a responsibility. The more we identify with our own neshamah — not our ego or fear — the more capable we become of connecting to the neshamah of another. This, the Alter Rebbe explains, is the true fulfillment of: וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ - Ve’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha — to love another not for what they do, but for who they are.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe echoed this idea, teaching that real love isn’t built on approval or similarity. It is built on essence. “When you love someone’s soul,” he said, “you love them even when their outer layers are unrecognizable.”

This is the kind of love that holds families together during times of darkness. It is the kind of love that doesn’t demand quick fixes or perfect behavior. It creates the emotional safety that can one day lead not just to teshuvah — a return to observance — but to a deeper teshuvah: a return to self.

We don’t get to choose every path our children take. But we do get to choose how we see them. And when we choose to see through the lens of the soul, we’re not just offering support. We’re offering redemption.

IV. As Yourself – Rebuilding Love Through Self-Compassion

If we are commanded to love others “as ourselves,” the Torah is also asking a quieter, more personal question: What kind of love are we offering ourselves?

The mitzvah of וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ (Ve’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha) is often quoted as the cornerstone of Jewish ethics. But embedded in it is a vulnerable challenge: What if I don’t know how to love myself?

For many — especially parents carrying the pain and responsibility of a struggling child — that question is not theoretical. It’s deeply real. They revisit moments they wish they could undo: the harsh words spoken in frustration, the signs they missed, the times they weren’t emotionally available. When a child begins to drift — into rebellion, detachment, or despair — the haunting question often arises: Where did I go wrong?

And if that question is left unspoken, it can begin to erode the parent’s inner world — turning doubt into shame, guilt into paralysis, and presence into withdrawal.

But Rebbe Nachman of Breslov offers a different voice. In Likutei Moharan I:282, he writes:

ואפילו אם רע בעיניו מה שעשה כל ימיו, יחפש וימצא בעצמו איזה מעט טוב… ומשם יתחיל להתפלל ולשוב אל ה׳“

Even if all a person sees in themselves is darkness — they must search until they find one nekudah tova, one small point of good. And from there, they can begin again.”

This isn’t just spiritual optimism. It’s emotional strategy. Because if we want to hold our children with compassion, we must first learn how to hold ourselves that way. We have to look in the mirror and be able to say: I’m not perfect. But I’m still here. I’m still trying. And I’m still worthy of love.

The Baal Shem Tov taught that the world is a mirror. The way we speak to ourselves echoes in how we treat others. A parent who carries harshness within often transmits it, even without words — through a look, a pause, a sigh. But a parent who softens, even slightly, becomes a place of refuge. They don’t just teach compassion — they embody it.

This kind of self-compassion doesn’t deny failure. It simply refuses to define us by it. It allows us to hold our shortcomings with humility instead of self-punishment. And it reminds us that Hashem’s love is not conditional.

אָהַבְתִּיךְ עוֹלָם אַהַבְתִּיךְ, עַל כֵּן מְשַׁכְתִּיךְ חֶסֶד“

I have loved you with an eternal love; therefore I have drawn you with kindness.” (Yirmiyahu 31:2)

We are not loved because we are flawless. We are loved because we are His — even in our moments of weakness.

The Zohar describes the soul as:חֵלֶק אֱלוֹקָּה מִמַּעַל מַמָּשׁ - “A literal piece of God above.” (Zohar II, 94b)

We speak that truth easily about our children. But it is no less true for us. Your essence — beneath the fatigue, the guilt, the shame — remains Divine.

And when you begin to live from that place, something shifts. A parent who can say, “I’ve made mistakes, but I haven’t given up on myself,” becomes more than a source of comfort. They become a model of resilience and grace — a living example of what it means to be human and still hopeful, broken and still beloved.

That is the deeper meaning of loving “as yourself.” It’s not just about how we treat others. It’s about how we treat the one person we are with all the time — ourselves. Because when we stop seeing ourselves as the sum of our flaws, and start remembering that we too are neshamot — souls filled with light — we can begin to love others not from fear or guilt, but from fullness.

Not because they are easy to love — but because they are worthy.

Just like you are.

V. Creating Soul-Aware Communities: From Surveillance to Sanctuary

Just as we must learn to love ourselves in order to truly love others, we must also build institutions that reflect that same soul-anchored compassion. If וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ (Ve’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha) is a foundational principle of holiness, it cannot remain confined to private moments or personal virtues. It must ripple outward — shaping the culture we create, the policies we uphold, and the way we raise and respond to our children.

Love is not only a mitzvah for the home. It is a mission for the community.

Too often, however, our institutions drift from that mission. Many schools and communities prioritize behavioral compliance over emotional growth. Conformity is rewarded. Outer polish is praised. But the teen who questions, struggles, or strays — especially one wrestling with emotional or spiritual pain — is often pushed to the margins. Not seen. Not heard. Not held.

Parshat Kedoshim offers us a different vision. It does not command us to be perfect. It commands something deeper:קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ – “You shall be holy.” (Vayikra 19:2)

And it defines holiness not through ritual alone, but through ethical presence — the everyday interactions that reveal how we truly view one another:

• לֹא תַעֲשֹׁק אֶת רֵעֲךָ – Do not oppress your fellow.

• לֹא תֵלֵךְ רָכִיל – Do not spread gossip.

• בְּצֶדֶק תִּשְׁפֹּט עֲמִיתֶךָ – Judge others with fairness.

• לֹא תַעֲמֹד עַל דַּם רֵעֶךָ – Do not stand idly by your brother’s blood.

• וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ – Love your fellow as yourself.

These mitzvot are not poetic aspirations. They are the Torah’s blueprint for building holy communities — places rooted not in fear, but in moral courage and compassion.

The Sforno, commenting on Kedoshim Tihiyu, writes that true holiness is not achieved through withdrawal from the world, but through moral clarity within it:קדושים תהיו — נזכרים כאן מצוות שבין אדם לחברו... כי עיקר הקדושה היא ההתנהגות המוסרית בחיי החברה.Holiness, in this view, is found in how we show up for one another — especially in the spaces where it would be easier to turn away.

Imagine a school where a struggling teen is not expelled, but embraced. Where, instead of asking “What’s wrong with you?”, the leadership says, “We still believe in you. Let’s walk this path together.” That isn’t naivety. That’s Torah in action.

The Gemara teaches:כָּל הַמְצִיל נֶפֶשׁ אַחַת מִיִּשְׂרָאֵל – כְּאִילוּ קִיֵּם עוֹלָם מָלֵא“Whoever saves a single soul is considered as if they sustained an entire world.” (Sanhedrin 19a)

This is not metaphor. It is mission. The value of one child, one soul, one world — that is the Torah’s standard.

The Aish Kodesh, writing from within the horrors of the Warsaw Ghetto, reminds us that holiness is not revealed in theory. It is found in the willingness to sit beside someone in their pain — and not turn away. To see them. To stay with them.

This is the kind of leadership our communities need — not administrators who manage behavior, but mentors who honor souls. Not teachers who rush to correct, but educators who walk like a Kohen Gadol entering the Kodesh HaKodashim — with awe, humility, and a heart prepared to listen.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe was once asked why he never publicly condemned Jews who had distanced themselves from observance. His response was simple, and piercing:"Do you rebuke a child who is lost — or do you embrace him until he feels home again?"

That is the model. That is the standard.Not a kedushah of exclusion, but of embrace.Not a culture of surveillance, but a sanctuary for souls.

In the end, the spiritual health of a community is not measured by how perfect its students appear — but by how deeply it holds those who are hurting. A truly holy school is not one with flawless records. It is one that looks at the child who has lost belief in themselves and says:

“You still matter. You still belong. We are not giving up on you.”

VI. Conclusion – Love as the Path to Holiness

The Torah does not present וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ (Ve’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha) as a lofty goal for mystics or saints. It places it at the heart of Parshat Kedoshim, surrounded not by visions of transcendence, but by grounded mitzvot — honesty in business, fairness in judgment, dignity in speech, and care for the vulnerable. The message is clear: holiness is not found in retreat from the world. It is revealed through how we live within it.

And when we zoom out to view the broader structure of these parshiyot, a deeper truth emerges.

The call to kedushah does not begin with clarity. It begins with grief.

אַחֲרֵי מוֹת שְׁנֵי בְּנֵי אַהֲרֹן“After the death of Aharon’s two sons…” (Vayikra 16:1)

After the fire. After the silence. After the unthinkable.

Only then comes the command:קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ — “You shall be holy.” (Vayikra 19:2)

And how?וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ — “Love your fellow as yourself.” (Vayikra 19:18)

The Torah’s answer to rupture is not retreat — it is reconnection. Not fear, but faith. It is the radical choice to rebuild through presence, not perfection. Through compassion, not control. Through the steady commitment that says: I see your behavior, but I also see your soul. I see your distance, but I will not walk away.

For parents walking through the darkness of a child’s struggle, this path is not abstract. It is daily. It is quiet. It is sacred.

In a world where so many children feel invisible, and where so many parents carry silent shame, this mitzvah becomes more than a value. It becomes a lifeline. A truth whispered in the night:

“You are not this moment. You are still holy.”

Because this is how Hashem sees us — with patience, with vision, with unshakable rachamim. And when we begin to see others this way — our children, our students, even ourselves — we are not just practicing kindness. We are participating in redemption.

Let this be our path forward:

To build homes, schools, and communities where presence matters more than performance.

Where curiosity is stronger than fear.

Where love is not earned — it is given.

Where those who are struggling are met not with judgment, but with awe — like the Kohen Gadol standing before the Kodesh HaKodashim, ready to receive, ready to believe, ready to love.

Because in the end, kedushah is not about rising above the world.

It is about walking through it —with open eyes, open hearts,and souls that remember:

Even in the broken places… holiness still burns.

Yaakov Lazar

Executive Director, Kol Haneshamot