Tetzaveh: The Special Counsel of the King

The King's Special Counsel

A king has no shortage of men to help him run his kingdom. Generals for the army, admirals for the navy, judges for the courts. Ministers to handle taxes, roads, bridges. Bureaucrats for things no one quite understands but are, apparently, very necessary.

But among them, there is one man unlike the rest—the king’s special counsel. He holds no army, collects no taxes, builds no roads. He has only his wits and his words, and, due to his wisdom and insight, the king listens to him.

There are two key differences between the counsel and the other ministers.

First, clothing. A minister wears the uniform of his office: the general stands in full regalia, medals polished to a blinding shine; the admiral is a walking display of gold braid and epaulettes; the chief justice, draped in solemn black, looks as though he was born frowning. The king's counsel, by contrast, wears a plain suit. No medals, no insignia, no grand display. He could be mistaken for a clerk. He often is.

Second, access. Ministers come when summoned—when there’s a war to fight, laws to pass, taxes to squeeze. But the counsel? He comes and goes as he pleases. He is never called for, because he is always there. If he sees the king about to do something spectacularly foolish, he doesn’t wait for an invitation. He clears his throat and says, “Majesty, perhaps a word.”

Moses' Simple White Cloak

God commanded Moses to prepare garments of splendor for his brother Aaron, the High Priest. “You shall make holy garments for your brother Aaron, for honor and glory” (Exodus 28:2). Every detail was a reflection of the sanctity of his role.

And Moses? When he himself served as priest during the seven days of Aaron’s dedication, what did he wear? The Sages tell us (Ta’anit 11b): a simple white cloak. No embroidery. No gold. Not even a hem.

A High Priest without his priestly robes cannot perform his service. So why, when Moses stood before God, did he dress as if he were no different from anyone else?

Because Moses was not the High Priest. He was something else entirely.

Aaron’s role was defined. He offered sacrifices, kindled incense, blessed the people. Once a year, on Yom Kippur, he entered the Holy of Holies, stepping into the most sacred space on earth. His garments were not mere decoration; they were his function made visible, a mark of the sanctity he carried.

Moses, though, was not confined to any one role. He did not serve in the Sanctuary in the way Aaron did. He served God wherever he was needed. His mission was not tied to a place, a position, or a set of garments. It was something larger, something that could not be embroidered in gold or woven into fabric.

And just like a king’s closest advisor, Moses had access like no other. He entered the Tent of Meeting at any time. He spoke with God “face to face, as one speaks to a friend” (Exodus 33:11). Aaron was warned: “Not at all times shall he enter the Holy” (Leviticus 16:2). Even on the holiest day of the year, he approached in fear and trembling, under strict conditions.

Moses needed no priestly robes, no symbols of office. His authority lay elsewhere. A simple white cloak was enough.

 (Adapted from Ohel Yaakov, Tetzaveh)

Ki Tavo: The Doctor and the Smelly Herbs

The Doctor’s Foul Play

The father, a man of great concern and, at times, mild hysteria, rushed to call the best doctor in town. His young son, pale and miserable, lay in bed clutching his stomach, groaning. Stomach cramps. Dizziness. Other symptoms one prefers not to discuss in polite company.

The doctor examined the child with due seriousness, then began jotting down a long list of medicinal herbs.

The father, watching this unfold, cleared his throat. "You do understand, doctor, that little Johnny has a delicate constitution. The boy can’t tolerate anything harsh."

The doctor did not look up. He simply muttered, "Hmm," and continued writing.

The father, trying to sneak a glance, felt his pulse quicken as the list grew longer. He gulped. "Er—what exactly is Symplocarpus foetidus?"

"Ah," said the doctor, finally looking up. "That’s Skunk Cabbage. Grows in wetlands. Smells like something that’s been dead a week and wishes it were buried."

The father turned a little green. "And this one? Rafflesia arnoldii?"

"Ah, the Stinking Corpse Lily—excellent for inducing emesis." The doctor beamed, as though he had just discovered penicillin. "It emits a rich, full-bodied aroma of decaying flesh."

The father wiped his forehead. "And Valeriana officinalis?"

"Ah, Valerian Root," said the doctor with a dreamy sigh. "Marvelous stuff. Smells exactly like a sock that’s been through a hard day's work in August."

The father slapped the list down. "Doctor, I beg you—this is too much! The boy is fragile!"

The doctor leaned in, suddenly solemn. "I didn’t want to alarm you," he said gravely, "but your son’s condition could become very serious. We must act at once." He handed the list back with finality. "Go to the apothecary. I'll prepare the treatment."

And so, within the hour, Johnny’s bedroom smelled worse than a fish market in July. The doctor chopped, crushed, and boiled, filling the air with noxious fumes, while the father hovered in horror.

Johnny, for his part, turned green, then yellow, then very swiftly emptied the entire contents of his stomach. Violently. Repeatedly.

The doctor, quite satisfied, wiped his hands and began packing up. He tossed the herbs into the trash with the nonchalance of a man who had never intended to use them in the first place.

"You know," he said, with the air of a man bestowing a final pearl of wisdom, "I never actually planned on giving him any of this stuff. I figured just the smell would do the job."

He tipped his hat and strolled to the door. "Besides," he added cheerfully, "if I’d really intended Johnny to eat it, one plant would’ve been enough."

The Torah's Admonitions

The same is true for the long list of punishments the Torah warns of if the Jewish people abandon God’s commandments. Like the good doctor, God never intended to administer them all. A few would suffice, if necessary.

But the real goal is that we shouldn’t need any at all. Just hearing them should be enough to make us change course—to purge what’s harmful, to correct our ways, to choose the healthier path.

After all, sometimes the mere smell of trouble is enough to set a person straight. If they have any sense, that is.

(Adapted from Mishlei Yaakov p. 372).