וְיָצָא הַכֹּהֵן אֶל מִחוּץ לַמַּחֲנֶה וְרָאָה הַכֹּהֵן וְהִנֵּה נִרְפָּא נֶגַע הַצָּרַעַת מִן הַצָּרוּעַ: (יד:ג)
The Kohen shall go out to the outside of the camp, the Kohen shall look and behold! – the tzara’as affliction had been healed from the metzora. )14:3(
Rashi explains: Outside of three camps where he was sent if confirmed.
Behold, the Kohen stands in the House of Hashem, serving his Creator with his exalted service — a service that arouses pleasure in the heavens, a service that finds favor for Israel before their Maker, a service through which the Shechinah is drawn down into the lower worlds. And yet, he is commanded to leave his lofty service and make a long journey to that remote place where the Metzora resides, in order to purify him and assist him in returning to his family’s embrace and the closeness of his friends and acquaintances.
Were the Torah not to explicitly command this, the “common sense” of householders would never agree to such a course. They would say: “It is true that even when the Kohen is involved in the purification of the Metzora, he is fulfilling a mitzvah; however, the sanctity of the Temple service is incomparably greater. For, as we have said, through the Temple service, perfection is brought to the world; it brings favor from Hashem Yisbarach upon His world; it draws down the Shechinah; and when the Shechinah dwells among us, blessing abounds. If so, why interrupt the Kohen from a service that brings such great benefit to the entire collective, merely to assist a single individual? Would it not be better to appoint Talmidei Chachamim — Yisraelim who are experts in identifying the signs of tzara’as — to deal with such matters, allowing the Kohen to continue his lofty service uninterrupted?”
Yet, as we see, this is not the way of the Torah! HaKadosh Baruch Hu prefers that the Kohen leave his sacred post and his exalted standing, and that he himself go to the downtrodden Metzora, doing everything in his power to hasten his salvation. From this we learn: bringing joy to broken hearts is more precious before HaKadosh Baruch Hu than the sacred service of the Mikdash!
When there is a person, alone in some distant, forsaken place, broken by his situation — even if he is himself at fault, even if his sins are what brought him to his sorry state — nevertheless, the reward for one who sets aside his own concerns to lighten that person’s suffering is beyond measure. Whether by practically working to rescue him from his dire straits, or by speaking to his heart, strengthening him, and offering him comfort — it is an act beloved beyond measure.
Even now that we understand the greatness of relieving the pain of the broken-hearted, and even knowing that it brings no loss to the Kohen’s own standing, we must still ask: why did the Torah specifically choose the Kohen for this task? Why not allow other Talmidei Chachamim, experts in the laws of tzara’as, to perform this mitzvah as well?
We may suggest that our Creator desires that specifically His servants, those closest to Him, engage in this great mitzvah — for it is a great honor to Hashem when those who serve Him are the very ones who concern themselves with the suffering of others.
From now on, this mitzvah will no longer seem minor — even to those who devote every moment to serving their Creator through Torah study and Avodah. They, too, will not withhold from setting aside time to perform acts of kindness, to bring joy to broken hearts, by whatever means they can. And through this, they will merit to bring even greater delight to Hashem through their Torah and their Avodah — for our Creator takes pride when those who serve Him are men of refined character, who care deeply for the wellbeing of others.
And beyond the fact that this mitzvah is a crown of honor for the servants of Hashem and for Torah scholars, it also serves to elevate them higher in levels of Torah. It is well known, the teaching of Rabbi Akiva in the Yerushalmi (Nedarim 6:1) on the verse (Vayikra 19:18), ’ואהבת לרעך כמוך’ - “And you shall love your fellow as yourself,” that “this is a great principle of the Torah.”
I once heard a beautiful explanation: “This” — the mitzvah of “Love your fellow as yourself” — is the “principle” by which one becomes “great in Torah.” Meaning: if you examine the lives of those who truly merited the title “great in Torah,” whose paths in Torah were clear and illuminated before them, you will find one thing in common: all of them were exceedingly meticulous and zealous in this mitzvah. “Love your fellow as yourself” was their constant guide. They always suffered with the suffering of others; they were always occupied in their thoughts with how they might bring goodness to another. It was this mitzvah that prepared their hearts for the Torah. And it was in its merit that they rose and cleaved to the Torah.
Who is greater than the holy author of the Bnei Yissaschar — anyone who delves into his writings is left astounded by his genius. It is told of this righteous man that he had the ability to write with both hands simultaneously, each hand writing on a different subject, and in his fifty-eight years he authored a vast number of works. And yet, his primary aspiration was always to benefit his fellow Jews and to rescue them from their distresses. So devoted was he to this mission that even in moments of personal pressure and critical importance, he was ready and willing to do all within his power to heal broken hearts.
It is related that when he lay on his deathbed, sensing that his final hours were approaching, he beseeched Hashem Yisbarach to grant him three additional days so that he might prepare properly for his transition from this world to the next. Heaven granted his request. Naturally, those days were consecrated for deep introspection and repentance for even the slightest imperfections, the kind for which HaKadosh Baruch Hu is exacting with His righteous ones.
His students and close followers, knowing what occupied their master during those days, dared not enter his room and disturb him. They merely stood outside, observing their Rebbe communing in solitude with his Creator. Suddenly, an unfamiliar Jew arrived at the house of the tzaddik. Without asking many questions, he entered the Rebbe’s room, sat down near his bedside, and began to pour out his heart. He said: “I am a merchant. Some time ago, an opportunity for a lucrative deal came my way — to purchase a large quantity of wool at a low price, intending to resell it at the regular market rate. However, to my great dismay, after the transaction was completed, the market price of wool plummeted, and I lost my entire fortune.”
The students were more astonished by the merchant’s behavior — barging in at such a critical time to speak of monetary losses — than by anything else. Yet even more wondrous was their Rebbe’s reaction: he turned his full attention toward the merchant, listening intently to his distress, as if he had forgotten entirely the critical hour in which he found himself.
The holy tzaddik inquired into all the details of the transaction and the extent of the merchant’s losses. Finally, he spoke words of comfort and encouragement, telling him to hope for better times, explaining that, by all reasonable estimation, the price of wool would soon rise again. Then he would be able to sell his merchandise at a fair profit. The merchant, comforted and relieved, left to go on his way, while the tzaddik sank once again into his sacred contemplations.
The students could scarcely believe what they had witnessed with their own eyes. They were convinced that this incident must have been heavenly in nature, beyond human comprehension. Some speculated that the merchant was in fact a hidden tzaddik, who had known through Ruach HaKodesh that their Rebbe was nearing his end and had come to speak with him in allegories and parables about deep, hidden matters. Others tried to explain that the encounter was meant as a preparation for the Rebbe’s transition to the world of truth.
But the Rebbe’s son and successor, the holy Rabbi David of Dinov, saw it differently.
According to him, the visitor was a simple merchant, nothing more. And despite his father’s immersion in sacred preparation for his departure from this world, he nevertheless made himself available to help a distressed Jew find solace and peace of mind — because this had been the burning desire of his heart all his life: always to be ready, at any moment, to sacrifice himself to bring good to another Jew.
