One verse, five voices. Edited by Nina Litvak and Salvador Litvak, the Accidental Talmudist
“A continuous fire
shall burn upon the altar;
it shall not go out.”
– Lev. 6:6
Cantor Michelle Bider Stone
Temple Beth Am
In this week’s parsha, the high priest, Aaron, and his sons are instructed to keep an eternal flame continuously burning on the altar. This command has been carried into synagogues around the world, whereby a ner tamid, an eternal flame, sits above the Aron Kodesh, alighting where the Torah is kept. This practice dates to either the 15th or 17th century and symbolizes the Divine Presence among us as we gather to pray in community.
When I think of the ner tamid today, it usually doesn’t require much thought. They are electric and can easily stay on 24/7, with occasional lightbulb changes. But thinking back before the invention of electricity, I pondered the effort it must have taken to keep a fire continually burning in a premodern synagogue. It required time, diligence, resources and attention to safety. The community worked together to raise funds and make sure that the lamp was cared for. By tending to the ner tamid daily, the community was always mindful that they were in partnership with God.
Today’s ner tamid may not need continual care, but our communities do. Jewish life requires a dedicated group of individuals who work together and serve the evolving needs of the community. We must all play a part, using our own unique talents, to make sure that our communities receive the same attention and care as the ner tamid. Through our shared and steadfast commitment, may we merit to enter into sacred partnership with the Divine.
Rabbi Tal Sessler
Temple Beth Zion
Hassidic interpretations of the Torah tend to be psychological in nature. Our verse is a key case in point. The original context of the verse stipulates that in antiquity, in Temple times, there would constantly be a fire burning on the Temple altar, in order to consume the various offerings brought forth by Jewish priests. The Hassidic tradition wanted to instill new life in this verse, and render it pertinent to our lives today, centuries after the destruction of the Temple. It did so by turning the physical fire of the altar into a spiritual metaphor for the burning passion of the Jew to unite with God in soulful longing. Thus, in the Hassidic allegorical reading of this verse, the altar becomes the human heart, and the fire is the fire of the Jewish individual’s spiritual devotion to the Almighty. This allegorical interpretation seeks to motivate us to constantly rekindle our sense of religious vitality and enthusiasm in religious practice. The Hassidic tradition places prime importance upon spiritual intentionality, and is highly critical of mere empirical practice devoid of profound passion and inner enthusiasm. Thus, the Hassidic masters are imploring us to desist from what Abraham Joshua Heschel called “religious behaviorism,” and the way Mordecai Kaplan conceptualized the mitzvoth as mere “communal norms.” The Hassidic tradition is mystically vibrant. It rejects the notion of mitzvoth as a mere cultural practice, and insists that the religious life must be infused with vitality and passion, with soulful elation and spiritual vigor.
Baruch C. Cohen
Civil Trial Attorney
The Fire That Must Never Go Out
The Torah does not simply command that a fire be lit. It commands that the fire never be extinguished. The altar fire was not dramatic. It did not erupt like lightning from heaven each day. It burned steadily, quietly, faithfully. Its greatness was not in its intensity but in its constancy.
Life often confuses inspiration with endurance. We celebrate moments of brilliance, bursts of passion, flashes of spiritual clarity. But the Torah points us to something deeper: the quiet discipline of keeping the fire alive when no one is watching.
There are seasons when the heart feels aflame – when faith, purpose and conviction burn brightly. And then there are seasons when the wind blows cold, when disappointment, grief or exhaustion threaten to reduce everything to ash.
The commandment of the altar reminds us: the fire must still burn. Sometimes the fire is not a roaring blaze. Sometimes it is only a glowing ember – small, fragile, almost invisible. But as long as it remains alive, the altar is not abandoned. Human dignity is found in this stubborn perseverance: rising again to tend the flame, adding one more piece of wood, whispering one more prayer, doing one more act of kindness. The Torah does not ask us to burn brightly every day. It asks us for something harder. Do not let the fire go out.
Benjamin Elterman
Screenwriter, Essayist, Speechwriter at MitzvahSpeeches.com
Growing up, my synagogue had a magnificent abstract metalwork sculpture of the Eternal Flame that hung over the bimah. In the center of the bent steel rods was an actual flame that was to never go out. But one day, I found the sculpture had been lowered to the ground and the flame extinguished. Like a child learning about the truth of the tooth fairy, I realized that perhaps much about my religion might be more legend than fact. It would be decades before I would learn what the Eternal Flame was and what function it served. And that there was something beyond literal truth and legend, but a deeper truth that revealed the human condition. Jewish thought compares the Mishkan to the human being. Not just compares, represents. You see, according to the Midrash, the actual Eternal Flame in the Mishkan was to have wood added to it twice daily. This wasn’t actually necessary. The Flame was sustained by Hashem. But the Kohanim were commanded to add the fire anyway. Why? The Eternal Flame represents the flame in every one of us. If it isn’t nourished and rekindled, it will go out. If we rely on old fuel, we’re bound to feel spiritually empty. It is our duty to feed, maintain and fan the flames of our souls on a daily basis. Don’t let inspiration turn to apathy. Don’t let some child become disillusioned because they see the adults around them as lifeless as a metal sculpture.
Rabbi Yossi Eilfort
Founder, Magen Am USA
In the language of our sages, fire reflects the emotional core of a person. Fire can express love, warmth and drive – or anger and destruction. The same force, directed in different ways. Water, its counterpart, is the coolness of the mind – capable of reason, or of apathy.
The Torah commands that the fire on the altar be constant. Not just lit but maintained. Fire, by its nature, does not regulate itself. To harness it requires attention, discipline and continuous effort. Left alone, it fades. Mishandled, it destroys. The work is not simply to have fire, but to take responsibility for it.
We are meant to burn with love – with a deep commitment to our people, our communities, and the lives we take responsibility for. We act not because we hate what is in front of us, but because we love what is behind us. But even love, even passion, is not enough on its own. The Torah’s command of a “continuous fire” teaches that consistency is the real work. Showing up again and again. Building something sustainable. Channeling emotion into action that is steady and constructive.
In a time when many feel vulnerable, this parsha reminds us that responsibility – like the fire on the altar – is not something we can ignite once and walk away from. It must be sustained, tended and owned. A continuous fire is not just a feeling. It is a discipline. It is a responsibility.
