Parashat Tetzaveh is, at first glance, a choreography of details. Measurements. Fabrics. Precious stones. Oil. Fire. Fragrance. The Torah lingers over the priestly garments, the breastplate set with twelve stones, the daily offerings, and the sacred incense. “And you shall make holy garments for Aaron your brother, for glory and for beauty” (Exodus 28:2). Nothing is left to improvisation. Sight, sound, touch, even smell, are enlisted into a total spiritual experience. The Mishkan is not only constructed; it is curated. And then there is the incense.

The Torah commands: “Take for yourself spices- stacte, onycha, galbanum, and pure frankincense; they shall be in equal measure” (Exodus 30:34). Rabbinic tradition expands this into the well-known Pitom HaKetoret: eleven ingredients blended with exquisite precision. Among them is chelbenah, galbanum, a resin with a pungent, even foul odor. Which raises an obvious question: Why include something that smells bad in a mixture designed to rise heavenward as a “pleasing aroma before the Lord” (Exodus 30:7)?

The Sages notice the tension and lean into it. In the Talmud we read: “Any fast in which the sinners of Israel do not participate is not a true fast” (Keritot 6b). The galbanum, they teach, symbolizes those in the community whose deeds, or perhaps whose opinions, offend us. And yet, without them, the incense is invalid. Incomplete. Disqualified. The sacred fragrance depends on the ingredient we would most instinctively exclude. This is not merely a ritual footnote. It is a social vision.

The Spiritual Power of Inclusion

The incense is a metaphor for society. Eleven spices, measured and mingled, each retaining its character yet contributing to a greater whole. One of them is unpleasant on its own. But in combination, it deepens and strengthens the overall aroma. HaRan, Rabbi Nissim of Gerona, writes: “Though each individual alone may not be worthy, by joining together they acquire a collective excellence greater than their separate parts” (Derashot HaRan, 1). The whole, when we dare to assemble it honestly, becomes more than the sum of its parts.

We live in a time of polarization. Public discourse is sharp, brittle, and often unforgiving. Social media algorithms reward outrage. Nuance rarely trends. It is tempting, so tempting, to curate our communities like echo chambers, selecting only those voices that confirm our priors and flatter our moral self-image. But Parashat Tetzaveh refuses to let us spiritualize homogeneity. Unity is not uniformity. It is the discipline of staying in relationship with difference.

Janusz Korczak, the great educator who perished with his students in Treblinka, once wrote: “Only the narrow-minded demand that all people be alike. The wise rejoice in diversity.” The Torah, it seems, agrees. The Mishkan is not monochrome. The High Priest’s breastplate carries twelve distinct stones, each tribe named, each color visible, none erased into sameness (Exodus 28:21).

And still, inclusion is hard. Let me confess something personal: I struggle with this too. There are opinions that feel to me not just wrong but corrosive. There are voices that ignite in me anger before curiosity. There are moments when I would rather mute than engage, dismiss rather than listen. And yet the incense rises only when all eleven are present. Sometimes the most spiritual act is not agreement but breath. A deep inhalation before reaction. A pause long enough to remember that the person across from me is not merely an argument but a human being. In the language of contemporary psychology, this is the practice of cognitive flexibility, the ability to hold complexity without collapsing into defensiveness. In the language of the Torah, it is blending the spices.

The Paradox We Cannot Ignore

And here, we must take the conversation one step further. The philosopher Karl Popper warned of the “paradox of tolerance”: If a society is infinitely tolerant, even toward intolerance, intolerance may ultimately destroy tolerance itself. Unlimited tolerance can become self-destructive.

So how far does the metaphor of galbanum extend? Are we commanded to include every voice, even those that seek to dismantle the very conditions of pluralism? Does the incense require ingredients that aim to burn down the sanctuary?

This is the tension at the heart of any pluralistic society, and, I would argue, at the heart of Torah itself. The Torah calls us to radical inclusion, but not to moral abdication. The Mishkan has boundaries. The spices are measured. Not everything qualifies. The challenge, then, is not whether to include, but how. How do we create communities that welcome dissent without surrendering to dehumanization? How do we bless even metaphorically, opinions that “smell bad” to us, without legitimizing harm?

Perhaps the first step is humility. The recognition that sometimes what smells offensive to me is simply unfamiliar. That my discomfort is not always a moral compass. That the friction of disagreement may refine me, not threaten me. The incense teaches that complexity is sacred. That community is strongest not when it is sanitized, but when it is honest. That spiritual maturity includes the capacity to remain in conversation.

In a moment of deep division, within Israel, within the Jewish world, within America- the Torah whispers an ancient, countercultural truth: Do not rush to exile the galbanum. As we enter this Shabbat, I leave you with a question, one that I wrestle with myself: Where is your red line? At what point does inclusion become complicity? And how do we guard that boundary without shrinking our moral imagination?

I would love to hear your thoughts.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)