(Season Two continues)

This week’s parsha, תְּצַוֶּה, does something unusual.

Moshe’s name disappears.

For the only time from his birth until his death, he is absent from the text. In his place, the Torah turns its attention to the garments of the High Priest — the ephod, the breastplate, the robe with its bells and pomegranates, the golden plate engraved with “Holy to the Lord.”

The focus is not charisma. It is not personality. It is structure, vestment, responsibility.

Leadership, in תְּצַוֶּה, is something worn.

That matters when we think about the prayers we say for those who hold power.

Why Jews Pray for Rulers

In UK synagogues, it is customary to pray for the Royal Family. We also pray for the State of Israel and its leaders. These prayers sit in our liturgy week after week, often recited without drama.

Until something happens.

Recent reports concerning Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor, and his arrest and release under investigation, have once again drawn attention to the Royal Family. I will not comment on the specifics. That is not the purpose here. But such moments inevitably prompt reflection.

Why do Jews pray for rulers at all?

The answer is not sentimentality. It is scriptural realism.

The prophet Jeremiah instructs a vulnerable Jewish community in exile:

“Seek the peace of the city where I have sent you, and pray on its behalf; for in its peace you shall have peace.” (Jeremiah 29:7)

“Pray for the welfare of the government, for without fear of it, people would swallow one another alive.” (Avot 3:2)

Prayer for leadership is not endorsement of every individual act. It is recognition that governance restrains chaos.

We pray for order. We pray for stability. We pray for wisdom in those who wear the garments of authority.

British Jewry and the Crown

British Jews have long expressed loyalty to the Crown. Since the eighteenth century, synagogues have included prayers for the monarch in their services. The wording has changed with each accession; the principle has remained.

This practice is not political theatre. It reflects embeddedness. Jews in Britain are not guests hovering at the edge of civic life. We are citizens, participants, woven into the fabric of the state.

The prayer for the Royal Family symbolises that relationship.te

Similarly, many British synagogues recite the Prayer for the Welfare of the State of Israel. These two prayers sit side by side without contradiction. They reflect layered belonging — civic and national, diaspora and homeland.

Judaism is comfortable with that complexity.

תְּצַוֶּה and the Clothing of Authority

The High Priest’s garments are described in meticulous detail. They are beautiful, intricate, weighty. The breastplate carries the names of the tribes. The bells announce movement. The golden plate declares sanctity.

Leadership is visible.

But the garments are not personal ornament. They symbolise institutional trust. They remind the wearer — and the community — that authority is a burden before it is a privilege.

Moshe’s absence from the parsha is striking. The Torah shifts focus away from the individual leader and onto the office itself. Authority is framed not as personality but as role.

That framing offers perspective.

The garments do not guarantee virtue. They establish expectation. They locate power within a structure larger than the person who occupies it.

Institutions and Individuals

What happens when someone who wears the garments of authority becomes the subject of scrutiny?

Jewish tradition does not deify leaders. Kings in Tanach are rebuked. Prophets speak truth to power. David is criticised, confronted, held accountable. Authority is bounded.

But neither does Judaism dismantle institutions at the first sign of individual failure.

The prayer for rulers is not a declaration that they are flawless. It is an appeal that those entrusted with power exercise it wisely, justly, and with restraint. It places authority symbolically under divine judgment.

We do not pray because leaders are perfect.

We pray because leadership shapes the lives of others.

When Does Liturgy Change?

Jewish liturgy evolves when constitutional realities shift — when monarchs change, governments transition, states are formed. Names are amended. Language adapts.

But prayer is rarely rewritten in reaction to scandal. To do so would turn liturgy into commentary.

The deeper instruction remains: seek the peace of the city.

Pray for governance that restrains harm.

Recognise that institutions matter, even when individuals falter.

We live in an era that collapses office into personality. Public discourse often struggles to separate the role from the individual who occupies it.

תְּצַוֶּה resists that collapse.

It reminds us that leadership is vestment and burden. It is names carried close to the heart. It is bells that announce responsibility. It is accountability before it is prestige.

To pray for rulers is not to sanctify them. It is to acknowledge that power exists, that it affects lives, and that it must be exercised wisely.

In that sense, our civic prayers are acts of realism.

They affirm that Jews are embedded within the societies in which we live.

They recognise that order restrains chaos.

And they quietly insist that those who wear the garments of authority are answerable to something greater than themselves.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)