By Romi Morales
Parashat Tzav continues to unfold the world of korbanot (sacrifices), focusing especially on the role of the kohanim within the Mishkan. In the midst of detailed instructions about offerings (olah, mincha, chatat, asham), the handling of the altar’s ashes, and the consecration of the priests, a phrase appears that—though framed in a ritual context—illuminates much broader dimensions:
“A perpetual fire shall burn on the altar; it shall not go out” (Vayikra 6:6).
This eternal fire, which had to be kept burning day and night, was understood by sages across generations as more than just a technical commandment. The flame became a symbol of the soul, of spirituality, of commitment, of leadership, of the connection between the human and the transcendent. But above all, it became an image of constancy: the ability to sustain what matters even when the environment doesn’t support it, even when no one applauds, even when it’s hard.
In a time ruled by immediacy, the anxiety for quick results, and emotional burnout, this flame calls to us as educators:
How do we keep our own flame alive?
How do we ignite others’ without extinguishing our own?
How do we accompany with meaning, with presence, with hope?
If this resonates with you, come along. Let’s begin.
What does it mean—a fire that doesn’t go out?
Rashi interprets the verse literally: the altar’s fire had to be rekindled every morning. Nothing more technical—but also, nothing more human. After all, don’t we each need to renew our strength every day in order not to burn out?
The Midrash Tanchuma goes a step further, comparing that flame to the soul: a divine spark that requires constant nourishment. If not cared for, it cools. If not protected, it fades.
And Rav Jonathan Sacks z”l, with his usual clarity, adds another dimension: that fire symbolizes the moral responsibility of the Jewish people. Even without a Temple, even in hostile contexts, the flame must keep burning. Because it embodies a collective mission, an ancestral memory, an ethics that transcends us.
In education, this image is especially powerful.
Paulo Freire said that to educate is an act of love and faith in the other.
Reuven Feuerstein taught that every human being can transform, if someone believes in them enough to walk beside them.
Howard Gardner showed us that there are multiple ways to learn—and therefore, multiple fires to ignite.
To educate, then, is more than to transmit.
It is to ignite. Sustain. Illuminate.
It is to commit to the growth of the other as if tending to a sacred flame.
To be an educator is to be a Ner Tamid.
What threatens that flame?
We live in times when the Jewish and Zionist identity of our youth is being challenged.
The world presents them with complex choices: between integration and preserving their roots, between being accepted and being true to who they are.
Antisemitism disguises itself as cultural critique; antizionism, as supposed moral superiority. And the ideal of being a “global citizen” often suggests a neutrality that leads to disconnection.
It’s not surprising that there are doubts, distancing, or coldness. And in the face of that reality, our role as educators becomes all the more essential.
We are the guardians of the ancestral fire.
Not through imposition or fear, but through trust, inspiration, and example.
Our job is not to preserve ashes, but to fan the flames.
Not to maintain tradition by inertia, but to give meaning to what we ignite.
To create spaces where being part of the Jewish people and the Zionist project is a meaningful choice—not a burden.
Where identity is lived with pride, as a compass, not a backpack.
And how do we care for that fire?
Caring for a flame takes effort. And as educators, we know it’s not always easy.
Fatigue, routine, uncertainty, and lack of recognition can wear down our motivation.
The flame wavers when we feel our work isn’t enough, when we doubt whether we’re making a difference, when the world around us seems indifferent.
That’s why tending to our own fire is also part of the mission.
To seek out spaces that inspire us, people who support us, words that renew us.
To keep learning, sharing, and connecting with others who believe in the value of education.
And most of all, to remember why we started.
Being a Ner Tamid doesn’t mean shining constantly.
It means being present: with consistency, commitment, and sensitivity.
To be fire not to burn alone, but to give light to others without extinguishing ourselves.
What can we do, concretely?
Being a Ner Tamid starts with small gestures.
Listening with genuine attention.
Supporting processes without anxiety.
Creating rituals that build belonging: a phrase repeated at the end of an activity, a greeting, a shared habit.
It means being role models who inspire more through example than speech.
Being available. Being consistent.
Caring for our own flame just as we care for others’.
And also, recognizing our limits. When our flame weakens, knowing how to ask for help. Because fire, like all living things, needs others to stay lit.
Constancy is not rigidity. It’s loving care. It’s fidelity to purpose.
In conclusion
Today, more than ever, the world needs fires that do not go out.
Being Jewish-Zionist educators is a choice.
We choose to ignite.
We choose to sustain.
We choose to illuminate.
Parashat Tzav reminds us that some fires must keep burning—because within them something greater than ourselves is kindled: the legacy of a people, the responsibility of a mission, the hope for a future.
May we be for our youth those who ignite flames.
And every time strong winds blow and we ask ourselves if it’s still worth it to keep educating, may we have the strength to say:
Yes, it’s worth it!
