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Welcome to Kolot, the podcast of The Ark Synagogue, a bold, experiential and caring Progressive Jewish community in Northwood, London.
Through sermons, reflections and conversations from across our community, Kolot explores Jewish life, learning and values in the world we live in today. Rooted in tradition and open to new perspectives, these episodes bring together voices that inspire thought, connection and belonging.
Whether you are Jewish, exploring Judaism, or simply looking for meaningful reflection, you are warmly welcome.
To learn more about The Ark Synagogue, visit arksynagogue.org.
What are the masks behind which you hide?
What are the clothes that give you power and strength to do the job?
These are the questions that, for me, weave together this week’s parashah, Tetzaveh, and the approaching festival of Purim. Both Torah and Megillah ask the same quiet question: when we put something on — a garment, a title, a new name — does it give us power, or does it conceal who we truly are? And what happens when it is removed?
Twice in Megillat Esther we are reminded of the power — and vulnerability — contained in clothing.
First, King Ahasuerus commands that “Queen Vashti be brought before the king wearing a royal diadem, to display her beauty to the peoples and the officials; for she was a beautiful woman.” The sages, in Esther Rabbah, offer a darker reading: that she was commanded to appear wearing only the diadem. Stripped not only of modesty, but of status. “A commoner does not wear royal garments,” they suggest — and so the royal garments are removed. Clothing here becomes a weapon. To be unclothed is to be stripped of power.
Names, like clothes, sometimes change. Hadassah becomes Esther. A new name for a hidden identity. A mask she must wear in order to endure what lies ahead. A disguise that will, paradoxically, become the instrument of redemption.
Later, Esther prepares to meet the king. She undergoes twelve months of beautifying treatments, like all the other women brought to the palace. Oils, perfumes, adornments. She is dressed, prepared, costumed for a role she did not choose. Clothing again becomes preparation for power — or survival.
And then we turn to Tetzaveh (Exodus 27:20–30:10).
God instructs Moses regarding the unique garments required for the priests: a breastpiece, an ephod, a robe, a fringed tunic, a headdress, and a sash. They are to be fashioned by skilled artisans, worked in gold, in blue, purple and crimson yarns, and in fine linen. These are not ordinary clothes. They distinguish the priests from the rest of the people. These garments publicly emphasise dignity. They establish the presence of God through the priests. Perhaps they even give them the confidence required to stand between God and community.
Clothes can change how we stand. They can steady us for the role we are called to inhabit.
The priests, too, receive among their garments a frontlet of pure gold, inscribed with the words Kodesh l’Adonai — “Holy to God.” It rests upon the forehead, visible to all. Is it a mask that hides the human being beneath the sacred role? Or is it something else?
Perhaps hiding is sometimes how we find courage. Perhaps the mask allows us to step into tasks that feel greater than our fragile humanity. Clothes can grant dignity. They can hold us upright when we tremble. They can help us become who we are not yet brave enough to be.
And yet — clothes do not always define the person.
Vestments and disguises are tools. They may strengthen us, but they also conceal us. And what ultimately makes the task possible — for priest, for queen, for you and for me — we need to learn again and again — is not the garment, but the human being within it.
When clothes are torn away, power can collapse — as the king intended for Vashti.
When masks fall, a different story can begin.
When we lay aside the costume, the true self stands exposed.
And in that exposure, there can be freedom.
Cole Arthur Riley writes:
“We need other people to see our own faces — to bear witness to their beauty and truth. God has made it so that I can never truly know myself apart from another person… I want someone to bear witness to my face, that we could behold the image of God in one another and believe it on one another’s behalf.”
We cannot see our own faces clearly. We need one another to reflect them back to us. Not the mask. Not the costume. But the image beneath.
The Torah teaches that each of us is made b’tzelem Elohim — in the image of God. That image exists before the vestments and beyond the disguises. It is not dependent on the diadem or the golden plate. It does not vanish when the garments are removed.
Perhaps the priest’s frontlet was not meant to hide his humanity, but to remind everyone who looked upon him — and perhaps even himself — that holiness rests upon the human forehead. That the name of God reflects back the divine image in every face.
So yes, may we use our masks and clothes wisely — for sacred tasks, for necessary courage, for moments that require strength beyond what we feel we possess.
But may we also know when to remove them.
May we have spaces where we can stand uncovered and unafraid.
May we see ourselves reflected in the eyes of those who truly witness us.
And may we learn to believe — for one another — that we are indeed made in the image of God.
May we wake each morning and bless:
Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech ha’olam, she’asani b’tzelem Elohim.
Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the universe, who has made me in the image of God.
Shabbat Shalom.