Tazria-Metzora: Listening to the Silence Between Our Words

I. Opening – The Silent Monastery

At the end of the first year, he says: “Bed hard.”

At the end of the second year: “Food bad.”

At the end of the third: “I quit.”

The head monk turns to his administrator and sighs: “Just as well. All he ever did was complain.”

In Parshat Tazria-Metzora, the Torah describes a person afflicted with tzara’at, a spiritual condition our sages associate with lashon ha’ra, misused speech.

The afflicted person, known as the metzora, is not simply given a diagnosis—they are sent outside the camp, alone, cut off, silenced, isolated.

Specifically, the Torah says:

“They shall dwell alone; their dwelling shall be outside the camp.”

— Leviticus 13:46

But does this silence lead to change?

Like our friend at the silent monastery, silence alone doesn’t make a person wise. If someone waits out their silence, holding back words until it’s their turn to complain again, has anything really changed?

Do they learn restraint? Or do they bide their time until speech is allowed again?

And so we ask: What do we learn from the metzora’s banishment?

Is the metzora merely being silenced, or are they being given a chance to learn to speak again, this time with meaning?

II. The Power of Silence

Rabbi Shimon in Pirkei Avot (1:17) taught:

“All my life I grew up among sages, and I found nothing better for the body than silence.”

Silence is not just the absence of words; it is their foundation.

Great musicians understand the power of silence.

Mozart put it this way:

“The music is not in the notes but in the silence between.”

Jazz legend Dizzy Gillespie described musical maturity as knowing what not to play, what to leave out.

Speech works the same way. The best communicators don’t just speak well; they know when not to speak. They understand the importance of space, of timing, of restraint.

Words have power. But sometimes, what is not said speaks loudest.

The metzora is not just sent away to be silent—they are sent away to learn to listen.

But what happens when speech is stripped away?

When someone is forced into silence, how do they reclaim their voice?

This brings us to the metzora’s cry.

III. The Cry of the Metzora – “Tameh, Tameh!”

The Torah tells us that as part of the purification process, the metzora must call out:

“Tameh! Tameh!” (Impure! Impure!) (Vayikra 13:45).

Rashi explains that this warns others to stay away. But the Talmud (Moed Katan 5a) adds something deeper:

• The first “Tameh” is indeed a warning to others.

• The second “Tameh” is a plea for people to pray for healing.

This raises a powerful question:

How is this cry delivered? What is the tone?

At first, perhaps the word barely escapes the lips.

“Tameh…” A whisper. A murmur of shame.

Then, a pause. A realization.

This person doesn’t want to stay in that place or be defined by that state.

And so, the second time, the voice is stronger.

“Tameh!”—Not just a statement, but a plea: “I am impure… but I don’t want to be. Can you help me?”

Or it could happen the other way around.

Maybe the first cry is defiant: “Tameh! So what?”

Then, a pause.

And a softer more vulnerable voice: “Tameh… I need help.”

Although the Torah does not tell us the tone of voice, the pause between the two words hints at a shift.

And this teaches us something profound:

Do we truly listen to those around us?

When people push us away, are they really pushing us away?

Or are they, like the metzora, crying out: “Help me. Don’t give up on me.”

A bus driver struggles to load the last few bags at a packed airport shuttle.

“Excuse me,” he says. Nobody moves.

He tries again, louder: “I SAID EXCUSE ME!”

Finally, people pay attention.

The first time, no one registered the plea. The second time, they understood it mattered.

How often do people in pain do the same? They lash out or shut down. But if we listen closely, we may hear something deeper: “Help me.”

The metzora isn’t just calling out. They are beginning to reflect, to grow, to transform.

The Torah says this person’s body is afflicted. Not their soul. Not their mind. Their body.

Why? Because misused speech causes more than spiritual damage. It corrodes relationships, poisons communities, and eventually wears down the speaker. The harm literally reaches into the body.

That’s why Rabbi Shimon didn’t just say, “There’s nothing better than silence.” He said: “There’s nothing better for the body than silence.”

Silence, at the right time, not only elevates the soul, it protects the person as a whole.

The moment of silence between the first “Tameh” and the second is where transformation begins.

Because in that pause, reaction turns into reflection.

IV. The Rebbe Rashab – The Power of a Pause

In a Chassidic discourse entitled Kuntres U’Maayan (Overcoming Folly), the Rebbe Rashab (the fifth Lubavitcher Rebbe) gives a profound piece of advice:

“When the yetzer hara (evil inclination) tells you something is good, consider whether it is consistent with the purpose for which you were created in the first place.”

Before speaking, before posting, before reacting … pause.

Is what I’m about to say consistent with why I was created?

That moment of hesitation, the space between the first “Tameh” and the second, is the same pause the Rebbe Rashab describes.

The moment where reaction turns into reflection. Where words are filtered through purpose. And where silence becomes the key to transformation.

That pause, that sacred silence, is where wisdom lives.

The Talmud captures this beautifully:

“A word is worth a sela, but silence is worth two.” (Megillah 18a)

Words have value. The right silence? That is priceless.

Yet, what happens when silence is not sacred? When people are drowning in words yet failing to communicate?

Sometimes, the loudest environments are the most silent, filled with constant speech, but devoid of real meaning or connection.

That’s the kind of silence Simon and Garfunkel captured in their haunting 1964 song The Sound of Silence, where they described:

“People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening.”

It is a silence not born of presence, but of absence.

Not mindful speech, but empty noise.

Not reflection, but disconnection.

V. The Last Words We Speak

Jewish thought teaches that people are given only a certain number of words in their lifetime.

If we internalized that concept, how would we speak differently?

Would we waste words on small talk, complaints, gossip?

Or would we treat words as sacred currency, offering them only where they uplift, inspire, and create meaning?

The metzora returns from exile not as a silent person, but as someone who has learned to hear the space between the words.

The Torah does not tell us what is said upon their return.

Perhaps, for the first time, you don’t rush to fill the silence.

Perhaps, for the first time, you pause … and listen.

You listen to the voices of those you once hurt.

You listen to the words you once took for granted.

You listen to the quiet inside yourself.

And in that silence, the music of wisdom begins.

Shabbat Shalom.