Tazria-Metzorah - The Way You Look

Lashon hara begins not with speech, but in our minds and thoughts that shape our perception.

Parshat Tazria-Metzora is notoriously difficult to discuss. Many rabbinic colleagues have shared how they struggle to draw relevant or inspiring sermons from its ancient and mysterious laws. Tzara’at—the spiritual skin affliction that dominates much of the parsha—feels distant from modern life. It’s technical, symbolic, and seemingly disconnected from our day-to-day experience. But when looked at more deeply, it opens a profound window into the spiritual psychology of the Torah and its view of speech, creation, and human nature.

The Midrash points out a striking shift in Sefer Vayikra, from Parshat Shemini to Tazria. Shemini ends with Torat HaBeheima—the laws of which animals may be eaten, a guide for sanctifying the animal world and our physical consumption. Then, with little transition, Tazria begins with Torat HaAdam—the laws that apply to human life and impurity, particularly childbirth and the commandment of Brit Milah. The Midrash explains that this order reflects the sequence of creation: first animals, then humans. That suggests these laws are not random; they reflect something fundamental about the creation of the world. The transition to the laws of tzara’at, then, is not an odd detour—it continues the theme of what it means to be human, created in the image of God, with the unique capacity to speak and interpret reality.

There is a core contrast between animals and humans, not only biologically, but also spiritually. Animals act. Humans interpret. We reflect, judge, reframe—and in that lies both our greatness and our danger. The Gemara in Menachot 53b teaches that tzara’at comes as a punishment for lashon hara—evil speech. But the term "evil speech" doesn’t fully capture the depth of the concept. Lashon hara is not just saying bad things. It is a habit of interpreting reality through a negative lens. It’s the speech of suspicion, cynicism, and despair. It’s the spiritual act of distorting creation by choosing to view people and events in the worst possible way.

This behavior originates in the very first sin of humanity—the snake in the Garden of Eden. The snake, a physical manifestation of the Satan, is the bridge between the animal and the human. The Satan’s job is to prosecute—to expose contradictions in our behavior. We say we don't have time to daven or learn Torah, yet we have time for trivialities. The Satan doesn’t need to lie—he just frames the truth in the harshest possible light. And he can do that because he views us through a negative lens. The Midrash Tanchuma in our parsha teaches that when we look critically at others, Heaven responds in kind and views us critically as well.

As we’ve noted in the past, the Chiddushei HaRim observes that oneg (delight) and nega (affliction) share the same letters, differing only in the placement of the letter ayin (eye). This highlights how our perspective can transform joy into suffering—or suffering into joy. How we look at the world determines how we experience it. That’s the essence of lashon hara: not merely a matter of speech, but of vision. Our words reflect how we see others, and how we see others shapes the world we live in.

This is why the Chafetz Chaim emphasized that the root of lashon hara is negative thinking. People speak poorly because they see poorly. A culture of criticism and complaint doesn’t begin with the tongue—it begins with the mind. Shmirat halashon—guarding one’s speech—is not just about restraint, but about retraining our perception. The spiritual challenge is to shift from a default Jewish pessimism (“Things can’t get worse!”) to a Jewish optimism that believes in growth, healing, and redemption.

The Chafetz Chaim also points out that when we speak lashon hara, we violate the mitzvah of v’halachta b’drachav—to walk in God’s ways. To emulate God means to see the world with compassion, patience, and to give the benefit of the doubt. Negative speech pulls us away from that divine perspective and into the realm of the snake—the realm of suspicion and harsh judgment. To speak well is to walk in the ways of the Creator; to speak ill is to align ourselves with the accuser.

This dynamic ties directly into our national story and calendar. Tisha B’Av, our day of mourning, is rooted in the sin of lashon hara. The snake spoke lashon hara about God. The spies spoke lashon hara about Eretz Yisrael. And we, the people, accepted it—we became mekablei lashon hara, those who internalize and believe negative speech. The Midrash teaches that our geula, our redemption, hinges on reversing that sin: learning to speak—and see—the good, especially about our God, our people, and our land.

The Gemara tells us that Rabbi Akiva’s students died during this time because they didn’t show proper respect for one another. What does that mean? They interpreted each other’s actions and words critically. Even their Torah learning couldn’t protect them if their vision of one another was clouded by judgment. Receiving the Torah requires not only learning, but elevated thinking—seeing the divine potential in others. Torah is not only what we learn; it’s how we look at the world.

I struggle with this myself. I’ve realized that many of my own critical thoughts—about people, about institutions—don’t come from truth but from habit. That’s the Satan at work, preparing a harsh judgment by reinforcing our own negativity. Parshat Tazria-Metzora confronts this head-on. It demands that we do more than guard our tongues. It demands that we change our eyes and our perspective. It asks us to transform how we see the world, and thereby how we speak it into being.

That’s why the sequence of Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, Yom HaAtzmaut, and Yom Yerushalayim is so profound. We begin in mourning—but we don’t stay there. We refuse to see ourselves only through suffering. We transform memory into meaning, pain into purpose, and mourning into rebuilding. The trajectory is hope: the belief that the Jewish story—and every human story—can be redeemed.

Tzara’at is not just a punishment—it is a process. It is the Torah’s way of calling us to examine our thinking, our perception, and our speech. Human beings, the Torah teaches, are not mere animals. We are created b’tzelem Elokim—formed in the image of God. And as Unkelos translates, that image is expressed through ruach memalela—our ability to speak. Speech is the divine spark within us. But to be godly, it must be grounded in love, hope, and generosity of spirit.

So, during this season of the Omer—when we remember the loss of Rabbi Akiva’s students—let us take the message of Tazria-Metzora to heart. Let us choose to see the good, to think generously, and to speak constructively. Let us uplift everyone and everything around us—one word, one thought, and one gaze at a time.

Shabbat shalom.

Eliezer Hirsch