Chochmat HaLev: The Wisdom of the Heart

March 7, 2025

This is a drasha I delivered to my synagogue community.

This week's Torah portion, Tetzaveh, opens with God's instruction to Moses:

"Instruct all who are wise of heart, or chochmay lev, whom I have endowed with wisdom, or chochmah, to make Aaron's sacred garments, anointing him to serve Me as priest."

At first glance, this seems like a straightforward command: find skilled artisans to create the High Priest's clothes. But the Torah's language hints at something much deeper. Chochmay lev does not simply mean skilled workers—it means wise-hearted individuals. And chochmah, often translated as "skill," is actually the word for wisdom.

The Torah is teaching us that the work of these artisans required more than technical ability. It required a certain kind of sensitivity, understanding, and heart—a wisdom that is not just intellectual, but emotional.

True wisdom of the heart is knowing not just what to say, but how to say it. It is the ability to hold space for another's pain, to communicate truth with care, to offer dignity even in the darkest moments.

Some professions demand this wisdom of the heart—for example, doctors, nurses, psychologists, and rabbis. These are people whose work is not just about skill, but about listening, about responding with sensitivity and care. And sometimes, in moments of great suffering, their wisdom can change the way someone experiences even the most painful truths.

A recent, extraordinary example of chochmat halev—wisdom of the heart—took place when Eli Sharabi was released after 491 days of being held captive in Gaza.

Forced by his captors to speak during the live broadcast at his handover ceremony, Eli Sharabi said he was happy to be returning to his wife and daughters after Hamas had told him they were waiting for him.

But this was a lie.

In the only television interview he has given since his release, Sharabi recalled that the first Israeli to greet him—a military psychologist—told him:

"Your mother and sister are waiting for you."

He immediately asked, "Where are my wife and children?" And she responded, "Your mother and sister will tell you."

In that moment, Sharabi said he understood. He knew that his wife and daughters had been killed. And yet, even in delivering this unbearable truth, the psychologist demonstrated chochmat halev—a wisdom that recognized that truth must be spoken with care.

Instead of bluntly breaking the news, she allowed him the space to understand it himself—to process it with dignity, rather than being blindsided by a cold statement. This is chochmat halev in action. Not just knowledge, but sensitivity. Not just intelligence, but compassion.

What is perhaps even more extraordinary is how Sharabi chose to respond. In the television interview, rather than expressing anger or hate, he spoke of gratitude for the time he had with his family.

When the interviewer showed him a video of his wife, Lianne of blessed memory, he said, unprompted, "Thank you for the thirty amazing years."

He didn't dwell on what was taken from him but instead expressed deep appreciation for the time he had with his wife and daughters.

This response—after such unimaginable loss—is not natural. It is something deeper. A wisdom that says:

I will not allow grief to be consumed by hate. I will not let pain erase love.

This is chochmat halev at its highest level. The ability to hold sorrow and gratitude together. The ability to see beyond the darkness and still choose light.

So, in the Parsha, why does the Torah emphasize that these wise-hearted artisans must create the High Priest's clothes? Couldn't any skilled tailor do the job?

The answer lies in the very nature of the priesthood. The High Priest did not earn his position through wisdom, compassion, or moral standing. He inherited it. He might be a great leader, or he might not be. But the garments—woven by those whose hands were guided by wisdom of the heart—would serve as a reminder of the virtues required to wear them.

Each thread, each stitch, was imbued with care, reverence, and intention. When the High Priest put on his robes, he was not just dressing for a role—he was clothing himself in the kindness and wisdom of those who created them.

It was a silent but powerful message: To truly serve, you must embody the qualities that went into the very garments you wear.

This idea still resonates today. It is not enough to hold a title, to bear authority, to be given responsibility. What matters is how we inhabit those roles—whether we carry them with wisdom, with heart, and with an awareness of the responsibility they demand.

And in the same way that the wise-hearted artisans wove garments that elevated the High Priest, we, too, have the opportunity to weave wisdom and compassion into everything we do. Whether through our words, our actions, or the way we hold space for others, we can choose to be wise of heart.

The Torah calls upon us to seek out wisdom of the heart, not just in craftsmanship, but in life. It is the wisdom of knowing what words to speak and how to speak them. It is the ability to listen, not just to what someone says, but to what they mean. It is the courage to face pain without being consumed by hate.

Eli Sharabi's story is a modern testament to this wisdom. And it is a challenge to us all—to choose wisdom of heart in our own lives.

This Shabbat, as we reflect on this week's Parsha, let us ask:

How can we speak with wisdom, act with compassion, and carry both pain and love with grace? May we strive to be wise-hearted in all that we do.

Shabbat Shalom.