Weekly Dvar Torah: The Leper and the Child – A Story of Redemption

In a curious twist of Torah sequence, the Torah portions of Tazria and Metzora place the laws of childbirth and leprosy side by side. Birth and leper—two words that, at first glance, could not seem more distant from one another. One speaks of vitality, the other of affliction. One of a beginning, the other of isolation. Yet our sages and mystics unveil a breathtaking message hidden in this juxtaposition: the pathway to ultimate renewal, to Geula, the final redemption, runs through this very paradox.

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 98b) famously tells us that Moshiach, the Redeemer of Israel, is a leper. He sits among the afflicted, changing his bandages one at a time, always ready to rise and redeem. Why a leper? Why associate the holiest figure of our future with a condition that evokes exile, impurity, and distance?

The answer is deeply personal. Moshiach bears our pain. He suffers with us. His leprosy is not a flaw but a mark of deep, boundless empathy. He is not removed from our world of confusion and suffering—he is embedded in it. His “leprosy” is Golus itself, worn on his skin like a garment of sorrow. Every moment of exile, every Jewish tear shed across generations, every doubt and every darkness—weighs upon him.

But just as the leper represents affliction, he also represents the path to healing. In the Torah, the Metzora is not left to suffer endlessly; he is ultimately purified. The affliction, once diagnosed, initiates a process of healing and return. And so too with Moshiach—his very descent into our pain heralds the greatest ascent. He brings not only hope but the tools for transformation.

Birth is not only a metaphor—it is a spiritual reality. Every soul is a child of Hashem, constantly capable of rebirth. A newborn child embodies boundless energy, relentless curiosity, and unstoppable movement. A baby doesn’t “try”—he does. He learns to walk by falling again and again without fear or shame. He reaches for everything. He refuses to sit still. He is, by definition, alive.

And that, say the Chassidic masters, is exactly the posture we need to bring Moshiach.

We can choose to sit and wait, twiddling our thumbs, hoping that redemption will descend like lightning from the sky. Or—we can be the newborn. We can embody a spirit of unrelenting faith and movement.
We can be curious about Moshiach, explore his teachings, learn his ways, and yearn deeply for his arrival.

We must not grow old in our Golus. We must not allow our exile to “age” us—to wear down our belief, to bleach our passion into white-haired resignation. Because that very dilemma lies at the heart of a heavenly debate described in the Talmud.

The Talmud recounts an astonishing story. In the Yeshiva above, a dispute breaks out regarding the laws of leprosy: if a white spot appears on the skin and it’s uncertain whether the white hair (a sign of aging) came before or after the spot—do we declare the person pure or impure?

The souls in heaven argue: this exile is ancient, worn down, wrinkled with time and sorrow. It grows only older, and who can say if it will ever end? It is impure.

But G-d Himself says: Tahor Hu—It is pure. This Golus is but a temporary disguise, a fleeting shadow before the dawn.

To resolve the argument, they call upon Rabba bar Nachmani—a great sage and a Kohen, a man of purity, vision, and kindness. As his soul ascends to heaven, he cries out: Tahor, Tahor! It is pure, it is pure!

The Kabbalists interpret this as a cosmic truth: even when things look bleak, even when we doubt whether the redemption is aging and fading away, we must step into Rabba’s clarity and declare with full heart: It is pure. It is close. It is happening.

In our generation, we were blessed with such a voice of clarity. The Lubavitcher Rebbe stood before the world and told us, with unwavering confidence: the time of your redemption has arrived.

He pointed to the unprecedented return to Torah and mitzvot, the spiritual awakening across continents, the freedom and prosperity granted to Jews worldwide—all signs of a world ready for Geula. He told us to prepare not passively, but passionately. To study Moshiach, to anticipate his arrival like a child waiting for their beloved parent at the door. Not with indifference, but with bursting excitement.

Because the greatest gift of Moshiach will not be the end of illness or the abundance of physical blessing—though those will surely come. The greatest gift is the revelation of G-dliness—a world where every soul will feel embraced by Hashem, where every heart will sing with Divine closeness, where the knowledge of G-d will cover the earth as waters cover the sea.

At the splitting of the sea, the children picked sweet fruits that miraculously grew along the walls of water. The purpose of the miracle wasn’t the fruit—but G-d wanted even the children to feel joy. So too, the physical delights of the Messianic era are merely the “fruit” along the path—meant to bring us joy and motivate us—but not the essence.

The essence is the presence of G-d.

And if we don’t prepare ourselves—if we don’t educate ourselves to want G-d, to yearn for closeness, to study what Moshiach truly brings—we risk missing the greatest part of redemption.

This is the charge of our times. To live with the childlike energy of faith. To take the leper—the symbol of exile—and reveal in it the deepest purity. To stand with Rabba, with the Rebbe, and with G-d Himself, and proclaim: Tahor Hu!

The leper is not a failure. He is Moshiach in disguise, waiting for us to notice him, to learn from him, to be stirred by his silent suffering and rise to action. He is waiting to bring about the ultimate renewal of life.

So take the energy of the child. Be relentless. Be alive. Learn. Explore. Get excited. Moshiach is close—and we are the ones who must bring him home.

Have a Shabbos of Redemptive Purification,
Gut Shabbos.

Rabbi Yosef Katzman