In the continuation of the establishment of the mishkan in this week’s Torah portion, we are introduced to that which is continuously present and we note someone who is strangely absent. We read of the instruction to bring clear oil of beaten olives for lighting the ner tamid – translated variously as ‘a flame that burns perpetually’ (Jerusalem Bible) or ‘a lamp constantly burning’ (Living Torah) and in the Jewish Publication Society as ‘the kindling of lamps regularly’ (JPS) - tamid referring to the continual act of keeping the lights lit from evening to morning. The emphasis here is on the necessity to regularly tend to the lights that symbolically represent God’s presence in the sanctuary.

This night light, so to speak, then becomes the substitute for the flames of the daily sacrifice that is offered at the entrance to the tent of meeting in the morning (Ex 39:42) and perhaps also for the rays of the sun that are absent in the night hours. The lamps are to be lit with the finest oil and Aaron and his sons are entrusted with the sacred duty of keeping it lit and sustaining it in perpetuity. The flames of these sacred lights and offerings by fire will sanctify the people with the close presence of God but they also have the potential to destroy as Aaron learns later to his cost as his two sons are destroyed by strange fire upon the altar.

At the end of the parashah we are again told of Aaron’s responsibility to kindle the lights as he offers an incense offering to God. Enclosed within the middle is the description of the vestments and roles of the Priests who are to carry out these roles including Aaron and his four sons but strangely missing is his brother Moses. The fact that this is the only Torah portion in all subsequent Torah portions not to mention Moses by name has been noted by many. Whether because traditionally it was thought that this intimates Moses’ death on 7th Adar or more explicitly that the text seeks to focus on Aaron’s role who must be fully present in this process so that there is only enough room for him without any other.

The ner tamid thereby acts as a segue between the earlier description of the construction of the mishkan, the holy space and this description of the people who will serve within it, the holy people. It provides a bridge between the spaces that are to be occupied with the people who are within it yet at the same time it separates one from another, from those present to those who are absent.

In A.B Yehoshua’s latest book Friendly Fire, the story is told of two families connected by two sisters profoundly affected by the death of a son who is killed on active service in the occupied territories by so called friendly fire. As A.B Yehoshua points out himself, it is a strange term to use when thinking of the terrible and tragic occurrence of being killed by your own comrades in battle. The mother of the son dies and the father leaves Israel and locates himself distantly in far away Africa seemingly removed from the pain of his losses and the ghosts that haunt him while he is absent from a land and an identity and a family. Amongst an indigenous people also traumatised by genocide, his sister in law now finds him to bring him comfort and to spend Chanukkah with him symbolising another kind of fire that she hopes will warm his soul. Rejecting it all, he throws the candles into the fire along with all the other objects she has brought from home. In this duet between Israel and Africa, Holocaust and genocide, Judaism and Animism, friendly fire and painful fire, A.B. Yehoshua paints a powerful and multi-layered understanding of a contemporary Israeli traumatised identity. Perhaps it is also a story of the Jewish People itself. Burned by the fire, we are far from our spiritual homes and we cannot find meaning in candles of tradition or even in the objects of holy land or holy people.

The memory of trauma is heightened by combining the fire of Tetzaveh with Shabbat Zachor this week. We remember what Amalek did to us on the road as we came out of Egypt (Deut 25:17). The adversary who attacked the stragglers in the rear, the weak and the vulnerable. We are instructed: ‘You shall blot out the name of Amalek but at the same time you shall remember and not forget – Zachor v’lo Tishkach!’. How can we live like that? How can we put our ghosts to rest and at the same time shake off the victim hood that is so visceral for so many? In retribution or in vulnerability shall we now use the flames against others, throwing their homes and their lives into ever larger fires of destruction?

But fire is not an object; it is a process of transforming the latent energy that is concealed in a piece of wood or lump of coal. It is an unfolding of a destiny that may burn or may illumine. A process is something you do regularly and continuously and you need to be attuned to the process to see it through. A process take time and in the light of our history and collective memory, Yosef Hayim Yerusalmi, in his book Zachor, suggests that reconciliation will come through remembrance. This is a remembrance that needs to be coupled with a renewed commitment to the process of justice.

So we remember that which was done against us on Shabbat Zachor and on Purim as we remember that we have to regularly forget the pain in order to be able to liberated us from it. Remember, forget, be ever present and yet leave space by being absent, bridge the gap yet remain separate, value the ongoing and unfolding process but tend to the small and insignificant wick so that it never goes out; no wonder our souls are tortured by the existential reality of being a Jew in our time. Friendly fire as well as destructive and self-destructive fire is going to regularly continue to illumine and burn a way for us through the night.