As someone involved in formal Jewish education for many years, I have often reflected on what sets our heritage apart from contemporary culture. Some differences are immediately apparent: a sense of kedushah, of obligation and personal responsibility, of peoplehood. But there is another aspect of Jewish life that is more subtle and, in its own way, deeply countercultural: the power, the almost tangible reality, of the words that come out of our mouths.
Words do not feel very real. They cannot be seen or touched; they are fleeting, easily misheard or misunderstood. And yet, the Torah treats them as if they are engraved in stone from the moment they are uttered. The world itself is created through speech— “בַּעֲשָׂרָה מַאֲמָרוֹת נִבְרָא הָעוֹלָם” (Pirkei Avot 5:1). Miracles are set in motion through words. An entire tractate, Masechet Shevuot, is devoted to the binding force of oaths and promises. And tzara’at, the focus of this week’s reading of Tazria-Metsora, is closely associated by Hazal with lashon ha-rah, as we see in the story of Miriam in Bamidbar. Even Moshe’s cardinal sin, the one which prevented him from entering the Land of Israel, occurred because he downplayed the power of speech and mistakenly relied on hitting a rock to bring forth water.
Mishlei teaches us that מָ֣וֶת וְ֭חַיִּים בְּיַד־לָשׁ֑וֹן, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.” We refrain from pronouncing G-d’s actual name, recognizing that speech itself creates reality. The Torah treats vows with such gravity that they require a formal release by a Beit Din. Indeed, we begin our holiest day of the year with the Kol Nidrei, a plea for our oaths to be nullified so that we do not violate them. In the Torah’s vision, words are anything but trivial; they carry real weight and consequence.
We recognize this from our own experience. Words can wound: through embarrassment, through falsehood, through carelessness. This is the essence of lashon ha-rah and one of the reasons that this transgression, among all of the others, carries its own unique and extensive punishment, according to Hazal.
But the Torah’s emphasis on speech is not only about restraint. Positive words, too, carry immense power. As educators, we hope that what we say matters, though we rarely know when or how.
Occasionally, we are given a glimpse. Some years ago, I reconnected with a former student, long after she had graduated. “I want to thank you,” she said to my surprise. “Something you told me at a moment of real religious vulnerability in high school helped keep me committed to a life of mitzvot!” I am certain that I did not realize the importance of what I said at the time, and it was tremendously gratifying, but also quite humbling, to hear later of the impact that my words had. Most educators I know have stories like this, some involving small expressions of care or concern that they don’t even remember. Indeed, “death and life are in the power of the tongue.”
All of us have such opportunities. A kind word at a moment of vulnerability, an empathetic presence at a shiva, a piece of advice we did not realize would matter—these can shape lives in ways we may never fully see, and certainly cannot anticipate at the time.
Each of our interactions holds a choice. We can use words that diminish, harm, or embarrass… or we can choose words that build worlds. We can create distance, or we can create connection. The Torah calls upon us to recognize that our words are not fleeting at all—they are among the most powerful tools we have to shape the world around us.