Not Every Tool—Even Good Ones—Belongs Everywhere
At the end of the Parsha, right after the drama of thunder, lightning, and the giving of the Ten Commandments, the Torah suddenly turns to the unrelated topic of the construction of the altar. The altar wasn’t just a structure, it was the spiritual heart of Jewish life, the place where people came to bring offerings, seek forgiveness, express gratitude, and reconnect with G-d. It represented closeness, repair, and peace, and that’s why the Torah is so careful about how it is built. If you make for Me an altar of stones, do not build it of hewn stone, for if you lift your sword upon it, you have desecrated it. (Ex. 20:22)
At first glance, this law feels technical. Why does it matter how the stones are shaped? Why does the Torah care whether iron tools were used? Rashi explains that the altar was created to lengthen human life, while iron, which is associated with weapons, shortens life. It would be morally incoherent for an instrument of destruction to shape a structure devoted to peace and atonement. The altar brings harmony between the Jewish people and G-d; therefore, a tool of violence does not belong there. Ramban echoes this idea by noting that iron is symbolically tied to the sword and bloodshed whereas the altar represents repair, reconciliation, and closeness.
But there’s an obvious question: Is iron really that bad? After all, iron is used for farming tools, construction, cooking, and surgical instruments used for healing. Why do we associate iron primarily with its use as a weapon of war? Two 19th century Jewish thinkers offer a powerful reframing.
Rav Simcha Zissel of Kelm, the Alter of Kelm, suggests that this mitzvah is not about punishing iron, it’s about teaching human beings. Iron has many positive uses, but history has demonstrated that when humans are angry, jealous or afraid, they are quick to turn strength into violence. The altar is meant to be a place of pause; a space that reminds us of our impulsive tendencies and challenges us to rise above them.
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch takes the idea further. He notes that iron is a material that usually requires brute force to wield. Whether for farming, building or warfare, iron tools engage raw physical strength. The altar, by contrast, represents humility, restraint, and moral sensitivity. Even constructive force has no place there.
What are the practical ramifications of these ideas for us? Are we supposed to get rid of knives and throw out cast-iron pots? Are we meant to remove iron from our lives? Absolutely not!
The Torah itself allows iron knives for ritual slaughter of animals in the Temple. In addition, the Sanhedrin, the Supreme Court, was located in an area called the Lishkat HaGazit— chamber of hewn stone, which was next to the altar. Iron exists in holy spaces; it simply does not belong on the altar.
So, ultimately, what is iron’s place in Jewish life? The Sanhedrin, Supreme Court, wielded enormous authority, including the power to impose severe punishments, which is a form of “iron.” It’s important to note that their chamber was deliberately placed next to the altar so that justice would always be tempered by compassion. Authority needed proximity to mercy.
The altar itself, however, remained a safe space. No iron. No force. No aggression; it is almost like a spiritual refuge. There were even certain instances in which someone fleeing danger could find temporary protection by clinging to it. Violence simply could not coexist with that space.
This idea echoes into Jewish daily life. The Shulchan Aruch records a custom to cover knives during Birkat HaMazon, the special blessings of gratitude we say after a meal. One reason given is that our table is compared to an altar; it feels inappropriate to recite blessings of gratitude while a blade lies exposed. This custom is fascinating because we obviously use knives during the meal but, afterwards, we designate a moment of heightened sensitivity. Just as iron is allowed in the Temple but never on the altar, knives are allowed on the table, but not during Birkat HaMazon, the blessing we recite after the meal.
This mitzvah contains the insightful message that life is full of conflict, pressure, and sometimes necessary force. We have to navigate difficult relationships, defend ourselves, make hard decisions, and live in a complicated world. Judaism does not deny that reality, but it asks us to create a Mizbeach, an altar. Create at least one space in your life that is iron-free—not literally, but emotionally and spiritually. A space where impulsivity, aggression, and noise do not dominate. For some, that might mean daily Torah learning without phones. For others, protecting time for meaningful conversation with a spouse or child or even creating a special ‘zone’ in our minds and hearts when praying.
One of the most noteworthy stories illustrating this came about through a brave and remarkable young lady, former hostage, Agam Berger. Under unimaginable circumstances, she managed to create such a sanctuary for herself by choosing to preserve something sacred even when everything else felt chaotic. She managed to keep Shabbos and kosher in captivity, and by doing so she created for herself a Mizbeach, a sanctuary, which was inviolable despite all of the chaos and darkness that surrounded her. This ‘altar’ allowed for a heightened sensitivity towards the goals that she wanted to accomplish. We should all seek out those sanctuaries and in doing so, we might find that the rest of our day feels less chaotic and more ordered.
The Torah doesn’t ask us to eliminate iron from our lives; it asks us to decide where it does not belong. If we can each carve out even one such sanctuary, we may find that although the rest of life might be complex, demanding, and imperfect, when we create an ‘altar,’ it will be calmer, clearer, and—most importantly—more meaningful.
Good Shabbos