Adapted from: Rabbi Frand on the Parashah 2 by Rabbi Yissocher Frand

וַיֹּאמֶר ה‘ אֶל מֹשֶׁה אֱמֹר אֶל הַכֹּהֲניִם בְּניֵ אַהֲרֹן וְאָמַרְתָּ אֲלהֵֶם לנְפֶֶשׁ לא יִטַּמָּא בְּעַמָּיו

Hashem said to Moshe: Say to the Kohanim, the sons of Aharon, and tell them: 

Each of you shall not contaminate himself to a [dead] person. (21:1)

Parashas Emor begins with a seemingly redundant phrase: “Say to the Kohanim… and tell them.” Rashi, quoting Chazal’s famous dictum of Lehazhir gedolim al haktanim (Yevamos 114a), explains that this repetition teaches the mitzvah of chinuch — that adult Kohanim must educate their children in the halachos specific to them.

Chazal extend the obligation to teach one’s children to all; every parent is obligated to teach their children the relevant mitzvos. But why does the Torah choose to teach this universal lesson through a mitzvah that applies only to Kohanim? Wouldn’t a more widely applicable mitzvah, like avoiding chometz on Pesach or fasting on Yom Kippur, be a more fitting choice?

Rav Yaakov Weinberg zt”l, Rosh Yeshivah of Ner Yisrael, explained that the charge placed on Kohanim is actually a most appropriate setting for the obligation of chinuch. So much of parenting is dependent on our ability to withstand that famous personality, “Mr. Everyone Else”. Our children want to take part in activities that we feel are not appropriate for a Jew. When we disallow that activity, we face a barrage of complaining and whining. “But everyone else is going. It’s not fair. You never let me go along with everyone else. What’s wrong with it?”

Who has to deal with these complaints more than anyone? The most restrictive parents in the times of the Beis HaMikdash were undoubtedly the Kohanim. Little Aharon’l comes home from school and runs straight to get his bat and ball. 

“Where are you going?” his father asks.

“To play baseball in the empty lot at the end of town. That’s where we are supposed to meet,” Aharon’l responds.

“Ahh. Aharon’l, as far as I know, the only way to get to that field is to cut through the cemetery. We are Kohanim; we are not allowed to walk through a cemetery.”

“It’s not fair!” Aharon’l shouts indignantly. “Last week I couldn’t play in the alley in back of our house because there were dead sheratzim (creeping creatures that are a source of impurity) there and you were afraid that I would contaminate the terumah in our house, and now I can’t go play baseball with all the others. You never let me do what everyone else is doing.”

All parents know the next steps. First come the tears, then the shouting, and finally the sulking. It feels painful sometimes, but our better judgment tells us not to let them go. What should we do? How are we to teach our children the proper path of Torah without alienating them? A very important, yet vexing question. 

I think that the answer lies in the parashah in which the Torah decides to teach us about chinuch. Why is little Aharon’l not allowed to become tamei? Is his father just being mean and more restrictive than other parents? Of course not – he is simply aware of Aharon’l’s special status as a Kohen, and he wants Aharon’l to know and appreciate his role in Klal Yisrael. 

If Aharon’l’s father is wise, he will sit down and tell him, “Aharon’l, do you know how special you are? You can serve in the Beis HaMikdash!” If Aharon’l’s father then spends some time discussing the privileged status and special role of Kohanim with him, by the time he finishes, Aharon’l will – hopefully – no longer be jealous of his friends.

The same applies to every one of us. If we simply say, “Sorry, but you cannot go,” we will find ourselves fighting tooth and nail with our children. But if we take the time to discuss our special role in the world to our children; to tell them that our holy eyes cannot see things that others see; our hearts filled with kedushah can be contaminated by food that others are allowed to eat; that our holy neshamos can be tarnished by listening to music that others listen to, and what a privilege it is to be such a holy nation, we may get a respite from our difficult enemy, Mr. Everyone Else.