“The Kohein shall look at the lesion…”

(Vayikra 13:3)

According to halachah, a Kohein may not determine the status of two lesions at one time. Only after deciding the status of one may he go on to the other. The Mishnah (Nega’im 3:1) tells us this is why the pasuk uses the singular term lesion instead of the plural lesions when discussing tzaraas.

Wouldn’t it make things easier if a Kohein could diagnose more than one lesion at a time? The Beis Yosef explains that a metzora is compared to a dead person (Nedarim 64b). When the Kohein pronounces him impure, it’s as if he killed him. And just as a beis din would not issue two death sentences at the same time, a Kohein may not diagnose more than one lesion at a time. (Rav Shalom Meir Wallach, Maayan Hashavua)

I was knee-deep in my storage closet trying to find a Haggadah for my second-grader, whose rebbi had given me all of 12 hours’ notice that he needed to bring one to school the next day. Didn’t the rebbi know what goes on in most households two weeks before Pesach? He’s probably thrilled to still be at work, while his wife’s knee-deep in their own storage closet!

I reached up to the next shelf, ignoring my protesting back, and hauled down a white shemurah matzah box triumphantly, expecting to find the family’s Haggados inside.

Instead, the box held decades-old material from when I taught at Bais Yaakov of Baltimore.

Let’s consider the halachah’s approach of looking at tzaraas individually and compare it to our modern educational approach.

Nowadays, our schools have classes of 40 students or more, and all the students are taught and tested the same way. Report cards are issued and transcripts recorded with an efficiency that masks the distinctiveness of each student.

Each student is a world unto himself. Each has his unique talents, family, personality, strengths, and weaknesses. How can you apply a mentality of mass production to education? We’re not talking here about apples and oranges! We’re talking about innocent Jewish souls.

Haggados forgotten, I sank onto an old beanbag, smiling as I leafed through the names of hundreds of students, dozens of classes.

I was lucky to teach in Bais Yaakov of Baltimore, a school that has over the years proven itself worthy of its reputation for dedication to each individual student. This school was one of the pioneers in providing for girls with handicaps and disabilities, and girls who just needed an extra bit of help.

I sat in countless meetings, drew up tens of individualized reports, and concocted several different versions of every test and quiz I gave. The school tried to focus on each girl, the talents and qualities that varied from student to student, and how best to optimize potential.

It was a lesson that young single me took very seriously, and one that I’ve incorporated as a mother. No two of my children are the same; each deserves my complete devotion.

I’m not advocating changing the whole world, nor griping about practical reality. But let’s remember that the concept of communal schooling’s never once discussed in the Torah. It’s a new invention. The Torah (Devarim 11:19) commands every person to educate his son and presumes the father will give the correct dose of attention to each one of his children, in accordance with his talents and potential.

Eventually, the chachamim initiated communal Talmudei Torah, but still, classes were small, allowing each student to get individual attention.

The Gemara (Bava Basra 21a) states that if a student doesn’t understand the material, the teacher is held responsible for not doing his job properly. If a school can’t manage to do this for valid reasons, then the onus falls back on the parents. The school provides the material, but we parents have to give the child individual attention and the emotional support that the school cannot.

Our children need this. They deserve it.

Recently I had the opportunity to test this dedication. My ten-year-old wanted to daven with his father in the mornings instead of in school. His teacher refused, insisting he couldn’t make exceptions in a class of 30 kids.

While I understood his claim, I also knew the importance of my son’s needs.

Over the phone I tried to convey this concern. “Look, if this were your son, wouldn’t you be proud that this child is prioritizing tefillah with a minyan?”

There was a pause. Then he said, “You’re right, I’d be proud of this. And I’m proud of your son. Permission granted.”

I’m proud of this rebbi.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 637)