Looking Outward, Learning Inward
Maybe it’s your neighbor’s leaf blower, your uncle’s stubborn streak, or that friend whose bragging gets under your skin. We’ve all been there. Something about another person irritates us more than it should. And in those moments, it feels so natural to zoom in on someone else’s flaws rather than look at what the moment is really stirring inside us.
We live in a world that rewards quick judgments. Online or in real life, it’s easy to size people up, criticize their behavior, or mutter something under our breath. It feels satisfying in the moment. But then comes the uncomfortable question: What if what bothers us most in others is trying to tell us something about ourselves?
That idea isn’t modern psychology alone. An ancient biblical section—one that many readers normally skip over—hints at the same truth.
In the book of Leviticus, we encounter long passages about identifying physical “impurities”: skin marks, blemishes, and conditions that required the careful eye of a priest. At first glance, the topic feels distant from everyday life. But Jewish tradition sees a deeper lesson. Just as the priests examined physical blemishes with patience and clarity, we are invited to examine our inner ones with honesty and compassion.
The Hasidic master known as the Baal Shem Tov taught that the world is like a mirror. When we notice a fault in someone else, he said, we are often seeing a reflection of something unresolved in ourselves. Modern psychology calls this projection. But long before that word existed, Jewish wisdom recognized the pattern.
Think about the moments when we feel most judgmental. When someone seems arrogant, are we touching our own insecurities? When we lose patience with another person’s stubbornness, are we missing the places where we dig in our own heels? When we roll our eyes at someone’s flaws, is part of the reaction really about the places where we feel inadequate or unseen?
Seen this way, the world becomes less a stage of irritating people and more a mirror held gently in front of us. Each frustration becomes a moment of insight. Each judgment becomes an invitation.
And this is where the ancient text quietly shifts from diagnosis to healing.
In Leviticus, after identifying a blemish, the next step was always purification—a process of returning to wholeness. Likewise, when we notice ourselves criticizing someone else, the question isn’t “How could they?” but “What is this revealing in me?” This doesn’t mean we excuse harmful behavior. It simply means we look inward with the same care we are quick to apply outward.
And we don’t have to answer immediately. Sometimes the very act of noticing is enough. Awareness opens a small space in the heart, and healing begins there.
Of course, this inner work doesn’t happen in the abstract. It’s woven through ordinary days and real relationships. It shows up in how we speak, how we listen, and how we respond when someone disappoints us. It shows up in the pride we take in honest work, the patience we extend to a neighbor, and the care we offer our land and our families. These everyday choices are not distractions from spiritual life—they are the central arena of it.
Over time, this practice softens us. When we recognize that our judgments of others often reflect our own struggles, we grow more understanding. Our compassion deepens. We become a little slower to snap, a little quicker to give others the benefit of the doubt. And we also become kinder to ourselves, because we realize how human and universal these imperfections are.
Imagine a community shaped by that awareness. A community where frustrations weren’t stifled but explored gently. Where imperfections weren’t weapons but teachers. Where people learned to look at each other—and themselves—with more curiosity and less condemnation.
The ancient laws of blemishes may speak the language of skin and surfaces, but their message reaches much further. They remind us that the path to wholeness begins within. What we judge in others often reveals the next place we are invited to grow.
If we want a kinder world, the work begins with a single honest moment in our own hearts.
And when we take that moment seriously, we don’t lose ourselves—we become whole.
Yonatan Hambourger is a rabbi and teacher. He welcomes questions and comments at y@TasteofTorah.org. More of his work can be found at www.TasteofTorah.org.