The Healing Role of the Kohanim: A Conversation on Priesthood, Peace, and Purpose with Eli Beda

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My friend Eli and I have shared many deep spiritual conversations over the years, but there’s one thread that keeps weaving its way through: the mystery and calling of the Kehunah, the priesthood. Eli is a Kohen, not just by lineage, but by heart—someone who embodies the inner dimension of this ancient role.

We began by reflecting on what the Kehunah really is. The word may conjure Hawaiian beaches for some, but the connection isn’t accidental. The “Great Kahuna” of Hawaiian culture shares something with the Kohen of Torah: the archetype of the healer, the channel, the one who stands between heaven and earth.

In the Torah, the Kohen is not a figure of power in the way the world understands it. He’s given no land, no inheritance, no political dominion. Instead, Hashem says to the Kohanim, “I am your portion.” The Kohen’s role is presence, service, and peace. Scattered across Israel, each Kohen was meant to be a quiet center in every town—a reminder of connection, purity, and trust.

As Eli shared, the Kohen was tasked not just with offering sacrifices or performing rituals, but with embodying trust—being a safe space. Someone people could go to when they were wounded, spiritually off-balance, ritually impure, or simply afraid. The Kohen had to listen without ego, hold space without judgment, and serve without expectation. His power wasn’t in ownership, but in being a vessel.

And this, Eli said, is why the Kohanim weren’t given land—because true healing can only happen when there’s no hidden agenda. If you’re going to share your deepest struggles with someone, you need to know they won’t use it against you. The Kohen can’t threaten, can’t coerce, can’t manipulate. He’s not there to gain anything from you. He’s there to serve.

But with this calling comes a real danger: ego. “When power becomes something we think we’ve earned,” Eli said, “it corrupts. When a Kohen forgets that he was simply born into this—didn’t do anything to earn it—it can become poisonous.” And that’s what happened in the Second Temple era, when ego and entitlement overtook humility and presence.

The true Kohen, however, does his work from the inside out. He must walk through his own pain to help others heal. He can’t just prescribe from a distance. He must feel it, hold it, be refined by it. That’s what makes him a real vessel of Shalom—peace.

And this brought us to a central theme of our conversation: what is Shalom, really?

Shalom isn’t perfection. It’s not the absence of conflict or the end of tension. Shalom is movement. It’s balance in motion. It’s knowing how to stretch between contradiction and find harmony in the dance.

Eli described it beautifully: “If I think peace means never getting upset or always being aligned, I’ve never really lived. Peace is not a destination. It’s a process of coming back into alignment again and again.” True peace, he said, is like a river—sometimes flowing calmly, sometimes rushing wildly, but always in movement.

In the Birkat Kohanim, the priestly blessing, there are 60 letters—a hint to the letter Samech, which in Kabbalah represents circular flow, the endless turning of energy. This is Shalom. It’s not static. It’s the constant weaving together of opposites: Chesed and Gevurah, fire and water, spirit and body.

As we spoke, the conversation turned toward tefillah, prayer. Eli reminded me that real prayer isn’t asking for something outside of ourselves. It’s aligning with the Source within. The Kohen’s avodah—his Temple service—has become our daily prayer, our inner altar. Prayer is where we confront the heretic within, the self-saboteur, the voice that says we’re not enough. It’s where we soften. Where we come home.

And just like the Kohen had to remain in a state of purity to serve, we, too, must keep returning to that place of inner clarity—through humility, honesty, and love.

Eli brought a powerful insight: "The first words of the day are Modeh Ani—I give thanks." That small act of gratitude is our entry into peace. And the first words of Torah we say? “Yevarechecha Hashem”—May G-d bless you. The Torah begins with peace, and the Avodah of the Kohen ends with it. But only after taking three steps back—physically and metaphorically.

“Peace begins,” Eli said, “when we step back. When we give space. To others, yes—but also to ourselves. We expect so much. We carry shame, guilt, impossible standards. But maybe the way forward is to stop fighting where we are. To realize that right here, right now, is where Hashem wants us to be.”

We spoke about the inner heretic we all carry—the voice of doubt, judgment, fear. True healing begins when we stop fighting those parts, and start integrating them. Not all ingredients taste good alone, Eli said, but together they make the dish. Shalom is that wholeness. Shlemut. The coming together of all our pieces.

Our conversation flowed toward a powerful close. Eli offered a blessing:

"Don’t just pray for Mashiach. Live like he’s already here. If I’m a Kohen, what would I be doing in the days of redemption? I’d be serving. Healing. Holding space. So let’s do that now. Let’s be in service today, with what we’ve been given. That’s how we bring the Geulah. That’s how we become vessels for light."

Thank you, Eli—for your heart, your wisdom, and your priestly presence. May we all rise into the inner Kehunah within us, and bring a little more Shalom into our world.

Listen on Spotify here: https://open.spotify.com/episode/1X1YDtm4oBIfDhonv7JKIx?si=817_KM5FTRKt78uolPnoRQ