You can find the rest of the parsha text on Chabad.org at Tzav.
וְהִקְרִיב עַל-זֶבַח הַתּוֹדָה חַלּוֹת מַצּוֹת
“He shall bring his Thanksgiving Offering with cakes of matzah.” (Vayikra 7:12)
The Kohen made the Thanksgiving Offering in the Temple for a person who had survived great danger. Psalm 107 lists the dangers: a journey across the desert, a journey across the sea, imprisonment, illness. Today when we survive great danger we “Bentch Gomel,” making a thanksgiving blessing.
The offering in the Temple: cakes of matzah. We read this on Shabbos HaGadol — the Great Shabbos, the Shabbos before Pesach. The miracle of our safe passage through life’s dangers is identical to the miracle of our safe passage out of Egypt.
As it says in the Hagadah: this isn’t coming from an angel or a messenger; it is straight from God. God brings us out because it is beyond what we can do for ourselves.
The gematria of חַלּוֹת מַצּוֹת “cakes of matzah,” is the same as the gematria of והנה עלה זית טרף בפיה “behold, a plucked olive leaf in her mouth.” This is the dove who Noah sent from the ark after the flood. When she came back with the olive leaf, it was a sign of safe passage for the world.
The story of Pesach is is about when the danger is to all of us. Then God brings us out together. On Shabbos HaGadol — the Torah tells us about thanksgiving for safe passage through personal danger. This is the warm up exercise. On Pesach we celebrate safe passage in each generation, where — in a way that is beyond anything we can rationally grasp — God is bringing us out together.
The location of the Altar is very exactly defined, and is never to be changed… It is a commonly-held tradition that the place where David and Solomon built the Altar on the threshing floor of Arona, is the very place where Abraham built an altar and bound Isaac upon it; this is where Noah built [an altar] when he came out from the ark; this is where Cain and Abel brought their offerings; this is where Adam the First Man offered a korban when he was created–and it is from [the earth of] this place that he was created. Thus the Sages have said: Man was formed from the place of his atonement.
The High Priest’s daily offering was a meal offering, the offering of a poor man. This, for two reasons: that a poor man bringing his pauper’s offering to the Sanctuary should not be ashamed; and to awaken humility in the High Priest’s heart, with the appreciation that before G-d he is the equal of the most impoverished of his brethren.
From Reb Mimi Feigelson
The Grand Dress – Rehearsal
The week before Pessach seems both short and endless in its’ demands, holding a sense of too many things to do and not enough time for all of them. It seems that the same could be said about this Shabbat. What to focus on? The Torah portion, Tzav, and the preparation of Aharon and his sons to serve in the Mishkan (tabernacle)? The special haftora that we read from the prophet Malachi, ending with Eliyaho (Elijah) bringing peace between children and their parents? Or maybe to pause for a moment and contemplate on the fact that this Shabbat is the Shabbat before Pessach, and what is special about this Shabbat, other than its’ name “Shabbat Hagadol” that makes it special?
There is a way in which this Shabbat can be experienced as a “dress rehearsal” for what awaits us seder night. And no, I’m not talking about trying out a new kneidlach recipe… I am talking about those who sit at the table!
My first year students at Ziegler have learned time and again to ask themselves, what is the significance of the first mishna that opens any given tractate of the 60 tractates of the Mishna? It is my belief that in the first mishna of every tractate the essence of the tractate is revealed. It is for this reason that I would like to look at the first mishna in the first chapter of the tractate of Shabbat.
The mishna actually seems to be a very technical one. It deals with the transmitting of a given object from the public to the private domain (or visa-versa). This is a prohibition that is no other than lighting a fire, plowing a field, weaving and sewing. Some commentaries explain that this appears first because of the ease in which it is possible to transgress this mitzvah and therefore it is highlighting from the outset to warn us of the danger. Possibly, to reorient our understanding of that a ‘me’lacha’ – a form of prohibited labor on Shabbat – really is. But is it Rabbeinu Ovadia of Bartenura (d. 1510 in Yerushalayim) that draws my heart and connects it specifically to this shabbat that we are entering into.
Rabbeinu Ovadia asks, “why is it when the mishna talks about the person standing on the inside (the private domain) it uses the language ‘ba’al habayit’ / homeowner, and when speaking of the person standing outside (the public domain) it uses the language ‘ani’ / poor person? Why doesn’t it simply say, ‘one who is standing outside and places a basket in the hand of the one standing inside’? He then teaches us that the mishna is by the way teaching us another principle – a mitzvah that is observed by means of a transgression is prohibited and the sinner is liable for their actions! ‘You may think’, Rabbeinu Ovadia says to us, ‘that giving the poor food (the basket handed between the poor person and the home owner has food in it for the poor person to eat on Shabbat) is a good enough reason to transgress the prohibition of transmitting objects from one domain to the next, but non-the-less the mishna, by virtue of using the phrases ‘pauper’ and ‘homeowner’, is telling us that this is not the case!
So why is it that I read this mishna, a teaching that seems to be so technical in it’s orientation, as the essence of Shabbat? It seems to me that the only way that this mishna has existence is if the poor person is standing outside and the homeowner is inside…
Maintaining the status quo of insiders and outsiders leads us, all to easily into the realm of transgression.
The one way to promise that the poor person is fed on Shabbat without the homeowner endangering themselves with the possibility of transgressing the prohibition of transferring objects between two different domains is if the homeowner invites the poor person into their home!!!
The essence of Shabbat, the opening Mishna of the tractate is teaching us, is that on Shabbat there is no such thing as ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’. On Shabbat there is one ‘Ba’al Habayit’ / Master of the Home – God is the one ‘homeowner’. This world is God’s home, His/Her dwelling place. It is possible to feel as a ‘outsider’ six days of the week, but when Shabbat arrives we are all invited into God’s divine abode. We all become ‘insiders’. If my fear of anthropomorphism didn’t prohibit me, I would dare say that if there is someone who feels that they are an ‘outsider’ on Shabbat then God has failed as a true ‘Ba’al Habayit’!
What does this have to do with Pessach? It is here that I hear two of my teachers (of blessed memory) complimenting each other with their teachings.
Rabbi Mickey Rosen would always teach this time of year that most important thing to hold on to seder night are three words in Aramaic: “a’tacha d’rachmana sam’chinan” – we sit at the table of the Merciful One! We may do the cleaning and the shopping and the cooking, but when we sit down to the seder, we are sitting at God’s table! God’s table – the true ‘Ba’al Habayit’!
Reb Shlomo Carlebch would teach: ‘You may think that you can sit down to your Shabbat table without guests, without poor people, but you really can’t! But then, maybe there is a Shabbat in which you do… But seder night, it is prohibited to sit down without a poor person sitting at your table! “Kol dichfin yete v’yechol” echoes the Aramaic of the hagaddah – ‘all those in need shall come and eat’!
Seder night we sit cushioned between: “a’tacha d’rachmana sam’chinan” – we sit at the table of the Merciful One, and “kol dichfin yete v’yechol” –‘all those in need shall come and eat.
The Talmud (Baba Batra 7b) tells us of a righteous man who puts a vestibule in the front of his house, one that closed out the call of the poor people calling for some food. It is told that when this happened Eliyahu Ha’navi, Elijah the prophet, stopped coming to visit him.
This Shabbat is called ‘Shabbat Ha’gadol’ – the great / grand Shabbat. The haftora ends with Eliyahu coming to bring peace between parents and children, to bring them home. I pray that our homes will be open to hear the cry of the poor (whether physical, emotional or spiritual poverty). I pray that this Shabbat the same Eliyahu that comes to every seder table will be able to visit us at our Shabbat table. That there is no vestibule that separates our private and public domain. I pray that this Shabbat we emulate the ultimate Ba’al Habayit, leaving no one on the outside, making this Shabbat Gadol / great / grand, for indeed it is a grand rehearsal for the night when we sit at the table of the Merciful One!
Shabbat shalom and chag sameach.
April 2, 2009
From Rabbi James Stone Goodman
Small Alef Poetry
Lift up the remains of yesterday
put them next to the holy altar
the fire shall not go out
we long for a pure act of worship. [Sefat Emet on Tzav]
The fire burning throughout
the camp moving
the altar traveling [Jerusalem Talmud, Yoma 4:6]
we long for a pure act of worship.
The offering burnt
nothing of the ‘Olah remains
nothing of it can be eaten or sold or turned into anything else
[we long for a pure act of worship] –
Except for the hides
we might make a nice jacket out of the hides
be ruthlessly precise
in the mystery ways,
the future –
C  D [1/2] E flat [1 1/2] F sharp [1/2] G
Every Shabbat a maqam, a musical figure, associated with it.
Hebrew cognate maqom, signifying “place.”
From Rav DovBer Pinson
”An eternal flame shall be lit on the altar,it will not be extinguished”(This weeks portion) Why the repetition?It would be more concise to say-A flame shall be lit on the altar, it should not be extinguished.A flame that is eternal and constant will never be extinguished.The key to success is perseverance & consistenc…y.The flame within each and every one of us needs to be constantly nourished to stay well lit.
From Rabbi Avraham Arieh Trugman
Weekly Torah Portion
In the opening verses of the Torah portion of Tzav we are taught the laws about the elevation offering brought by the cohanim, the priests, each morning on the alter in the Tabernacle, and later in the holy Temple in Jerusalem. Within but six verses the word fire appears four times along with two warnings not to let the fire on the alter be extinguished. According to the teachings of Kabbalah and Chassidut the service as performed in the Temple is a paradigm for each person in their quest to come close to God and in finding one’s purpose and rectification in this world. Therefore it behooves us to look deeper into the symbol of the fire on the alter to glean helpful teachings for life.
In general the continual fire on the alter represents the unceasing service of God and the need to be aware of his Presence and existence at all times. Whether at work or at play, during the weekdays or Shabbat and holidays, or when feeling up or feeling low, the service of God as defined by the Torah never ceases. Every situation in life affords us the opportunity to experience God, perform mitzvot and bring light, healing and rectification to ourselves and the world.
On a deeper level fire represents the longing of the soul to flame upwards in a passionate desire to be one with God. Therefore, fire is a symbol of the enthusiastic and exuberant love of life and service of God. When Reb Shlomo Carlebach would be teaching, leading prayer services or performing at a concert and he felt the people were lacking in enthusiasm he would stop and plead with everyone by yelling out: “More fire!! More fire!!” It usually did the trick by upping the voltage and breaking the spell of complacency.
Another concept very connected to the idea of fire is simcha, joy, which actually begins with the letter shin, the letter which most symbolizes fire, as seen in the word for fire itself being aish (the letters alef and shin.) In the book of Deuteronomy it is stated that future exiles would occur because “you did not serve Your God with joy.” The Arizal, the famous Kabbalist of Safed explained this to be quite literal on a national as well as individual basis. It was exactly this point that the Baal Shem Tov emphasized so strongly when teaching the importance of inspired praying, learning, performance of mitzvoth and living life in general.
A man once came to his Rebbe and told him how sad and depressed he was due to a whole list of things going wrong in his life. The Rebbe, who knew him well, explained to him it was actually just the opposite – because he was always so sad and depressed that is why everything was going wrong!
Not only is the idea of joy connected to channeling the fire of the soul to “serve God with gladness” but the concept of holiness is associated as well. The word for holy, kadosh, is a combination of two words: yikod aish, which means “ignited fire.”
On Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, the high Priest would enter the holy of Holies with a pan of burning coals on which he would burn incense. The Holy of Holies on a personal level represents the most inner point of holiness of the soul. In this most inward place the soul is on fire with love of God.
When God first appears to Moses he does so in a burning bush that is not consumed by the flames. This is a powerful image relating, in our case, to the secret of how to burn with the fire of serving God and fulfilling ones purpose in life without “burning out” as so many people do. Learning how to renew ones enthusiasm for life on a daily basis is one of the key teachings of Chassidut. This is so important because it takes great effort to attain this level. Without this renewal most people slide into a comfort zone of complacency at best and stagnation at worst.
When Shneur Zalman, the founder of the Chabad movement, first came to his teacher, the Maggid of Mezrich, he was new to the Chassidic way of life and its teachings. The Maggid, who saw in his young student enormous potential, once called him into his private study and repeated intently the following verse from our portion ten times: “A permanent fire shall remain aflame on the alter; it shall not be extinguished.” He explained that the words “lo yichbeh,” “it shall not be extinguished” could also be read “the no [symbol of all negativity] shall be extinguished.” He further explained that learning Chassidut and its deep teachings fan the natural tendency of the soul to be ignited with the love of God. This in turn extinguishes all the negative influences trying to cool off our passion for holiness and the burning desire to be close with God.
As each person attempts to build an inner alter where the fire of holiness and joy burn continually we should remember the teachings of this portion and be inspired to fan the inner most spark of the soul until it becomes a flaming bush that burns but is not consumed
From Rabbi Rachel Barenblat
Radical Torah repost: Priestly ordination: doing, hearing, walking 2006
Smicha: the word means “lean, lay, rest, support.” It’s a laying-on of hands. We use it today for the ordination of rabbis, but in this week’s Torah portion we see the word’s older usage — the anointing of Aaron and his sons, the first Israelite priests.
It’s an intense ceremony. It requires Moses, and Aaron, and Aaron’s sons; vestments and anointing oil; a bull of sin offering, two rams, and a basket of unleavened bread; and the witnessing power of the entire community, gathered at the Tent of Meeting. Three animals will be leant-upon, then slaughtered, then consumed by mouth and by fire. Of these sacrifices, perhaps the strangest and most intense is the ram of ordination — leant-upon, slaughtered, and its blood used as paint upon Aaron and his sons’ right ears, thumbs, and big toes before the fat parts of the ram (and the breads from the basket) are held up as an elevation-offering and burnt.
Earlier in the portion we read that we are absolutely, positively not to eat blood; it belongs to Adonai, and anyone who eats it is to be cut off from his kin. Blood is a symbol of life-force in a visible and visceral way. As we will learn, contact with blood makes us tamei, charged with the power of spiritual impurity. And here, blood is used to mark Aaron and his sons as priests for all time.
I imagine it was still warm when Moses painted it on. According to God’s instructions he anointed each man with blood in three places: the ridge of his right ear, his right thumb, and his right big toe. Why these three places? What can we learn from this esoteric ritual that speaks to our lives?
The ear was marked because it is a place where the outside world enters human consciousness. Once they were “earmarked” in this way, each new priest would hear things differently; perhaps only holy sounds now would enter, or the sounds that entered would become consecrated in a new way.
The thumb was marked in order to remind these men that matters of life and death resided in the work of their hands. They would be responsible now for the deaths of countless animals — and, through their expiating actions, the lives of the entire community. Their hands would do God’s work in the world, as they understood that work to be done, and needed to be consecrated with the substance which was God’s alone.
And the toe? The toe seems insignificant, until something happens to it. A friend told me recently that he broke a toe — one single toe! — and found himself limping, in tremendous pain, for weeks. Our toes provide us with balance. Perhaps the anointing of the priests’ toes served to remind them that only through the life God lends can we walk the path appointed to us. It warned them to mind their steps, and to be mindful that they walk the earth with constant and unflagging support from the One Who graciously lends us life.
When Moses slaughtered the ram and painted its life upon Aaron and his sons, it conferred holiness upon them. But they leaned on it first, and in so doing they conferred something upon it: the emotional significance necessary for its death to change them.
Today in lieu of sacrifice we offer God the service of our hearts, our prayers and devotions, and the sanctified gratitude we feel at every meal. In this way we are all like priests, drawing near to the Infinite with our own appropriate offerings. What can we do to ensure that we, too — like Aaron and his sons — feel physically charged with our metaphysical task? How can we anoint what we hear, what we touch, and how we walk in the world so that our lives are imbued with the life-force we borrow from God?
~~ Rabbi Shefa Gold’s Torah Journeys
LEVITICUS 6:1 – 8:36
Tzav consists of instructions concerning the sacrifices and how to install the priests in their service.
WE ARE COMMANDED TO BE A NATION OF PRIESTS, to take responsibility for the holiness of our world, to be healers, and when necessary to stand between Life and Death, bridging the finite and the infinite. Tzav addresses the priest in us and so its blessing is in calling that priest forward.
TZAV BEGINS with the instructions for keeping a perpetual fire burning on the altar. Without the constancy of this fire, all of our sacrifices, our prayer, our holy work would cease. This fire on the altar of our hearts is the pre-requisite for all spiritual practice. Tzav directs us in the tending of that innermost fire. If the fire should go out, our priesthood will be worthless.
TZAV ENDS with the ceremony that consecrates our priesthood and sends us to our holy work. During this ceremony we are blessed with the blood of the ram of consecration on the ear, the hand, and the foot:
ON THE EAR that we might hear and respond to the cry of the oppressed and to the still small voice within our own hearts.
ON THE HAND that we might dedicate ourselves to doing justice and making beauty.
ON THE FOOT that we might walk carefully and deliberately on the path of pilgrimage.
THE SPIRITUAL CHALLENGE
TZAV ASKS US TO ENTER WITHIN and inspect the condition of the innermost fire upon the altar of the heart. We are challenged to look at our lives and ask the serious and probing questions about what supports that fire as well as what puts it out.
The fire itself speaks to me and says, “You must provide the spark. Be with the people who spark your creativity and enthusiasm. Keep reading and learning. Seek out places of beauty. Let yourself be challenged by difficult and interesting projects. Make music and colorful art. Travel to exotic places. Find reasons to celebrate.”
Seeing that I am listening, the fire grows bolder saying, “And I need space to burn. Spacious air. The breath of life. Spirit. Wind. Open spaces. If you schedule every minute of your day; if you fill the silence with words; if you clutter up your life with so much stuff … how can you expect me to have enough space to burn?”
The fire begins to open to me and so I speak to her directly. “What will you use as fuel? What keeps you burning?”
The fire flickers brightly at my question and whispers, “The love that you give and the love that you receive… that is my fuel. For love is as fierce as death… no river can sweep it away.”1
“AND ONE MORE THING,” says the fire, flashing righteously, “you must remove the dead ashes every day. I cannot burn clean and pure if the refuse of the past is allowed to accumulate within you. Each morning you must remove that which is old and done.”
1 Song of Songs 8:6-7
For Guideline for Practice please click link to website.
Rabbi Avraham Greenbaum
Our portion continues to fill in the details of the various procedures for Temple offerings in each of the four main categories of sacrifices: the whole-burnt (olah), meal (minchah), sin (chatat), guilt (asham) and peace (shelamim) offerings. One particular kind of peace offering is the Thanksgiving Offering:
“And this is the law of the sacrifice of peace-offerings which one may offer to HaShem. If he offers it for a thanksgiving…” (Leviticus 7:11).
It is striking that the Torah introduces the portion about the thanksgiving offering with the word IF. This implies that making an offering as an expression of gratitude to God is not an absolute obligation that the Torah imposes upon us. Rather it is a voluntary act that we carry out because we have become aware of His goodness and kindness to us through His many miracles, and we seek some way to acknowledge Him.
In Temple times Israelites would bring the thanksgiving offering specified in our portion (Lev. 7:11-15) for one of four kinds of miraculous deliverance enumerated in the lengthy psalm of thanksgiving in Psalms 107: deliverance from being lost in the wilderness (Ps. 107, vv. 4-9), held in captivity (vv. 10-16), sick with a dangerous illness (vv. 17-22) and threatened with shipwreck (vv. 23-32).
“Give thanks to HaShem for He is good, for His mercy endures for ever. So let the redeemed of HaShem say… Let them give thanks to HaShem for His mercy, and for His wonderful works to the children of men! Let them exalt Him also in the assembly of the people, and praise Him in the seat of the elders” (Psalms 107, vv. 31-32).
It is deeply humbling to experience an amazing rescue from a critical life-threatening situation, knowing that one’s life was hanging by a thread and was snatched from the claws of death only by a fluke event. The proper response is to reflect on how this fluke can only be a sign of how God is invisibly watching over us constantly, protecting us with loving care. What could we possibly “give” to God in return for such kindness if not our thanks? In the case of very striking miracles, the beneficiaries should give their thanks publicly “in the assembly of the people and… in the seat of the elders” – for telling the story of the miracle to many others provides a graphic illustration of the wonders of God’s ways, strengthening their faith.
Great miracles may not be visible every day. We live in a world governed by the regularities of nature: gravity pulls everything down to earth; the sun rises, passes over and sets; earth’s tilted orbit causes hot weather in summer and cold in winter; the rains fall, the plants grow, the animals and humans eat and get fat, the factories produce, electricity makes all the gadgets work… we are born, live our lives and die…
The deeper we reflect, the more we may see how the multitude of natural laws and processes that govern the world are in themselves totally amazing, and the complex, subtle ways in which they interact to create all the manifold details of the creation in general and in the personal life of each and every one of us is itself an expression of God’s kindness and mercy to all.
Thinking about the many kindnesses God has shown one personally and giving thanks to Him for them is the first step towards deeper knowledge and understanding of His ways – for while God intrinsically is unknowable, His dealings with each and every one are signs and indications of His unceasing watchful presence.
Before asking God for what one needs, one should first start counting and reflecting upon some of His many goodnesses to us so far, such as the miracles of our bodily functioning, health, vision, hearing, taste, smell, touch, the fact that we have survived all the years and all the vicissitudes, eaten and enjoyed many benefits and blessings… In the words of Rabbi Nachman: “When a person wants to pray to God and ask for what he needs, he should first thank God for all of His past kindnesses and only then ask for what he needs. Because if he starts by asking only for what he needs, God says, ‘Have you nothing to thank Me for then?'” (Siach Sarfey Kodesh 1-2).
We may be disappointed with certain aspects of our lives or think ourselves to be in desperate need of certain things we feel we lack. Yet if we are willing to examine negative aspects of our lives in the wider context of other positive aspects, we may come to understand that even the negative stems from God’s watchful care. Again in the words of Rabbi Nachman: “When a person knows that everything that happens to him is for his own good, this is a foretaste of the world to come. To be serene and patient regardless of what you encounter in life is the highest level of knowledge and understanding of God. Have faith that everything is for your ultimate good” (Likutey Moharan I, 4).
Giving thanks to God for His visible kindnesses to us leads us to deeper humility before Him, enabling us to acknowledge the negative within ourselves, to seek to rectify it, and to accept in faith the wisdom of His inscrutable dealings with us through all that He has sent us in our lives. “For His mercy endures for ever!”
“I will not reprove you for your sacrifices; and your burnt-offerings are continually before Me. I will take no bullock out of your house, nor he-goats out of your pens. For every beast of the forest is Mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills. I know all the birds of the mountains, and the wild beasts of the field are Mine. If I were hungry, I would not tell you; for the world is Mine and its fullness. Do I eat the meat of bulls, or drink the blood of goats? Offer to God the sacrifice of thanksgiving and pay your vows to the Most High. And call upon Me on the day of trouble; I will deliver you, and you shall honor Me…. Whoever offers the sacrifice of thanksgiving honors Me; and to the person that orders his way right I will show the salvation of G-d” (Psalms 50: 8-15; 23).
It is offering that ascends upon the pyre of the Altar (6:2)
Why is the word mokdah (“pyre”) written in the Torah with a miniature hei? To teach us that the fire in one’s soul should be understated; it should burn within, but show nothing on the outside.
From Rav DovBer Pinson
Week’s Energy for Parshas Tzav
Rav DovBer Pinson
Consistency and Perseverence
The Torah reading this week, which continues on the theme of offerings, begins with the word Tzav/command. Hashem is instructing the people of Israel. Rather than the more oft used word, Daber/speak, or Emor/say, the word Tzav/command is used here.
When a person is told something, they often forget who it was that told them that thing. However when a person is acting on another’s explicit command, or instruction, the action that they are doing is continuously rooted in an awareness of the ‘commander’.
When the temple stood, and offerings were brought, it was a common practice to bring an offering for a special occasion, such as an offering of gratitude (korban todah) or an offering of atonement (korban chatos.) However, there were also routine offerings that were brought on a daily basis and all of these offerings were placed on the very same altar, using the same fire, the ‘esh tamid’.
In this week’s reading, it speaks of this fire, and the verse says; “Eish tamid tukad al hamizbeach, lo tichbeh” / “An eternal flame shall burn upon the altar, it shall not be extinguished.” (6:6)
The verse seems to repeat itself – An eternal flame . . .Shall not be extinguished. Either one of these phrases would make it clear that the fire should remain lit constantly.
The message we are receiving here is the message of ‘tzav’ the command that keeps us in constant awareness of our ‘commander’. This is the teaching of consistency.
A flame that is eternal – that is constantly being fed, is one that will never be extinguished.
To bring an offering in a time of inspiration, when one is overwhelmed with remorse, or with gratitude, requires little effort. To bring a routine offering, day in and day out, with that same modicum of excitement and inspiration is where the hard work comes in. Yet all offerings, both unusual and routine, were brought on the same ‘eternal, constant’ flame.
The Week’s Energy
Consistency and PerseveranceThis week imbues us with the energy of constancy, consistency and perseverance.
The key to lasting success is perseverance – keeping at it, continuously, through the easy times and the hard.
The flame that is within each and every one of us, needs to be continuously nourished to stay well lit. When we begin something, it is easy to find the passion and excitement to get started. A week later, a month later, years later , that is when we need the perseverance to keep the momentum.
All of us have something, or many things, in our lives which need constant attention, passion and perseverance to continue to grow – this week we receive the jolt of perseverance energy to keep the flames alive and to continue to persevere towards success and fulfillment.
From Rabbi Rachel Barenblat
RED (TZAV) 2009
Moshe’s bloodied finger
paints slow lines
along Aaron’s ear
his thumb, his foot
the shock of red
vivid and seeping
like what wells
behind your eye’s cradle
diagnoses press in
what would I sacrifice
to heal you
what wouldn’t I
From Melissa Carpenter
Tzav: Seven Days of Filling Up
What does it take to change Aaron, Moses’ older but not wiser brother, into the high priest of all the Israelites? What does it take to elevate Aaron’s four sons into assistant priests?
In this week’s Torah portion, Tzav (“Command”), Moses assembles the whole community, and in front of everyone he washes the five men, dresses them in all the ritual garments described in the book of Exodus/Shemot, then sprinkles anointing oil on them (as well as on everything in the sanctuary). Next Moses daubs the blood of sacrificed animals on the right ear, right thumb, and right big toe of each of them. After burning the offerings, Moses takes some anointment oil and blood (probably mixed with ashes) from the altar and sprinkles the mixture over them. Finally Moses leaves his brother and nephews with a good supply of food, and strict instructions:
You must not leave the entrance of the Tent of Meeting for seven days, until the day fulfilling the days of your filling; because it will fill up your power seven days. (Leviticus/Vayikra 8:33)
yedchem = your hand; your power
yemallei et yedchem = it/he will fill up your hand, fill up your power; it will invest you, inaugurate you, ordain you, install you.
And you must dwell at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting day and night for seven seven days; and you must guard what must be guarded of God, so you will not die; for so I was commanded. (Leviticus/Vayikra 8:35)
ushmartem et mishmeret = you must guard what must be guarded, you must keep safe what is for safekeeping. (A more common translation is “and you shall keep God’s charge”, but this overlooks the double use of words based on the root shamor = guard, protect.)
After all that oily, bloody, smoky ritual, why do Aaron and his sons have to sit by themselves at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting for seven days before their final confirmation?
Most commentary says they spend the time either learning all the rituals for the sanctuary, or meditating on the holiness of their new jobs, or mourning—because they have a premonition that at least one of them will die on the eighth day.
I suppose if Moses wrote down all the ritual laws he received from God, Aaron and his sons could spend seven days reading and quizzing each other until they’d memorized every detail. It’s one valid way to interpret the clause “and you must guard what must be guarded of God”. Sometimes getting all the technical details right is the most important thing.
But the Torah also quotes Moses as telling Aaron and his sons that they must not leave the entrance of the Tent of Meeting because “it will fill up your power seven days”. Maybe it takes seven days of dwelling in the entrance to God’s dwelling-place to fill up with sufficient holy awe so they have the power to conduct holy business.
What strikes me is that Aaron and his sons were neither born nor trained to be priests. They got their new positions without any previous job experience.
Up to this point, Aaron has not been the sort of man who wears a gold medallion on his forehead saying “Holy to God”. It’s clear in Exodus that God only contacts Aaron because Moses makes so many objections to the job God gives him at the burning bush. To his credit, Aaron greets his long-lost brother without jealousy, and willingly serves as Moses’ sidekick. When the Israelites are attacked by Amalek on the way to Mount Sinai, Aaron literally supports Moses’ arm and helps him save the day. But when Moses climbs Mount Sinai and does not return for 40 days, and the people freak out and ask for idols, Aaron makes the golden calf. Commentary from the first millennium says Aaron apologized and atoned for the calf, but that’s not in the Torah.
Now Aaron is promoted from Moses’ unreliable assistant to High Priest. Aaron will officiate over the ritual offerings in the sanctuary. Aaron will light the menorah. Aaron will be in charge of God’s dwelling place.
Aaron’s four sons are also getting major promotions. They have not done anything of distinction yet, though the two oldest, Nadav and Avihu, did get to climb halfway up Mount Sinai with the 70 elders and see a vision of God’s feet on a sapphire pavement. As members of the tribe of Levi, and as Moses’ nephews, all four would be treated with the respect accorded to elders. But now they are being ordained as priests. Besides Aaron and Mose, only the four of them will be allowed to enter the inner sanctum. Only they will be allowed to handle the holiest objects in the sanctuary. Only they will turn the offerings of their people into smoke that ascends to God.
For seven days they sit inside the sanctuary, in the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, gazing either out at the bronze altar and wash-basin in the courtyard, or in at the golden menorah, incense altar, and bread table, and the curtain screening off the ark itself. For seven days they sit there, without distractions, realizing they will spend the rest of their lives dedicated to holy service.
Are they also mourning? I doubt they had a premonition that one or more of them would die. (Aaron’s two oldest sons do die on the eighth day, in next week’s Torah portion, but it comes as a shock to everyone.) Early commentary compares these seven days to the seven-day mourning period of shiva, but shiva is a later Jewish custom.
Nevertheless, I can imagine Aaron and his sons as not only awed and excited by their new roles, but also mourning for the old lives they are leaving behind. Before the seven days, they were respected elders among the Israelites; relatives of the great Moses, but still ordinary people. Moses was obviously different, but his brother and nephews were not set aside as holy. After the seven days, they will be set aside as holy. They will be the servants of God’s dwelling-place, who must act as God’s representatives every waking minute.
In a way, all five of them have just lost their lives. They need seven days of mourning before they take up new lives as priests.
I wish that everyone who faces a sudden big change in life were granted seven days to just sit at the entrance of the new life and dwell there, experiencing the grief, fear, awe, and whatever else comes along, letting the transformation sink in.
We don’t have a Moses to set aside seven days for us. But whenever we can, let’s do it ourselves. And whenever our lives change, may God fill up our power to meet the new challenge.
Torah Reading for Week of March 13-19, 2011
“The Fire of Grief”
By Rabbi Anne Brener, LCSW, AJRCA Professor of Ritual and Human Development
“This is the Torah of the burnt-offering…a fire must always burn on the altar; it may not go out.” (Lev 6:1:6). While Parshat Tzav speaks of the altar that was built in the Tabernacle, its words are also true for the altar in our heart. Spiritual practice enables us to keep alive that eternal light that burns in our souls, whose flame, Proverbs tells us, is the lamp of G-d.
But sometimes the light goes out.
When individuals grieve, they often discover that they have not only lost someone central to their lives. They have often lost their connection with G-d. They may find that the understanding of G-d that may have served them before they were initiated in the fires of loss, no longer seems like a safe refuge. “How could G-d have taken my child from me?” they ask. “What kind of G-d would have caused my father to suffer like that?” “Why didn’t G-d answer my prayers?” Such questions unloose a person’s spiritual moorings. Grieving becomes all the more complicated, giving rise to a free-floating anger that may erupt without warning.
Mourners may feel ashamed by these feelings and repress them, causing them to carry molten lava in their broken hearts; a blazing force yearning for release and vulnerable to the slightest triggers. They may appear irrational and even dangerous to others, often the very others who most want to comfort them. It may cause those would-be comforters to keep their distance rather than being singed by the flaming anger of grief.
I believe that this rage is not what it appears to be. I believe that this burning heartache is holy. It is life-energy trying to re-assert itself after the passion for living has been tamped down by sorrow. What other emotion but anger can pierce the energetic iceberg of early grief’s heaviness that so often feels like clinical depression?
The Sfat Emet, as relayed to us through Rabbi Arthur Green, reminds us that “the two most basic properties of fire, [are] to warm and to burn.” He challenges us to attach those properties to the two wings of prayer, namely love and awe. How can the mourner harness his or her anger and bind it to prayer in an effort to reclaim passion for warmth and healing, while protecting his/her self and others from the dangers of fire? Anger must be re-framed as a holy force, a necessary part of bereavement, as Elizabeth Kubler-Ross has taught in her “Five Stages of Grief.” Speaking anger then becomes a form of prayer. Anger becomes an alchemical force, providing the fire of transformation, helping the mourner to define him/herself and set boundaries in order to separate from the past and begin to embrace a new reality.
Anger also helps to transform the relationship to G-d. With rage, the mourner confronts the pediatric understanding of G-d as a kind of spiritual vending machine- A Great Father, who rewards good and punishes bad. Then, as the flames become less fierce, the mourner realizes that that wasn’t G-d at all. G-d is in the nourishing warmth of a controlled flame. G-d is in the life energy that moves him/her to again embrace life and return to the cultivation of the personal gardens both real and metaphorical. Let us have patience with anger, our own and that of others, so that it can be harnessed as a tool of spiritual growth.
From Amerian Jewish World Service
Rachel Travis 5771
I have very distinct memories of standing in shul under my father’s tallit as a child, trying to peek through the weave of his woolen prayer shawl as the kohanim blessed the congregation. Later, these avuncular men schmoozed and ate herring with the rest of us, but in my mind, they retained an aura of holiness even in the social hall.
For millennia, the kohanim served as the spiritual pillars of the Jewish community, and large sections of Vayikra are dedicated to describing the kohanim’s service in the Tabernacle. Parshat Tzav, in particular, chronicles in precise detail the laws of various sacrifices, delineating step by step how the kohanim should conduct the holy service. The Ramban, a preeminent medieval rabbi and philosopher, teaches that the sacrifices and Temple service had a profound effect on the heavenly strata.1 They were crucial to the religious wellbeing of the Jewish people.
And yet, I cannot help but notice that the role of the priests as described in the parshah seems decidedly unglamorous. If anything, the job of the kohanim reads as repetitive, physical labor. Tasked with ensuring that the fire on the altar never goes out, the kohen kindles wood upon the altar every morning before offering the daily burnt sacrifice. Each day, dressed in his priestly garments, he shovels the smoldering ashes from the altar (the remains of the previous day’s offering, which has burned through the night), changes his clothing and takes the ashes outside of the camp.2 The kohen repeats the same assignments every day: lighting fires, slaughtering animals, preparing meal offerings, shoveling ashes, etc., etc. Each time I read this, I wonder how to reconcile the seeming discordance of these repetitive, mundane jobs with the incredible spiritual weight they carry.
This week, I discovered an insight into the kohanim’s service in an essay by the food journalist Michael Pollan. In “Why Bother,” Pollan frankly addresses issues of climate change. He wonders, when the magnitude of environmental problems seems to vastly outweigh the individual’s ability to effect change, should we even bother to try? If we’re really in the midst of a climate crisis, does it actually make a difference if you or I do something as banal as composting our detritus or switching out our light bulbs for more energy-efficient ones? Pollan answers quite eloquently that “the Big Problem is nothing more or less than the sum total of countless little everyday choices, most of them made by us.”3 By the same reasoning, the solution is the sum total of an opposite, more constructive, set of daily choices and actions. True change doesn’t result from dramatic, high-profile actions—one-time international summits or celebrity endorsements&mdashbut from the accumulation of many individuals’ quotidian acts.
The same lesson holds true for the kohanim’s service. In the abstract, their mission—to give the people an avenue through which to offer thanks to God, to express penitence for wrongdoing, and to communicate piety—seems almost unattainable. It is only though the accumulation of specific, focused, repetitive tasks that the kohanim can actually make a difference in the peoples’ spiritual lives. And though the implementation may appear downright gritty, the kohanim infuse even the most mundane elements of the service with intentionality and holiness.
Sometimes, global issues—gender inequality, water shortages, climate change and natural disasters, to name but a few—seem so overwhelming that we feel discouraged from taking any action at all. We wonder if we, as individuals, really have the ability to help solve such complicated problems. But the kohanim remind us that it is precisely through the accumulation of small, repetitive—and often the least glamorous—actions that we can have a true impact. Our charge, like that of the kohen, is to infuse these acts with meaning by making them a part of our daily routine and by viewing them as a piece of a larger goal. In that light, shoveling ash is a means of sustaining God’s spiritual abode, and maintaining a compost pile in our own backyards isn’t just dirty work; it’s a conscious effort to help build a better world.
Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, observes in his commentary on Vayikra that although the kohanim change their garments in between tasks, the same kohanim who carry shovelfuls of ash also serve in God’s presence. The Rebbe concludes that we, like the kohanim, should take pleasure in even the simple, physical chores, because they are part of the same pursuit of the greater good as more lofty work.4
This is not always an easy thing to accomplish; the most crucial tasks can also be the most boring or least prestigious. But if we make these acts part of what we do each day, they will become an integral part of our identities. We can recycle our waste, turn off the lights when we leave a room, read the news, call our elected officials, or give a few bucks to an important cause. Whatever it is we decide to do in service of building a better world, let’s do it again tomorrow, and next week, and next month—until it is truly part of who we are. In the words of Mahatma Gandhi, that’s how we will “be the change [we] want to see in the world.”
1 As cited in Rabbi Yehudah Nachshoni. Studies in the Weekly Parashah. New York: Artscroll, 1989.
2 Vayikra 6: 1-6.
3 Pollan, Michael. “Why Bother?” The New York Times Magazine, 20 April 2008.
4 Sefer Vayikra with Commentary from Classic Rabbinic Texts and the Lubavitcher Rebbe. Ed. Chaim Miller. New York: Kol Menachem, 2004. p. 36.
From Rabbi Avram Davis
From Chaya Lester
Thursday Mar 29, 2012
Tzav: Making the Most of a Negative Thought
This week’s reading delves into finely detailed descriptions of the Tabernacle’s sacrifices. How do we understand and integrate these images of the ritualized blood and fire into our lives today? Where does this text meet our most intimate and personal lives?
One stunning example of a personalization of the priestly offerings is found in the 19th century commentary from the Sefat Emet on this week’s parsha. It takes as its starting point the theme of tending to the fire on the Tabernacle’s altar. The Torah reads, “A fire must always burn, it must not go out.” (Lev. 6:6). The Sefat Emet personalizes this continual fire as representative of the eternal flame of love for God that burns within each of our souls.
In an elegant Hassidic twist, he sees the injunction of “you must not let it (the fire) go out,” as not just a prohibition, but rather as a promise – a promise that this flame of love within each of us will not, can not, be extinguished. Our love of God is an essential birth-right, as constant as gravity, a flame that can never be quenched.
The Sefat Emet adds that each stray, distracting or negative thought that arises in our minds is an olah, a burnt-offering, that is meant to be consumed in this flame of love. As the Zohar says, “an evil thought is a burnt-offering upon its altar.”
In the Sefat Emet’s vision, we are each the consecreated priests whose sacred duty it is to have stray, debased and distracting thoughts! We are programmed to have negative thoughts so that we may take and bind them on an altar of God-consciousness and love. Our work as servants of the Most High is not that we should have only pure, God-focused thoughts, but that we are destined to have negative spirals of thinking. Our task is to actively engage those stray thoughts and bind them upon an inner-altar. The thoughts are consumed in the conflagrations of our connection to God. These lowest of thoughts become the most precious of offerings, morphed and redeemed in the flames of consciousness. This is our highest vocation and divine service.
In a beautiful moment of serendipity, one of my clients this week sat before me in anguish, lamenting over a negative and recurring thought that has been plaguing her. She is daily beset by an image of a photograph she had seen of her ex-boyfriend and his new girl-friend. She described how this vivid image literally rises up in her mind, overwhelming her with its persistance. Her description was a mirror-image of the teaching from the Sefat Emet where he links the ‘olah’, the ‘rising’ offering, to the rising up of negative thoughts. How fortuitious that we had on hand this teaching. The Sefat Emet offers us a model for a practical Torah-based tool for transforming negative thoughts into opportunities for sanctification.
Notice the next time you have a stray negative thought – whether it be an unfounded fear, an unproductive worry, an inappropriate desire, a caustic judgment. When this thought arises, don’t just brush it aside, but rather take a hold of it, the way you might take a hold of calf, a ram, a pigeon. Imagine that you are binding it and lifting it up as a most esteemed offering. In your mind’s eye, place the thought on the altar of your fiery and consuming love for God…on the altar of your trust that all things come from God and go to God. Remember that this thought has come to you not as a distraction or a curse, but as an opportunity for uplifting and sanctification. Do this every time a negative thought arises in you…for this is the priestly service that is yours and yours alone to perform.
God, with thirst for alchemy
And fist-fulls of compassion
Required of me
my most resilient obsession
to suit his royal self
with soot and ash
and smoky sleeves
A remembrance worn
Of that which we must
For the thing had long ended
But lest I lay with it
For the dreg of my days
It was demanded by edict
And Temple blaze
– a forgiving and practical blade –
sliced its hide with fiery tongue
inhaled its hulk
with longing lungs
consumed for me
The one thing I had worth weeping for
The one thing worth building altars for
The unblemished, unfinished,
long-haunted, long-hunted for
And yet the fire was forgiving
She, with a strong hand,
– sure as any alchemist
From stubborn flesh
to smoke and ash
A morph to silver cinder
And sweet nectar air
I watched its sudden shudder
shift and fade
watched the way
in streams of gray
it finally disappeared
Thankful for the altar made
And the smoke the thing became
With a prayer
that thus may all things
of thick resistance
Into supple smoke
And swift upwardly streams of heat
This offering, the alchemy
from which the parch
of God – and man –
From American Jewish World Service
Rachel Jacoby Rosenfield
The flour, salt, oil, sugar, yeast, eggs and cinnamon were spread out on the vinyl tablecloth. We had moved the table to the modest cement block porch that jutted out from the doorless entryway to Marta’s house. It was Friday afternoon and this Salvadoran woman had opened her home to our group of American Jews for challah baking.
I was staffing an AJWS Rabbinical Students’ Delegation to Ciudad Romero in El Salvador, accompanied by 18 rabbinical students from six different seminaries. We came to El Salvador to meet the members of this extraordinary community who, in the brief 20 years since the country’s civil war, had returned from exile in Panama to establish an agricultural village on the banks of the lower Lempa River.
Despite the work of many community-based organizations to improve environmental conditions, diversify crops and empower women through micro-credit, this community still faces formidable challenges. A dam, routinely opened by the government to relieve flooding upstream, causes massive flooding and crop destruction in the region. The ground water is polluted from years of heavy pesticide use, resulting in a cluster of kidney disease in the community. And many local women talk about their biggest dream for their daughters—that they not drop out of school in their early teens to wed.
Here in Ciudad Romero, on Marta’s porch, I was converting kilos to pounds and liters to cups, following the familiar procedure that I had performed hundreds of times of preparing challah for Shabbat. Before we braided the dough, we performed the ritual of “taking challah.” We tore off an olive-size piece from the lump of dough and recited the blessing: “Blessed are You . . . who commands us to separate challah from the dough.” This ritual derives from the commandment in Numbers, “When you enter the land to which I am taking you and you eat of the bread of the land, you shall set some aside as a gift to the Lord.”1
The tradition is to burn this small portion of dough, and we did so in Marta’s arching outdoor clay oven, which one participant aptly described as “talmudic” in aspect and proportion. I found myself praying as I took challah that the dreams that the people of Ciudad Romero hold for themselves would be realized: that their crops would be protected from flooding and would thrive, that they would succeed in growing produce without the use of pesticides and that their daughters would receive higher education.
I recalled the experience of baking with Marta, taking challah, and offering prayer as I read Parashat Tzav this year. The parashah reads like a cookbook, a series of recipes, with the description of each ritual procedure including what should be offered, how long it should burn, what should be worn during the preparation and what should happen to the offering and/or its ashes afterward. The prescriptive tone of the text is underlined by the repetition of the phrase “zot torat ha . . .”—translated as “this is the teaching of . . .”—followed by the set of priestly instructions.2 One can imagine the text saying instead, “This is the recipe for . . .”
Though the descriptions of the sacrifices are highly formulaic, their purpose is profound: to expiate, to exculpate, to transform that which is defiled into that which is sacred, to offer thanksgiving, to ask for well-being. These offerings are made with intention. They are burned so that the smells and sounds and smoke will fill the air, rise into the heavens and deliver these intentions to God. Much like spoken prayer, which replaced ritual sacrifice after the destruction of the second Temple, the rigid formulas for sacrifices serve as vehicles for profound personal and communal expression and, ultimately, transformation.
Praying alone—even with intention—is not enough to complete the transformation. Expiation and well-being really come when the transgressor makes a change in her way of being in the world, through her actions. But using a ritual vehicle such as prayer—or taking challah—to focus one’s intention can be an important initial step. I imagine this was the purpose of our parashah’s exacting instructions for sacrifice as well—to admit transgression, gratitude or hope; to express those complex feelings through ritual; and in doing so, to set oneself on a course toward realizing the desired change.
This process can guide our social justice activism as well. Recognizing injustice and feeling responsible for addressing it is a critical first step—one that must lead to further steps, such as tzedakah, education and sharing stories with friends and community, and advocacy around U.S. policies that impact vulnerable people in the developing world.
Breaking off a piece of dough and burning it in Marta’s oven did not create any material change in Ciudad Romero—or in the world. But as the smoke rose, so did our group’s understanding deepen of the challenges of vulnerability and poverty that our hosts face daily. And as the lump of dough solidified in the burning oven, so did our resolve to address global injustice with moral courage and meaningful action.
Torah Reading for Week of 17-23, 2013
“Cleaning Out the Dust”
By Rabbi Andrew Feig, ’07, AJRCA Professor of Education
It just seems to be one of those weeks, where every little thing seems to present a challenge. Small emergencies, last minute requests, and missed phone calls pile up and it feels like I am either constantly putting out fires, or getting nowhere on an infinite supply of items on my to-do list. Frustration and anger mount, and as a result, a complete lack of patience for even the most mundane issue or task is the result. Of course, this has nothing to do with the upcoming preparation for Pesach, which entails a great deal of consciousness, as well as attention to detail.
As I read this week’s Torah reading, I found a hidden pearl of quiet, holy wisdom conveyed in the story of a garment. We read in Parashat Tzav, that the priest (the Kohen), wearing linen, must take the ashes from the burnt offering and place them by the altar, only later after a wardrobe change, to take them outside of the camp (Leviticus 6:3-4). Why the attention to the Kohen’s clothing? Why the details about sacrificial ash?
The Mei Hashiloach, Rabbi Mordecai Yosef of Ishbitza, a 19th Hassidic leader, quotes the Talmud in Zevachim 88a, noting that the linen garment atones for one’s anger and violence, as well as, atonement for sexual desire. The Mei Hashiloach goes on to say that this seems to hint at the idea that one who is clean or has removed one’s anger or lust may come close to G-d. The word for sacrifice, korban, has the same root as the word for drawing close, karov.
I think the Mei Hashiloach has much to teach us as we begin to enter Pesach reflected in the thoughtful, meticulous nature of the Kohen. First, our preparation for this holiday began weeks ago with the four special Shabbatot. These cleansing weeks help us focus on the themes of equality and uniqueness (Shabbat Shekalim), memory and justice (Shabbat Zachor), spiritual purity (Shabbat Parah), and spiritual renewal (Shabbat HaHodesh). We need these weeks to begin to not only clean out our homes, by removing the hametz, but clean our souls, by removing the spiritual hametz; the things that tear us away from fighting for justice in this world, and the anger and petty frustrations that distance ourselves from a chance at spiritual growth. Like the Kohen who removes the dust of past sacrificial offerings, we can remove the dust of our spiritual past, our spiritual hametz, so we can become karov, close to others to G-d. Hag Sameach!
From Brian Yosef Schachter-Brooks
The Power of Preparation- Passover and Parshat Tzav
There are moments when our situation dictates our next move, and there is no ambiguity about what we must do. If there were a baby in the middle of the road, for example, it is clear we should rescue the baby. In such a moment, there is no leeway for weighing options, for considering which path to take. The path is clear, and the mind is wholly present in the task at hand. We might call this active presence- being totally present and committed in one’s action.
There is also a situation we might call passive presence, or receiving presence. This could be when you receive something or behold something so satisfying that there is no part of you that is left out of the experience; there is a sense of arrival. The present is not experienced as a stepping-stone to some other moment, but the present is IT. An example of this might be beholding something awesome in nature, or even drinking a glass of water when you are parched.
Ordinarily, these moments tend to be few. The aim of spiritual work, however, is to totally reorient yourself to become fully present in every moment, to connect deeply with reality as it presents itself now, always now, in this moment. To do this, we have to shift our perspective from mind and thought to the awareness behind mind and thought. Just as both the baby in the road and the satisfying experience automatically bring one to the fullness of the present beyond thought, so we must learn to bring ourselves fully to the present, even and especially in ordinary and mundane moments.
This is the hidden message in this week’s parsha, Tzav. Throughout the Torah, when G-d tells Moses to communicate something to the Israelites, it usually says, “G-d spoke to Moses saying, ‘speak to the Israelites…’”. In this case, rather than saying, “speak to the Israelites”, it says “command the Israelites”. That’s the meaning of the word Tzav- it is the command form of the word “command”. By saying, “command” rather than “speak”, it implies a sense of intensity, and calls the one commanded to a state of presence. To receive a “commandment” is different from receiving a “suggestion” or a “possibility”; the baby is in the road, and you must act.
However, the Torah then goes on to enumerate tedious details about certain ritual sacrifices. The subject matter is not even new; it is merely a continuation of last week’s parsha, which introduced the subject (see last week’s blog entry). Why is the special word tzav used in this context?
But this is the whole point. Much of our lives are spent with ordinary, repetitive things- the daily grind of keeping things moving. The ritual sacrifices are a metaphor for how to frame the ordinary: By bringing our awareness fully into each moment, the “ordinary” is transformed into something sacred. The word for sacrifice, korban, actually doesn’t mean sacrifice at all; it means “drawing near”. The “daily grind” becomes a way of drawing near to the Ultimate, for everything is part of the Ultimate. Once the mind ceases pulling us away from this moment, we can see this moment as an opportunity to awaken, to be a vessel for consciousness.
This is also the meaning of the instructions to “keep the fire on the altar burning all night” (Lev. 6:2). The “day” represents those special experiences and deeds that bring us to the sacred and the fullness of presence. The “night” represents the ordinary and mundane, when we tend to fall asleep in the spiritual sense. To “keep the fire burning” in the “night” means to transform the ordinary into a korban- into a sacred moment through the power of awareness.
This lesson is a powerful reminder as move into the preparation time for Pesakh (Passover). Preparing for Pesakh has a very mundane, detail-oriented aspect to it, involving going through your fridge and cabinets to find all the hameitz (foods made with wheat, oats, barley or spelt, except of course matzah) to either eliminate it or sell it. (Click here for info on traditional Pesakh preparations- and don’t let it freak you out! Even a little effort at whatever level you are comfortable can be very powerful). Often, this will reveal hidden dirtiness and inspire a deep cleaning of the house. The hameitz is a symbol for ego and separation from the present. The matzah, in its flatness and simplicity, represents full intimacy with the present and freedom from ego.
So what is the lesson? The ego craves something special. It wants to be impressed, and to impress. But preparing for Pesakh is an opportunity to embrace the mundane, to discover the sacred in the cleaning of kitchen muck. In surrendering to these mundane tasks and doing them not as drudgery but as “commandment”, as mitzvah, we open ourselves to receive the true and liberating power of Pesakh.
When you eat the matzah this Pesakh, may you taste the joy, sweetness and purity of real liberation, and may your liberation bring this world a step closer to a global awakening and healing.
Hag Samayakh! Good Shaabbiiiisss!
From Rav Kook
Tzav: Appreciating Boundaries
One type of offering brought in the Temple was the korban Todah, the Thanksgiving offering:
“This is the law of the Peace offering (Shelamim)… If offered as a thanksgiving offering, then it is presented along with unleavened loaves.” (Lev. 7:11-12)
Who brought this offering? The Talmud mentions several examples:
“Four need to give thanks: those who sail the seas, those who travel through deserts, the sick who are cured, and prisoners who are freed.” (Berachot 54b)
Why did the Sages choose these four situations as examples of individuals who need to publicly thank God?
Appreciation does not come naturally to us. The human soul is programmed to constantly strive for more, as it says, “The soul is never satisfied” (Ecc. 6:7). We look ahead, not behind. We are always trying to improve our lot, to experiment and discover new horizons. Thus it is more natural for us to take for granted than to take stock. Often we feel gratitude for what we have by way of contrast: only when we no longer have it, or hear of others who lack, do we begin to truly appreciate it.
Another consequence of the human characteristic to constantly strive for more is our tendency to challenge accepted rules. The testing of limits is particularly pronounced in transitional periods (two-year-olds in their passage from infancy to childhood, and teenagers in their passage from adolescence to adulthood). While this is necessary for personal growth, certain restrictions may only be ignored at great risk. Generally speaking, there are four types of boundaries that people, in their quest for independence, attempt to ignore. They suffer the results of rebelling against natural or moral limits, and their experiences provide a lesson to others.
The first group consists of those who attempt to defy the basic laws of nature that govern humanity. One example of this are those who abandon the land, risking their lives by sailing the seas. Outside of their natural habitat, they will come to appreciate the safety and normalcy of life on land.
The second group includes those who rebel against the laws of the state. Governmental rules help regulate communal life. Those who abandon the rule of law by escaping to the desert (or the frontier) will quickly learn to appreciate the necessity for law and order.
The third group is comprised those who ignore guidelines for personal health care. Their interests and desires override the need to attend to their physical needs. Only when they suffer from illness do they come to appreciate the importance of heeding the rules of health and hygiene.
The final group is made up those who, in their greed for unfettered freedom, reject the ethical laws of society. Their actions pose a threat to others in the community. They must be imprisoned to prevent them from harming others. Hopefully, they will come to the realization that it is better to settle for a limited freedom outside the walls of prison than no freedom at all.
These four types publicly give thanks — if they survive their folly! — and serve as an example to others to appreciate the natural, societal, physical, and moral boundaries that make life livable.
(Sapphire from the Land of Israel.Adapted from Ein Eyah II, p. 252)
Copyright © 2013 by Chanan Morrison
From Rabbi Rachel Barenblat
Giving thanks in the present moment: parashat Tzav
We read in this week’s portion that one who offers a korban for the purpose of thanksgiving must eat that offering on the day when it is offered.
Korban: this is the Hebrew word we translate as “sacrifice.” But the root connotes not giving-up but drawing-near.
One who seeks to draw-near to God for the purpose of thanksgiving must eat that offering on the day when it is offered.
Drawing-near to God: we can understand this yearning.
Thanksgiving: we can understand that outpouring.
But what can we make of the exhortation to eat the meat of the sacrifice on the day when it is offered, and not to set any of it aside until morning?
Perhaps this comes to teach us that one who seeks to draw-near to God for the purpose of saying thank You needs to be in the moment. Give thanks for what is, right now, and experience that thanksgiving wholly. Don’t hold some of it over until tomorrow: give yourself over to thanksgiving now.
And, a corollary: trust that tomorrow there will again be blessings in your life which merit the giving of thanks.
As I say every Friday morning in meditation: focus on the breath as it comes and goes. And when your mind inevitably drifts to something in the past, or something in the future, that’s okay; it’s what minds do. Just gently notice that, and on the next exhale let it go and return to right here, right now.
Drawing-near to God in thanksgiving seems to require that same kind of mindfulness, that same cultivated ability to be in the moment and to offer thanks from this moment. There is so much to be thankful for: right here, right now.
From Rabbi Gershon Winkler
The Sacrifice of Sacrifice
A Teaching from Gershon…
Recently, I was standing in line at Customer Services in Target to return some birthday gifts, when I noticed that right there in front of me stood God, waiting ever so patiently as usual and absent any sign of urgency or irritation. I was appalled. What in the world was God doing in line at Customer Services in Target?
“Excuse me,” I said. “But with all due respect, God, why are you here?”
God turned around and smiled lovingly: “I am here for the same reason you are, my child.”
“You are returning a gift?”
“Actually, more gifts than you can mortally imagine, my child.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, like I told Isaiah, ‘My thoughts are not like your thoughts, and my ways are not like your ways.'”
There was a pause for what seemed like an eternity.
“You see,” God began to explain, “for thousands of years people have been bringing me gifts of all sorts, from ritually-sacrificed animals to meal and flour offerings and aromatic incense offerings, sometimes even their own children. And, to tell you the truth, I have no interest in any of these gifts. They just don’t resonate with me. They are not at all congruent with my intent for Creation. So, finally, after so many thousands of years, humans have come up with the revolutionary idea of returning unwanted gifts either for a refund or an exchange. So here I am.”
“But, if I may be so bold to ask – didn’t you instruct our ancestors in the desert around offering sacrifices? And in such arduous detail, yet!”
“Did you read that interview I gave Isaiah where I told him that – on the contrary – I have neither the need or desire for sacrifices?” (Isaiah 1:1-7).
“Yes, I am familiar with that interview, but, again, with all due respect, divine and otherwise, you did give us all those instructions around offering them! It says so in the Torah, all across the length and breadth of it!”
“Ah, that…. Pure semantics, my boy, pure semantics. That was not about sacrifice. That was about connection. That was about the very opposite of sacrifice in the way most humans have understood the concept. My commandments around what you call ‘the sacrifices’ was about sacrificing sacrifices, doing away altogether with the notion that you or any other mortal can possibly know what it is that I really want, let alone am. Until I issued those instructions, people would offer up to me what they presumed to be in harmony with my will, what they presumed was what I’d wanted. And I ended up with all these gifts I am schlepping here on line at Target, having to return them in exchange for what I had preferred all along. In other words, this is precisely why my instructions to Moses around the altar and the sacrificial rites were so laboriously detailed and specific, right down to content, volume, measurement and dimension, each detail serving as both, a clue to my deepest intent and will for Creation, and a pathway to the portals that lead to the intimacy I desire with all of you. That is the gift I want. If gifting someone was solely about whatever your heart desired, it wouldn’t be a gift for the other but a projection of yourself upon the other, an assumption – arrogant at best – about the nature of the other. It would not be so much about what it is they desire but more about what it is that you desire for them. And did I not ask in the beginning of the Ten Commandments that you do not mask your finite, mortal assumptions about me upon my faceless face?”
“But what about Abel and Noah and Abraham and Jacob and so many others who lived long before you gave us those details? You seemed to enjoy and accept their sacrifices, and I don’t see any of their gifts in your bundle.”
“You need to understand, boytchik, that I have no personal need for any of this, for anything you can possibly think of giving me, since I created it all. If I were hungry, I can chow down a couple of supernovas or a dinosaur or two. I don’t need you to feed me with your sacrifices (Psalms 50:7-15). Right? If everything that exists is mine, if I made everything, what can you possibly give me? So it is not the nature of the sacrifice that means anything to me but rather the nature of the gesture behind the sacrifice. If you re-read your Torah, you will see how it is written that I turned first to Abel and only then to his sacrifice. In other words, I first checked out Abel’s intention, where his heart was at in bringing his offering, to begin with, before accepting his sacrifice (Genesis 4:4). The sacrifice itself is unacceptable if the intent is unacceptable, or if the character and action of the person bringing the sacrifice is unacceptable. That is why I did not accept Cain’s sacrifice. It is sort of like the difference between a man giving his beloved a Valentine’s card but doing so not on Valentine’s day, not because it is Valentine’s day or any other occasion that calls for a gift, but rather purely as a gesture of acknowledgment of his desire and love and appreciation of her. On Valentine’s Day itself, she looks into his eyes and can see only as far as Valentine. On her birthday, she looks into his eyes and can see only as far as Birthday. On Mother’s Day, she looks into his eyes and can see only as far as Mother’s Day. But when he brings her flowers absent any particular occasion, simply because – then, she looks into his eyes and can see all the way to his heart, to his love, all the way to the purity, the sincerity of his gesture, so that the gift itself is dispensable, moot, against the backdrop of what is to her far more important, which is his love and appreciation of her and how precious she is to him. So, to answer your question –No, the early ancestors did not yet have those very specific instructions regarding the how-to’s of ritual sacrifice so redundantly articulated in the Book of Leviticus. And they did not need to because of where they were at in their hearts and intents when they offered them. Their gestures were for me like sweet aromas are to you” (Genesis 8:21).”
God noticed that I was still not getting it.
“Let me give you two scenarios. Scenario One: you come home from a hard day’s work and your beloved makes you a nice dinner. You thank her, or him, and you eat it, but you don’t fully enjoy it because you weren’t really in the mood for meatloaf that night. But it’s okay. The gesture was appreciated, and although she cooks you dinner every night, as part of her routine, you still hope she’s thinking about you when she prepares it, or at least some of the time. Scenario Two: you come home from a hard day’s work and your beloved says, ‘I love you so much, honey, and I want to make you something very special for dinner tomorrow. So please write down for me specific instructions regarding your very own choice of the choicest foods you love most, and how you would prefer that I prepare it, what kinds of spices, how well-done you want me to cook it, and so on and so forth.’ See the difference yet? In the first scenario, your beloved prepares and gifts you with what she presumes you like, and that is more about her own assumptions about who you are and what you like. In the second scenario, your beloved sacrifices her judgments around what to give you and steps outside the bounds of her subjective assumptions and personal convenience to honor the otherness of you. And her desire and capacity to gift to you in this way is made possible only by virtue of your detailed instructions.”
I was so inspired by this newfound understanding of the deeper intent behind the Torah’s detailed details around the sacrificial rites that I became overwhelmed with a degree of elation I hadn’t felt since my stroke in ’94. I thought maybe this was a good time to ask for a couple of million bucks while I had God’s attention.
“God, all wealth and all glory is in your hands. I ask not for any glory, but can you please spare a …? God? Hello? Hashem? Elo’heem! El Shaddai! Hello?!”
God had vanished, and left behind all of the returned gifts in a nearby bin marked: “Clearance.”
From the Maqam Project< /strong>
“The Priestly Work”
By Dr. Tamar Frankiel, Provost
This week’s parsha, the second in the book of Vayikra (Leviticus), summarizes the priestly sanctification into their roles. “Command them,” the parsha begins – command Aaron and his sons to assume these roles and perform their duties of making various kinds of offerings.
The Jewish people have been set aside as a “kingdom of priests” and a “holy nation,” but only one segment has these specific priestly roles.
Or is that true? Are these roles also a model for all of us?
I would suggest that the priestly work is a focused lens, a microcosm. We learn from our commentators that the mishkan is a microcosm of the Creation as outlined in Genesis. What if we understand that the priests’ detailed work is another microcosm, of what it is to work, to perform avodah, to serve?
The classic definition of avodah after the Temple’s destruction is prayer: As the priests had their fixed rituals, we have our siddur and prayer services that bring us near to serve God – although the rabbis ask, does God need our prayers?
We sometimes forget that the kohanim were not just serving God, perhaps not even primarily serving God. As our rabbis would say, “What need has God of chickens and goats?” They were serving people – serving the rest of the Jewish community. They served as intermediaries to bring people near – people who came with anxiety, fear, brokenness, asking for forgiveness and reconciliation, as well as expressing joy and gratitude.
Why the intermediaries? Because the priests learned how to sanctify space and time, primarily by paying attention to detail. As an analogy, think of what happens when we set a table for a special meal. The tablecloth and napkins are chosen, the dinnerware carefully set out, along with flowers, wine, and perhaps some graceful décor. The room takes on a new aura, a sense of anticipation grows; we look forward to surprise or celebration.
Normal routine isn’t like that. The everyday is a mere generalization, a round of similar events, where we hardly notice this very same room when we walk through it. We live in a fog.
The priestly work is to cut through the fog. Not only the fog of mindlessness, but also the fog created by anxiety, suffering, brokenness, and fear. Re-reading parts of Victor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning a few days ago, I was struck by a powerful and terrible image he used. Suffering, he said, is like pumping gas into a room: it will diffuse and fill all the space in the room. The only thing that stops it is if you can seal off a part of the room against it.
A terrible image, considering that he was in a concentration camp — and we know about sealed rooms too.
Yet Frankl goes on to describe what the inmates did in the midst of their horrendous suffering: They would gather quietly in small circles and someone would recite prayers or poetry. Or they would make jokes; occasionally they would sing. There was some counter-movement, a pushback against the deadening reality of their world.
This is part of the priestly role we play in the world – creating a space that seals us off temporarily from the smothering, suffocating negativity of the world. We do this in prayer; we do it on Shabbat; we do it in honoring the dead, and in celebrating new life.
But we can also play this role on a daily basis, like priests accepting and attending to the offerings of the Temple. We can do it by paying careful attention to those who want to come near, who want to reveal their brokenness, who seek forgiveness and reconciliation. We can set the table expectantly, and be available to midwife the gift of the heart. This too is avodah.
From Rabbi David Kasher
Four Links in a Chain: Parshat Tzav
by Rabbi David Kasher
It is not difficult to come up with a connection between Passover and Parshat Tzav. For it is here in Leviticus, deep in the arcane laws of the priestly sacrifices, that we reencounter a substance familiar to us from the Exodus. Every day in the Temple, we read, there were both animal sacrifices and grain sacrifices. The most basic form of the latter – the Minkhah – was partially burnt on the altar, and then the remainder was eaten by the priests, as follows:
It shall be eaten as matzah, in the holy place; they shall eat it in the courtyard of the Tent of Meeting. It shall not be baked with leaven… (Leviticus 6:9-10)
מַצּוֹת תֵּאָכֵל בְּמָקוֹם קָדֹשׁ, בַּחֲצַר אֹהֶל-מוֹעֵד יֹאכְלוּהָ. לֹא תֵאָפֶה חָמֵץ
Matzah, the famous unleavened bread that was both the hastily prepared travel food during the actual departure from Egypt, and then later consecrated as the central memorial ritual of Passover, throughout the generations:
For seven days, you shall eat matzah, after removing all leaven from your house on the first day. (Exodus 12:15)
שִׁבְעַת יָמִים, מַצּוֹת תֹּאכֵלוּ–אַךְ בַּיּוֹם הָרִאשׁוֹן, תַּשְׁבִּיתוּ שְּׂאֹר מִבָּתֵּיכֶם
We find this unique injunction to eat unleavened bread only in these two contexts: Passover and the Temple. And so, we must ask, what is the connection between the two? What is the reason for eating matzah instead of regular bread?
On Passover, the symbolism of Matzah is well established. We have already mentioned the reminder of the haste with which we left Egypt. To that we might add that matzah is referred to, first in the Book of Deuteronomy (16:3) and later in the Haggadah itself, as “the bread of affliction.” That is, matzah is meant to be a poorer form of bread, a reminder of the general affliction of slavery, and how we ate what we could to survive.
The problem is that neither of these associations seems relevant to the matzah of the Temple. Certainly the sacrifices were not meant to be carried out hastily, nor are the priests told to eat in the same kind of rushed manner of the Exodus. Neither was the food of the priest meant to be of poor quality; just the opposite, in fact – we are many times instructed to bring our very choicest animals and grains as offerings.
Instead, a shared meaning can be drawn from the spiritual symbolism of matzah and bread that has been developed over centuries of interpretation, but begins with this statement in the Talmud:
Rabbi Alexandri, when he finished his daily prayer, would say following: ‘Master of the World, it is revealed and known to You that our will is to perform Your will. And what is it that prevents us? The yeast in the dough. (Berachot 17a)
ר’ אלכסנדרי בתר דמצלי אמר הכי רבון העולמים גלוי וידוע לפניך שרצוננו לעשות רצונך ומי מעכב שאור שבעיסה
In this schema, the richness of fully-baked bread represents the indulgence and laziness of self-gratification. Rashi’s commentary immediately takes this metaphor and makes it explicit:
the yeast in the dough – this is the evil desire in our hearts, that “leavens” us.
שאור שבעיסה – יצר הרע שבלבבנו המחמיצנו
If bread represents selfish desire, then matzah becomes a symbol of self-restraint, humility, and sacrifice, a willingness to live modestly in the service of God. Just as our ancestors were forced to survive on the bread of affliction, so we control our desires once a year and make do with less, as a reminder that none of our freedoms should be taken for granted, that everything we have comes from God.
This conception of matzah fits very well in the Temple, for who have more fully devoted themselves to Divine service than the priests? They eat matzah regularly, then, as a way of humbling themselves and curbing their own desires as they perform the work of the community. That symbolism then extends to us all, as our communal sacrifices are rendered into the food we know from Passover. The whole system of grain offerings in the Temple, then, becomes a daily exercise in self-abnegation.
There is, however, one glaring exception. On the Shavuot holiday that both celebrates the harvest and commemorates the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, the grain offering is very different than what we have seen so far:
You shall bring from your settlements two loaves of bread as an elevation offering; each shall be made of two-tenths of a measure of choice flour, baked after leavening, as first fruits to the Lord. (Leviticus 23:17)
מִמּוֹשְׁבֹתֵיכֶם תָּבִיאּוּ לֶחֶם תְּנוּפָה, שְׁתַּיִם שְׁנֵי עֶשְׂרֹנִים–סֹלֶת תִּהְיֶינָה, חָמֵץ תֵּאָפֶינָה: בִּכּוּרִים, לַה
This time it is bread, fully leavened and baked, that we offer to God. Of course, this makes sense in the agricultural cycle. We are thanking God for the successful growth of the grains that were planted in the spring – what better way than using those grains to bake bread?
But what has happened to the idea that bread is a symbol of evil desires? Why are we commanded to bring bread upon the altar on this occasion, after being so specifically instructed not to bake bread with leaven in previous grain offerings? If matzah is meant represent our self-control, shouldn’t we use it in all the sacrifices? Matzah is still grain-based after all; surely we could have celebrated the harvest with it as well.
The Kli Yakar, Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim Lunschitz of 16th century Prague, notices this discrepancy and offers a bold suggestion as to why Shavuot, the holiday of receiving the Torah, invokes a fundamentally different type of spirit than the one we had on Passover:
Through the sacrifices, a person sacrifices his desire… That is why the Minkhah offering has no leaven in it. However, the two loaves of bread on Shavuot are specifically leavened, because if not for the evil desire we would not need the Torah… Yet the existence of the evil desire is also essential, for without it, a person would never build a house or marry a woman. But in a place of Torah we need not worry that we will go too far, for the Torah regulates it.
ע”י זביחת הקרבן האדם זובח יצרו… ע”כ גם המנחה באה נקיה מן השאור, אמנם ב’ הלחם של עצרת באו דוקא חמץ כי אלמלא היצה”ר לא היו התחתונים צריכין אל התורה… ועוד שמציאות היצה”ר הכרחי ואלמלא הוא לא בנה האדם בית ולא נשא אשה, ובמקום התורה אין לחוש שמא יפרוץ גדרו כי התורה תבלין אליו
Here, instead of negating desire, we acknowledge it, and even celebrate it. For although selfishness can be an obstacle to divine service, if we were to totally annihilate the self, we would never do anything meaningful in life. Without ambition, we would cease to create, to love, to learn. We would be humble servants of God – but nothing more.
The matzah of Passover is meant to bring us to a state of humility. But the danger of Passover Consciousness is that we become so devoted to divine service that we lose ourselves completely. Remembering what it is like to be a slave is important; actually being a slave is tragic.
The bread of Shavuot is meant to bring us to a state of passion. And hopefully, with the Torah, we can harness that passion, and direct it wisely. But the danger of Shavuot Consciousness is that we lose control, and become lost in ourselves. Desire is essential for human flourishing; but we can become slaves to our desires as well.
How do we find a balance between these two states of being? How do we cool our desire without quenching our fire?
There is one other type of grain sacrifice, also mentioned here in Parshat Tzav, that seems to be attempting just such a balance:
If one brings a gratitude offering, he should bring, together with the sacrifice of gratitude, matzah spread with oil… along with loaves of leavened bread… Out of this he shall offer one of each kind as a gift to the Lord. (Leviticus 7:12-14)
אִם עַל-תּוֹדָה, יַקְרִיבֶנּוּ–וְהִקְרִיב עַל-זֶבַח הַתּוֹדָה חַלּוֹת מַצּוֹת בְּלוּלֹת בַּשֶּׁמֶן… עַל-חַלֹּת לֶחֶם חָמֵץ… וְהִקְרִיב מִמֶּנּוּ אֶחָד מִכָּל-קָרְבָּן,תְּרוּמָה לַה.
The gratitude offering, the ‘Korban Todah’ – brought by someone who has experienced a personal triumph – is unique in including both matzah and leavened bread. This is a strange mixing of symbols. Which side of our humanity is being called upon here – our humility or our desire? As we give thanks, do we recognize our smallness or our greatness? Is the gratitude offering an expression of Passover Consciousness or Shavuot Consciousness?
But of course, that is just the point – it is both. We are celebrating our personal achievements – our victories, our successes, the fulfillment of our desires. But we are also remembering that we could not have done any of it without God’s help, and that our own abundance must therefore be shared with those who are still hungry.
The taste of bread and matzah together is the awareness that we have everything but we could have had nothing. This awakens in us a third type of consciousness, one which requires us to feel simultaneously great and small, rich and poor, free and enslaved. And the name for this paradoxical feeling is ‘gratitude.’
“Becoming a Kingdom of Priests and a Holy People – Learning to Love Leviticus”
By Rabbi Anne Brener
I learned to love Leviticus when I was working at Metivta in the 1990’s. At Reb Jonathan’s invitation, Ellen Winer, Judith Riven and I started the Jewish Healing Center at Metivta.
There is a story in the Talmud, which tells of a visit to the ruins of the Temple by Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakki and his student Rabbi Yehoshua, who lived in the time following the destruction of the Temple. “Woe to us,” said Rabbi Yehoshua, “for the place that atones for the sins of our people has been destroyed.” “No.” says his teacher, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakki. “God no longer wants sacrifice. God wants acts of loving-kindness. These acts of loving-kindness will now atone for our sins.”
What is the connection between the sacrifices of the Temple and the acts of loving-kindness, such as those that we performed at the Metivta healing center? How does the intention of sacrifice relate to such earthly practices as visiting the sick or comforting the bereaved? In order to understand this connection, we need an understanding of sacrifice that fits both instances.
As you know, the Hebrew word for sacrifice means, “Bringing close or drawing near.”
to approach, to come nearer, so as to create a close relationship with someone. Therefore, one who brings a sacrifice should come in closer relationship to God.
The Book of Leviticus, which used to be called, Torat Kohanim, the teachings or the rituals of the priests, can be seen as a manual for insuring that closeness.
Reb Jonathan taught us that when the temple stood, it was the place (HaMakom) where God resided. But that when the temple was destroyed, HaMakom/God took up residence in other dimensions: Place, Time, and Soul.
When we meditate, we build a residence for God, B’kirbi (inside ourselves) in the dimension of Soul, just as we do when we care for others, and God dwells in the shared place within and between us. Let’s look at how the spiritual technology of the Temple, that we read about today, the sacrifices, transfer into this dimension of soul.
Moshe Halberstal speaks first of the parallel understandings of sacrifice. The Biblically prescribed sacrifices overseen by the priests were a:
…gift… From humans to God…. Involv[ing] an object, usually an animal… transferred from the human to the divine realm.
His second definition would speak to that which is given by today’s caregivers:
Giving up a vital interest for a higher cause. [like time or comfort]
The gift carried “b’kirbi”/within ourselves could be seen as the equivalent of the sacrifice/“korbon” that was brought by others who wished to “l’hkriv” come closer to God. Each of the Hebrew words in the previous sentence has the root “KRB.” This might indicate that the inner experience could be a parallel or a mirror for the material offerings brought as sacrifices to the Temple.
We might then see sacrifice as a gift of self whether it is material or personal: whether it is the gift (korbon) of a carefully raised and nurtured goat brought to the Temple on a pilgrimage festival or b’kirbi coming from the gut, the gift of precious time spent visiting the sick or preparing the dead for burial.
The ancients “drew near” by bringing first fruits to the Temple in gratitude or a dove or goat as atonement for an infraction. Today’s chaplains or Caring Community members “draw near” by reaching out to visit someone who is sick or to comfort the mourner. Both create a sacred bond that draws near the one who gives and the one who receives. In the Temple, it was with God. Today the connection is with the part of God that dwells in the other.
These parallel experiences reveal the lived experience of Jewish spiritual practice, which have transcended the paradigm shift from Temple based religious cult to a modern religion lived in community.
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