Her name was Nancy, and I worshipped her. It was the Summer of '72, we were both participants in a an 8-week program in Environmental Chemistry - she was a local, I one of the majority from across the state, staying at the Cal State Bakersfield dorms. I had had a series of unrequited loves since late elementary school, but this was the dizzying peak. Beautiful, bright, good-hearted, open and friendly - she became my reason for being. I lived for each smile, each exchange of words, each millimeter closer of electrically-charged physical proximity. One day the program took a field trip to visit the Diablo Canyon nuclear facility then under construction, on the California coast well north of Santa Barbara. We sat together on the bus and talked. I was on cloud nine. Visions raced ahead of the reality - I knew she had a boyfriend of sorts, but after the "official" part of the trip, when the group arrived at the beach for a barbecue, I had something in mind. I left her with the group and walked down to the water. I was looking for something to give her - something unique and radiant, something shining and achingly alive, something which, in passing from my hand to hers, would convey all that I felt to all that she was. There were shells, odd pieces of driftwood, seaweed, but my eye was drawn to a stone. Its color was unusual, so it seemed to me; its shape - at once balanced and intriguing. I picked it up, and as I turned it in my hand to examine it, it became clear to me that this was what I was looking for. As I walked purposefully back, in almost measured strides, the moment of presentation loomed ever larger in my mind, and assumed an almost mythic proportion. The stone extended, her hand, my heart... As I approached the group, I saw my goddess, talking casually to some other fellow.... the stone slipped from my hand.
It's unavoidable. Say what you might about the book of Vayikra, explain its intricate structure, its multiple levels of symbolism, the profound moral insights subtly woven into its manifold details - it all comes down to one word. Sacrifices. They hit you in the face from the very first: "When a man brings a sacrifice to the Eternal...from the herd and the flock..." What can a modern person say about sacrifices which, in light of the gory, guts-filled details presented throughout the book, would sound like anything other than an all-too-inadequate apologetic? Why don't we just face it: People were primitive and crude, they spilled the blood of poor, defenseless animals in order to assuage their guilty, un-self-aware consciences!
In truth, one of the greatest thinkers in Jewish tradition explained the sacrificial order that was so prominent in ancient times, in a manner not so different. The Rambam (Maimonides), in The Guide for the Perplexed, his classic reconciliation of Torah and Aristotelian philosophy, explains that the sacrificial order was ordained so as to slowly wean the Jewish people away from the idolatrous modes of worship to which they had grown accustomed while living for hundreds of years immersed in the culture of idolatrous civilizations. In the physical world, one cannot reverse directions in a moment, or convert something into its opposite with no cost: such attempts would be catastrophic. Rather, one must "work" the material slowly, and, says the Rambam, that is what the Torah-ordained sacrificial order sought to do. It did so by limiting how, when, where, and by whom sacrifices might be brought, seeking, eventually, to raise people to a level where their communion with the divine would be done by verbal prayer, and, eventually, via pure contemplation.
The Rambam's approach was strongly criticized, however, by most of his contemporaries and successors. The essence of their critique is simple: It is inconceivable that an institution which plays such a central role within Judaism, to which is dedicated a huge amount of material in both the written and oral Torah, could be entirely negative in conception: to wean people away from idolatrous notions of communion with the divine. What of all the details of the rites, and the punctilious attention which, the Torah reminds us again and again, must be paid to them? No, there must be some positive content, some profound substance to sacrifice which we, precisely because our sophistication has lifted us up and away from our primal cores, are missing, but which can be expressed, invoked, brought to life by sacrifice.
Our tradition, revealed and concealed, teaches: The act which most embodies the infinite, unknowable Is, the eternally Coming-into-Being whom we call Hashem is... giving. Giving is a gesture toward selflessness, for one "loses" something of one's extended self (body, possessions, etc.) when one turns it over to another. When the gift is received, however, and the "transaction" is completed, one has "gained" something priceless: wholeness, relatedness, and connection. For that to be the case, the gift must be related both to the giver, and to the receiver. We all love to receive something we have wanted - how much more do we cherish those gifts we know the giver cherishes as well. In the moment of transfer - when both sets of hands are upon it, the gift, impossibly, effects a union of wills, and, within its very materiality, overcomes the chasm that separates subject from object, which differentiates being from Being.
Hashem created the world in an incomprehensible act of selflessness by "withdrawing" the infinite Presence such that there was "room" for the universe. The gift: the potential to reach toward godliness. The secret tools: hidden deeply (and, ever so paradoxically) inside this realm seemingly evacuated of Hashem, encoded into the roots of human awareness, is a "piece" of the divine: give, overflow with being, and connect into the bliss of oneness. And what can we, little "godlets", so to speak, give? The only thing we have to give: ourselves.
Yet herein lies the tragedy of earthly existence: When the Only One of Being gives the gift which keeps on giving, He is not diminished thereby, just as, say our Sages, a candle can light others without effect on its pure flame. We earthly creatures cannot: "Offer your son, your only one, whom you love, as a burnt offering." Who but a giant such as Abraham could believe that Isaac would emerge whole? Throw yourself over the edge for the Ultimate Lover, and they'll pick up the pieces at the bottom of the cliff.
So we substitute: "He offered the ram in place of his son". A ram. An animal. How laughable. What a far cry from the all-consuming passion of union we sought to express in making the ultimate gesture of willingness to give ourselves to the One Who is constantly giving, Who is "giving", itself!
And yet. Since we were willing, since it is only the unbridgeable dualisms of the here-and-now which prevents our paradoxical gift from its full realization - to give ourselves entirely, and ever and again to remain, to be even more - it is acceptable: The offering, life itself, is pleasing, and two wills, if only for an instant, taste of eternity.
The word we so often translate as sacrifice is korban. It is perhaps best translated as "that which causes things to draw close".
Life, willy-nilly, consumes life. Predators prey upon herbivores, herbivores devour plants, plants consume the soil nutrients that are restored as microbes decompose the carcasses of the predators. The drama of korban gives expression to the meaning of that flame of life, its scintillating beauty and heartbreaking pathos, and, if ever so briefly, it flashes across the gap to closeness, to intimacy with the Infinite One.
It has been almost 27 years since the stone slipped from my hand, and my heart with it. Little did I know then how powerfully I would someday find my heart's desire by probing ever so intimately the deep recesses of our tradition. The opening words of this third book of the Torah are "Vayikra' elav" - "And He called to him". Korban, so poorly rendered by the term ?"sacrifice", is our response.
Rav Yehoshua Kahan
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Rav Yehoshua Kahan is a teacher at Yeshivat Bat Ayin. He has held pulpits in Knoxville, Tennessee and Los Angeles, and served as educational director of Livnot U'Lehibanot. He blogs on Parashat Hashavua here |