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Learn about this week’s Torah portion with our Rabbis
Our parsha this week continues to outline the korbanot (sacrifices) that are to take place in the Temple. The parsha‘s title, tzav, is an imperative – it means command, from the same Hebrew root as mitzvah. While last week’s portion Vayikra was a specific list of instructions for the individual tasked with bringing the offering, this week’s parsha is dedicated to the priest assisting with the offering; in other words, the layperson. This parsha outlines what they should do, how they should act, and what they must wear. In its specificity is a certain degree of holiness; one cannot approach any parsha in Leviticus without recognizing the sanctity of its amazingly detailed instructions.
As my teacher Rabbi Richard Levy writes, “While the lay-offerer placed his or her hands on the animal’s head, suggesting a desire that the offerer himself or herself might be accepted as the offering, the descriptions of the garments of the priest suggest that the priest is part of the offering, offering up himself each time he assists a “layperson” to do so. [It is] an impressive display of altruism – and of psychological resilience.” In other words, the priest – in a demonstration of true devotion – is expected to become physically immersed in the ritual taking place so that they may draw their assistant closer to God. In that way, the layperson is empowered – and, by extension, so is is the community.
I cannot help but breathe into this text a modern-day parallel. This past Sunday Rabbi Aaron Meyer led a group of our congregants in the planting of an urban garden on our Seattle campus. Thanks to the efforts of Brian Holers, Allen McCall and many others, the earth was prepared for plants and seeds of all kinds; vegetation that will – in due time – feed the hungry in our midst. This modern-day korban is indeed an offering of the highest order from these men and women. By physically participating in the taxing process of urban farming, our congregants – led through the tireless efforts of one of our rabbis – were indeed immersed in a certain type of holy ritual, one we pray will continue to sustain our community in the months and years to come. Through their actions and devotion, they were empowered – and, by extension, so are we.
Rabbi Jaclyn Cohen
This week we begin reading Sefer Vayikra, the Book of Leviticus, a text which challenges the contemporary faithful to find meaning and relevance in an obsessive description of a cult of worship relegated to our distant past. Yet it does not require the erudition nor the unmoored, tortured interpretation of any self-respecting rabbi to discern deeper, more incisive lessons.
While the word sacrifice has generalized to encompass many kinds exchange, from the most mundane concessions to the most noble gifts of self, its etymology is rooted in the sacred, ritual offerings delineated in this week’s portion. Yet the Hebrew word employed to describe these offerings, korban, connotes something deeper, something more individual, something more personal. The Hebrew root k-r-v conveys a drawing near to something or someone. The lesson is implicit and potent: An offering to God was a gesture of spiritual approach, a desire to get closer to God and to bring God closer to us. But the gesture itself was insufficient. As the prophets admonished, without authentic, transformative intent, the gesture is but empty choreography, the symbol robbed of its essence and effect.
The same is true of the contemporary prayers of words and heart. Perhaps there is an even greater challenge when worship transcends the material signs that root it in our more common experience. Yet the boon is even greater when true intent binds with abstract entreaties more fitting for an intangible, incorporeal, and loving God.
Rabbi Daniel Weiner
In this week’s Torah portion, Pekudei, Moses gives a detailed description of the building of the tabernacle, the mobile sanctuary the Israelites carried in the dessert. The instructions for building the tabernacle, are laid out in minute, almost obsessive detail by Moses. Everything from the metals to be used to the clothes that needed to be worn to how the incense should be burnt and used are explained component by component.
One of the questions that arises is why did the Torah feel it was so necessary to go into such detail about the building of the tabernacle?
One explanation that is offered for the need for detail in this week’s Torah portion is suggested by Sforno, a 15th century Torah commentator. He says that rather than refer to the items used to build the tabernacle by their generic name, i.e. utensils, or even specific name, i.e. fork, that every single “fork” was given an individual name. Sforno suggests that this individual naming of each item leads to each item being of permanent significance to the entire functioning of this mobile sanctuary.
It would be easy to take for granted the importance of the fact that blue, crimson and purple yarn were all used to make the vestments for the priests. However, what Sforno wants to highlight is all three yarns were not only necessary but integral to the completion of the tabernacle. The same can be said true for all of us. Each of us makes a permanent mark on the world. Even if we are not always aware of it, our existence leaves an indelible imprint on the fabric of the world. Just as the tabernacle would not be truly complete without every jewel, or ring, or piece of yarn so to would the world not be complete without you in it.
Rabbi Micah Ellenson
I’ve often wondered what it would have been like to be Moses. Putting myself in his shoes (or, more likely, his sandals) I can only surmise that he was one exhausted dude. Leading a massive group through the wilderness with no map, no compass; nothing to guide him but hope and faith and a direct line to Hashem… how anxiety-inducing! How tsuris-ridden! How crazy-making! How would anyone be able to take on the burden of that level of leadership?
When we come to parshat Ki Tisa, we witness the ultimate Peter-Finch-as-Howard-Beale-“I’m Mad as Hell” speech-moment in the Torah. Moses emerges from Sinai with the tablets of stone, sees the people cavorting about a golden calf born of impatience and mistrust, and hurls the two tablets given to him by God, shattering them to pieces. So enraged is Moses that he “took the calf that they had made and burned it; he ground it to powder and strewed it upon the water and made the Israelites drink it.” (Exodus 32:20) Not my top choice for a fine desert refreshment.
Yet a few paragraphs later, it’s clear Moses’ anger has subsided. In its place is his old friend doubt. As Moses speaks to God, it is clear he is stuck. Betrayed by the group, tablet-less, and uncertain of their direction forward, Moses says to God, “you say to me, ‘lead this people forward,’ but You have not made known to me whom You will send with me. Further, You have said ‘I have singled you out by name, and you have, indeed gained My favor.’ Now, if I have truly gained Your favor, pray let me know Your ways, so that I may know You and continue in Your favor.” (Exodus 33:12-13) Moses asks God for a sign that they’ll be okay – and a sign he gets: God reveals God’s back to Moses, the backbone serving as a symbol of strength and fortitude in uncertain times.
As we celebrate the Jewish holiday of Purim this week, we are reminded again of an uncertain moment in our people’s story. When Esther and Mordechai raise their voices to save the Jewish people from total annihilation, they show Ahasuereus their backbones as proud Jews determined to survive. Despite its silliness and its costumes and frivolity, Purim is truly a recognition of a dire moment in Jewish history. Indeed, scholars frequently refer to Purim as “Yom Kippur – Yom ha’ki-PURIM” in disguise.
And so this week, as we celebrate Esther’s bravery and Mordechai’s boldness; as we stuff our faces with hamentaschen (my preference is gluten free dough with Nutella filling, FYI) and don our costumes for Sunday’s Purim shpiel and carnival in Seattle, let us remember that beneath the surface of this raucous holiday is indeed a much more serious message of hope, survival, and strength: a backbone of faith – like that which God revealed to Moses in Ki Tisa – is the undercurrent, sustaining us and helping us reach this present day.
Chag Purim Sameach,