Month: March 2022

Parashah Ponderings

Stoking the Fire of Divine-Human Connection

Daniel Aronson's avatarDaniel Aronson Leave a comment

Parashat Tzav / פרשת צו
Torah Portion: Leviticus 6:1 – 8:36

The fire on the altar shall be kept burning, not to go out: every morning the priest shall feed wood to it, lay out the burnt offering on it, and turn into smoke the fat parts of the offerings of well-being. A perpetual fire – aish tamid – shall be kept burning on the altar, not to go out. Leviticus 6:5-6

In this week’s reading, we continue to learn how the priests were to offer animal and meal sacrifices upon the altar in the Tabernacle, Israel’s cumbersome but portable sanctuary in the wilderness. One detail worth noting is that the fire on the sacrificial altar was to remain lit perpetually, morning and night. Even as the Israelites wandered from one camp to the next, the fire burned, the altar being equipped with special poles to allow its transport by the priests. The priests would add wood to the fire each morning to ensure that there remained a perpetual fire, an aish tamid, to consume the numerous offerings the priests would place upon the altar each day.

This aish tamid of the altar is distinct from the more familiar ner tamid. In the Torah, the ner tamid refers to the flames of the ornate seven-branched menorah that stood in the Tabernacle. Unlike the fire of the sacrificial altar, the flames were allowed to burn out each night. It was the job of the priests to rekindle the flames regularly each morning, the term for regularly also being “tamid.”

The contrast between the ner tamid and the aish tamid holds for me considerable meaning. The ner tamid represents God’s eternal presence in the midst of Israel. The light of the menorah was understood as a metaphor even by the ancients, who did not fret when the light went out; they simply refilled the cups of the menorah with fresh olive oil the next day and set the oil afire once again. Of course, our biblical ancestors also had the Ark of the Covenant, which they considered to be God’s footstool. The people could rest assured that so long as they remained faithful to the covenant, God would always be there for them, and one of the ways they kept faith with God was through the sacrifices they offered.

What about the aish tamid? What is its meaning? If the ner tamid symbolized God’s presence for our ancestors, the aish tamid represented their significant, ongoing efforts to connect with that presence. Now, the work of cutting wood, clearing the ashes from the altar, and replenishing the wood on the altar was messy, difficult work, but necessary. Without a constantly stoked fire, there wouldn’t have been enough heat on the altar to consume the various offerings, especially those involving larger animals. Meanwhile, because our ancestors imagined that the aroma of the sacrifices was pleasing to God, they were fully committed to keeping the aish tamid perpetually lit. For them, a happy God meant a safe and secure Israel.

Today, we no longer have a Tabernacle or a Temple in which to offer sacrifices to keep God happy. Yet, it’s not the case that we are entirely without a sacrificial system or an aish tamid. When we pray, study and do acts of loving kindness, for example, we connect with God, who permeates all being. We “offer” ourselves to God in ways that involve self-sacrifice, (though it’s unlikely that our biblical ancestors would have considered our actions sacrifices). In addition, our rabbis teach us that our dinner tables, where we offer blessings and gather in fellowship with friends and family, are our altars.

The aish tamid? The aish tamid now resides as the passion within us with which we strive to draw near to the Divine. This inner “fire,” like the physical aish tamid of the Tabernacle, is something that we must work to keep active all the time, lest we become out of touch with the Godliness around us.

Rashi, the preeminent medieval commentator, teaches that the priests would kindle the lights of the ner tamid with the fire from the aish tamid. The one could not exist without the other! The ongoing efforts of our ancestors to reach out to God by stoking the fire of the altar was necessary to make God’s presence real in their lives. In the absence of the “pleasing odor,” our ancestors could not be sure that God would always be there for them. As long as the smoke continued to rise to God’s nostrils, however, the people could feel confident that God was responding to their needs.

Rashi’s teaching suggests that when we offer ourselves to God through prayer, study, and acts of loving kindness, we, too, increase God’s light in the world. God becomes manifest through our expressions of gratitude, awe, and repentance, through our efforts to understand our people’s history and beliefs, through our actions to draw people together and heal the world. When we tend the aish tamid within our own souls, we move closer to God and God moves closer to us.

May we perpetually tend our inner aish tamid and know that the Holy One is constantly near.

Parashah Ponderings

When Connecting to God and Community, One Size Does Not Fit All

Daniel Aronson's avatarDaniel Aronson Leave a comment

Parashat Vayikra / פרשת ויקרא
Torah Portion: Leviticus 1:1 – 5:26

Most things in life are not “one-size-fits-all.” Things like rain ponchos and adjustable baseball caps, which claim to be OSFA, often leave the wearer feeling too small or too large. The lack of fit can sometimes be embarrassing. The truth is that that “all” really means “within a pre-determined range,” but human beings come in so many shapes and sizes that there are bound to be those who fall outside of this range. Clearly, one size does not fit all much of the time.

This reality holds not only for clothing, but education, finances, medicine, and even sacrificial offerings. As we learn in the Book of Leviticus (5:1-11), priests were instructed to accept certain types of sin offerings on a “sliding scale.” These offerings, termed “the ascending and descending offerings” by our sages, reflect our ancestors’ recognition that not all Israelites were of equal means. Some had the wealth to bring a sheep or goat to the Tabernacle, but others could afford to bring only two turtledoves or two pigeons, while still others had the ability to offer just a small measure of flour. The priests understood that a one-size-fits-all sacrificial system would have barred access to the Divine for all but the wealthiest classes.

Because the Torah institutes this progressive system of sin offering, all those who would commit minor sins were given the opportunity to repair their relationships with God. The Hebrew word for “offering” is “korban,” which implies nearness; one would bring an offering near to God by handing it over to the priests, who would, in turn, perform the necessary sacrificial rites. All people were capable of acting in ways that our biblical ancestors believed offended God. Fortunately, all people were also able to come near to God once again, effectively starting over with a clean spiritual bill of health. This would not have been possible had all sinners been required to bring the same, costly offering to the Tabernacle.

Later Jewish tradition also understands that the path to God is not the same for all God’s children. In giving tzedakah, for example, each of us is expected to give according to our ability. We may give more, if possible, but not less. In its commentary on this week’s Torah portion the Stone Edition Chumash teaches:

God took pity on a poor man and assigned a very inexpensive offering to him so that he could afford to obtain atonement. But if a rich man bring this offering, not only does it not atone for him, he is guilty of the sin of bringing an unsanctified object into the Temple Courtyard (Talmud Kereitot 28a). In giving charity, as in bringing offerings, one must give according to his means. A rich man has not fulfilled his obligation if he gives as little as a poor man (Chafetz Chaim).[1]

Interestingly, the Shulhan Arukh, one of the central codes of Jewish law, requires that we support the needy in the life to which they are accustomed. This may seem unfair to the most destitute among us, but it further demonstrates the extent to which Jewish tradition rejects a single standard of piety for all.

Another example: a current reality in American Jewish religious life is that not all who seek to be part of community are able to pay a fixed mandatory fee to become a member of a synagogue. Fortunately, most synagogues nowadays offer tiered or “fair share” dues and are prepared to work with anyone who desires to be close to God and community. We are also seeing synagogues experiment with a voluntary pledge structure, whereby individuals and families freely contribute what they are able to support their congregation of choice, no matter how little that may be.[2] It’s not yet clear if the voluntary pledge model can sustain congregations financially in the long run, but the experiment surely reflects the value of keeping community-based spirituality accessible to everyone.

Like all human beings, each Jew is unique; the abilities and needs of one Jew are the not the same as all other Jews. It is heartening, therefore, to see how Jewish communal life today so willingly accommodates the special circumstances of individuals and families, whether in including people with special needs, providing texts in translation for new immigrants, creating learning opportunities for people with different levels of knowledge or engagement, etc. True, we can scan the communal landscape and discover where more needs to be done in these and other areas in order to ensure access. Homebound elderly certainly deserve more connection with their communities than most currently enjoy, to name but one population whose needs do not fit well within our current communal structures.  Nonetheless, we should be grateful that the priests of the Tabernacle and, later, the Temple oversaw a sacrificial system that was maximally inclusive to the extent possible in its day and which laid the foundation for our own efforts to draw seekers of all shapes and sizes near to God’s presence.

[1] Scherman, Rabbi Nosson, The Chumash. Brooklyn, NY: Mesorah Publications, 1997, p. 563.

[2] “The Pay What You Want Experiment at Synagogues”, http://www.nytimes.com/2015/02/02/us/the-pay-what-you-want-experiment-at-synagogues.html?_r=0, accessed 3/19/2015.