Tzav

The Poetry of the ‘Olah: Being Present in the Eternal Relationship
Jenny R. Labendz, 5763

Parashat Tzav begins to list the details of how the sacrifices are performed. We have already been told when and why the particular sacrifices are offered, but now we have come to the "how exactly." It is important to remember that though you and I are far from our own daily experience in this parashah, the Torah is constantly expressing values, and we must seek them out even when they seem clouded by details that are hard for us to wrap our heads around. This is perhaps best done when we bit off a small piece at a time.

Look at Vayikra 6:1-6. What are we talking about? What are the different steps described? Who are the players? What are the props? Look carefully for a particular refrain (it changes a little each time, but see if you can spot it). What is the emphasis of the ritual?

The "ritual of the burnt offering"-"תּוֹרַת הָעֹלָה"-is a sacrifice of an animal that is totally burnt up on the altar (as opposed to other animal sacrifices which are partially burnt up and otherwise eaten up, and as opposed to non-animal sacrifices like the Minhah, which contains only flour, oil, and spices.) The description of how to perform this sacrifice does not begin with putting the animal on the altar and burning it, as we might expect. Instead, we begin after yesterday afternoon's ‘Olah (burnt offering) has been performed. "The ‘Olah itself [i.e., from yesterday] shall remain where it is burned upon the altar all night until morning." What a strange place to begin! You might argue that it does make sense, since our religious calendar always begins in the evening, but in that case, why not begin with the beginning of that sacrifice, the previous afternoon? The very fact that we begin at night forces us to jump in right at the middle. And that's not even all; we can't proceed to actually performing an ‘Olah from the start until we've done "dishun ha-mizbe'ah", clearing away and removing the ashes from the previous sacrifice, which takes two entire verses (3-4) of directions!

Now that we've noted this oddity, let's look further. Pay attention to the following refrain:

This is classic biblical poetry: one line repeated three times, each adding a word or phrase, and the last one slightly changing the structure and using the word "תָּמִיד"-"perpetual". The refrain emphasizes to us that the fire on the altar never goes out. This is the poetry of the ‘Olah. We never begin; we are always walking in the middle. Worshipping God is about participating in a system that is going on, tapping into a cosmic relationship that is always present. It is not a beginning of a conversation, but an entering into it. Even during dishun ha-mizbe'ah, when we're removing the previous sacrifice's remains, the fire is still burning; even when we leave, the conversation is still taking place.

There is a certain delicious irony to it. A sacrifice like this is so very much about that particular setting, time, and project. Keep in mind, these are not tiny little animals we're talking about; it is an arduous and complicated procedure to sacrifice an animal. But even when we are most present in this very moment, we are reminded emphatically that the main thing is the constant fire, the eternal context within which this moment is experienced.

Another thing to notice in these six verses is that while the word "‘Olah", referring to the animal, is mentioned 3 times, the word "אֵשׁ"-"fire" appears four times (plus "מוֹקֵד" once, which also refers to fire) and the word "מִזְבֵּחַ"-altar-appears five times. The altar and the fire are at least as central as the object of the sacrifice, if not much more central. And what did the altar look like? Stone, square, probably pretty ordinary-looking. What does it mean that a simple block of stone and a fire on it are the core components of everything that's going on, the centerpiece of the most frequent practical worship of God in Mishkan and Temple?

There's something important about boiling it all down to a stone block in the middle. Even through all the details and all the work, all the blood and the flesh, we are urged to zero in on the altar. To be sure, religious life requires details. Something would be deeply lost if were told only to sit and meditate on this altar. But through all of the details, meaningful and specifically chosen as they are, at the end of the day, it's all about this: an altar and a fire. And these things are totally stable-the altar by its nature, and the fire by our maintenance of it.

Our tefillot are, in part, a replacement for the sacrificial system. Tefillah involves a tremendous number of words, just as sacrifices comprise seemingly endless details. Those words and those details are meaningful, not arbitrary, and not for their own sake. Practically, though, it's not always the words that make davvening meaningful to me. The main thing sometimes is just that I have come to this encounter-I, whole, have come to engage in conversation, to be with God, and to be a part of a worshipping community. That presence with is the main thing. There is a certain peace, a certain comfort, a certain warm-fuzzy that davening brings beyond all the words and ideas. It comes once I am able to recognize the fundamentals beneath all the details: the fundamental, eternal cosmic relationship that is the context for my tefilot, the fundamental fact of my presence with God, exemplified by the stone altar in the middle of the Mishkan. We often say that it's important to see the forest, not just the trees. Keep in mind though: it's not a big deal to see a forest when looking down on it from above in an airplane. What we need to work on is being able to see the forest while standing amidst the trees.