True Sacrifice

INSIGHTS:
Primordial Man
What is Adam doing in the first chapter of Leviticus?
Good
There is sorrow that is constructive self-critique, and sorrow that is a bottomless pit of despair. How to tell the difference?

Does serving G-d mean that you have to sacrifice your life for G-d? Is it conforming to be someone you’re not? Obliterating your personality?

If this sounds unappealing, it’s no wonder: It’s not only wrong, it’s anathema to the very fundamentals of Judaism. In this week’s Torah portion, Vayikra, we learn the quintessential approach to how each and every one of us can and should serve G-d. But rather than presenting a serene picture of spiritual reverie, the book of Vayikra (Leviticus) reflects a subject that is more likely to evoke confusion, even revulsion for some, than sublimity.

In this book, we enter the bloody world of the great altar in the Holy Temple where the Jewish people brought animal sacrifices to Jerusalem to atone for their sins. What possible connection could this slaughter of ox and sheep have to do with establishing a fulfilling relationship with G-d?

The Ramban, one of the classicial commentators on the Torah, tells us that when a person had to bring a korban (animal sacrifice) to be offered in the Beis HaMikdash, “a person had to envision that what was happening to the animal should have been happening to him or her.” Since it is we who need to be cleansed of our wrongdoings—a cleansing of our blood, our flesh, and our fat—G-d in His great mercy gave us an alternative: we could replace ourselves with an animal, an animal that would endure this process in our stead.

But the Torah is not a lesson in ancient history; its every word is eternal and relevant to each one of us in every day and age. In a Temple-less world, we need to look a little deeper into Torah to discover the relationship of these sacrifices to our contemporary lives.

There are two polar forces within each of us: a force that desires material pleasures and a force that yearns for spirituality and G-dliness. Simply put, our search for purpose, for meaning, for serving G-d are at constant odds with “the animal” in us: the part of us that would rather indulge our selfish passions than contribute our time and resources to a higher cause. The centrality of the animal offerings in the Temple reflects the essence of our divine purpose: To submit the animal within us to G-d.

Now, when we read how a person brought a sacrifice upon the altar: “Adam ki yakriv mikem,” we find a curious twist of words. Instead of saying, “When one of you will bring an offering,” the literal translation is, “When a person will bring an offering of you.” The “of you” tells us that by bringing an animal to be sacrificed on the altar, we are actually bringing to the altar the animal in us.

Offering yourself, the animal in you, to G-d is the cornerstone of all Judaism, but how is this accomplished? Do you crush the animal passion and pleasure in you and live a somber life of deprivation and misery? The answer lies in the derivation of the word korban. While korban is often translated as “sacrifice,” the actual translation of the word comes from the root word kiruv, meaning “to draw close.”

We make ourselves a korban by “bringing close” the pure essence of the animal in us to G-d. We don’t annihilate it, we use it to help us approach divinity, to get closer to the quintessential purpose for which we were created. An animal cannot behave in any way other than how G-d created it. Bulls are aggressive, sheep are self-indulgent, and goats are stubborn. But the animal in us has a choice. We can be an obnoxious “bully,” or we can channel our passions toward an assertive love for G-d. We can indulge in our sheeplike lust for pleasure, or we can get pleasure in helping others and living a meaningful life.

At the heart of every force in our lives, even the ones that manifest negative expression, lies a kernel that can be directed to a constructive and G-dly cause. What we do “sacrifice” is the object of our desires, the immature or narrow attitudes we assume, our ignorance and our blind spots — so that our essential natures can emerge.

Should we “give up” our lives for G-d? Certainly not! That’s sacrifice. We shouldn’t give up our G-d-given talents and behaviors; we should bring them closer to their purer state. When you become a korban, you have the opportunity to transform every aspect of yourself, to become the greatest person you can be; a person who no longer walks among the beasts, but hand and hand with G-d.

Speak to the children of Israel and say to them: A man (adam) who shall bring near, from [among] you, an offering to G-d, of the cattle, of the herd and of the flock... it shall be accepted in goodwill [by G-d] from him, to atone for him...

The word the Torah uses here for “man,” adam, is a rather unusual usage—far more common is the synonym ish. The Midrash explains that this is an allusion to Adam, the first man, and is the Torah’s way of teaching us that any offering that is not rightfully one’s own is not accepted by G-d: “When you bring an offering to Me, be like the first Adam, who could not have stolen from anyone, since he was alone in the world.”[1]

But this, too, is a departure from the norm. Usually, when the Torah wishes to emphasize that a certain mitzvah must be performed with one’s own property, it does so by simply adding the word lachem (“to you”), or the like.[2] Obviously, there is something more to this evocation of the first human being.

When we speak of Adam as one who could not possibly have used someone else’s property, we are referring to the first few hours of his life, following which he shared the world with Eve, Cain and Abel.[3] Thus we are speaking of Adam before he partook of the Tree of Knowledge—of man still unsullied by sin. Indeed, prior to the first transgression of history, man was not only free of sin but also devoid of all intrinsic potential for anything contrary to his mission and purpose in life.[4]

This is the deeper significance of the Torah’s reference to the bearer of an offering as an “Adam.” Most offerings are brought in atonement for a transgression of the divine will. But how does an offering from “the herd and the flock” atone for a soul that has, in effect, reneged on its commitment to G-d, divorcing itself from its source of life and its very raison d’être? Indeed, the gift of an ox or sheep is devoid of meaning, unless it is brought by an adam. Every man, the Torah is saying, harbors in the pith of his soul a pristine “Adam.” Even at the very moment his external self was transgressing the divine will, his inner essence remained loyal to G-d; it was only silenced and suppressed by his baser instincts.[5] It is by accessing this core of purity that man achieves atonement. By unearthing that part of himself that did not sin in the first place and restoring it to its rightful place as the sovereign of his life, man can literally undo past wrongs, bringing to light their ultimately positive function, which is to stimulate his quest for self-betterment and bring him closer to G-d.

When the Adam from within you makes the offering, then the beast from the herd or flock, offered as a representation of your own conquest of your animal self, is accepted in goodwill by the Almighty.[6]

Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Shabbat Parashat Vayikra 5732 and 5733 (1972 and 1973)[7]

Is sad bad? Chassidic teaching differentiates between two types of sorrow: merirus, a constructive grief, and atzvus, a destructive grief. The first is the distress of one who not only recognizes his failings but also cares about them. One who agonizes over the wrongs he has committed, over his missed opportunities, over his unrealized potential. One who refuses to become indifferent to what is deficient in himself and his world. The second is the distress of one who has despaired of himself and his fellow man, whose melancholy has drained him of hope and initiative. The first is a springboard for self-improvement; the second a bottomless pit.

How does one distinguish between the two? The first is active, the second---passive. The first one weeps, the second's eyes are dry and blank. The first one's mind and heart are in turmoil, the second's are still with apathy and heavy as lead. And what happens when it passes, when they emerge from their respective bouts of grief? The first one springs to action: resolving, planning, taking his first faltering steps to undo the causes of his sorrow. The second one goes to sleep.

All his life, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov strove to reach the Holy Land. He would often say that if he and Rabbi Chaim ibn Attar,[8] who lived in Jerusalem, would join forces, they would bring Moshiach. But this was not to be. Several times, the Baal Shem Tov set out for his destination, but all sorts of mishaps and catastrophes forced him to return home empty-handed.

One of these failed journeys left Rabbi Israel and his daughter, Adel, stranded penniless in Istanbul on the eve of Passover, without matzah, wine or any provisions for the festival. Mysteriously, the Baal Shem Tov’s spiritual powers had also departed from him, and his great mind was blank—he could barely remember the forms of the alef-bet.

Rabbi Israel had already gone to the synagogue and his daughter was contemplating their empty seder table when a man knocked on their door. “I’m from Poland,” he said, “traveling through this city on business matters. I was told that two fellow Jews from my home country are staying here. I would like very much to spend the festival with you.”

“You’re welcome to share our lodgings,” said Adel, “but, unfortunately, we can’t provide you with much of a seder. We have nothing—no matzot, no wine, no bitter herbs, not even a candle with which to usher in the festival...”

“No matter,” said the guest, “I have everything with me. I knew that I would be spending Passover on the road, so I brought along all the festival provisions. There is enough for all of us.”

When Rabbi Israel returned from the synagogue, he found a fully-furnished seder laid out before him: lit candles, matzot, wine and everything needed to fulfill the mitzvot of the day. His joy knew no bounds, for at that moment the divine spirit had also returned to inhabit his soul.

After they had recited the Haggadah, eaten the matzah and the maror, and were enjoying the festival meal, the Baal Shem Tov turned to the guest and said: “You have restored my life to me. How can I repay you? Ask for anything that you require, and I promise you that your need will be filled.”

“G-d has blessed me with wealth,” said the man, “and I want for nothing material. But my wife and I have been married for many years, and have failed to conceive a child. Rabbi, I see that you are a righteous and holy man. Surely your prayers can open the gates of heaven. Please, bless us with a child.”

“I swear,” said Rabbi Israel, “that before the year is out, you will be holding your child in your arms.”

No sooner had these words left his mouth than there was a great commotion in the heavens, for this man and his wife had been born without the capacity to bear children. Yet even the heavens must abide by the law that “[G-d] does the will of those who fear Him.”[9] The oath of the Baal Shem Tov would have to be fulfilled.

A proclamation was issued which resounded throughout the supernal worlds: “This man and his wife will indeed bear a child. But because Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov has forced the hand of heaven to overturn the laws of nature, he has forfeited his portion in the World to Come.”

Upon hearing this proclamation, the Baal Shem Tov’s face lit up with joy. “How fortunate I am!” he cried. “I just learned that I have forfeited all heavenly reward for my good deeds. All my life I have been troubled by the thought that perhaps my service of the Almighty is tainted by the expectation of reward. Now, however, my service of G-d will be pure, free of the possibility of any ulterior motive!”

[2]. E.g. Leviticus 23:40 and Deuteronomy 16:13 (as per Talmud, Sukkah 27b). Indeed, the Talmud (ibid., 30a) derives the ineligibility of stolen property for an offering from the word mikem (“from you”) in our own verse (as opposed to the Midrash and Rashi, who employ the above-quoted derivation from adam).

[3]. See Talmud, Sanhedrin 38b; Rashi, Genesis 4:1. Cain and Abel owned property independently of their father, as is evidenced by the offerings they brought to G-d—Genesis 4:3-4

[4]. Kabbalistic and chassidic teaching explain that while evil also existed prior to Adam’s sin, it was a phenomenon outside of the person—thus evil appears in the Garden of Eden in the form of a distinct creature, the “serpent.” Adam’s partaking of the “tree of knowledge (daat, meaning intimate knowledge and identification) of good and evil” resulted in the internalization of evil as a component drive and inclination within the human psyche (see note 3 of Clearing the Rubble, in last week’s issue of Week In Review).

[6]. Thus Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi explains the seemingly awkward construction of the second verse of Leviticus, quoted above. Why does the Torah write “a man who shall bring near, from you, an offering...” (adam ki yakriv mikem korban), instead of the more grammatically fluent “a man from you who shall bring near an offering...” (adam mikem ki yakriv korban )? But the Torah wishes to emphasize that the offering is to be brought “from you.” The person must be offering something from within himself to G-d—something of which the offered calf or lamb is but the tactile representation (Likkutei Torah, Vayikra 2b-d; cf. Talmud, Menachot 110a; Rashi, Leviticus 1:17 and 2:1; Nachmanides, ibid., 1:9; Sforno, ibid., verse 2; et al).