When an offering is made to God, we get nurtured, too

Thursday, April 2, 2009 | by rabbi elisheva salamo

Tzav

Leviticus 6:1-8:36

Malachi 3:4-24

We have shifted from the stories of Genesis and Exodus to the descriptive, almost recipe-like book of Leviticus, with its descriptions of the Temple and of sacrifices. The central book in the Torah, it is the placeholder for the nexus of holiness.

The tabernacle becomes the model for the Temple, and the inspiration for synagogues and holy spaces centuries later. This place where some aspect of the Divine presence resides gains its power in part from the “ordinariness of the experience,” such as somebody slaughtering an animal for food or bringing some grain.

Blending that “ordinary” with the extraordinary — the design, the luxurious appointments, the presence of the priests, the ritual of entrance, the fear and awe — is the mixture that we see in the description of the meal offering in this week’s parshah.

Consisting of the most ordinary of ingredients, flour and oil, this offering resonates with the basic levels of sustenance in an agricultural society: trees, and grains. Both the flour and the oil require the combination of Divine providence (causing the seed to sprout, the rain to fall, the harvest to be fruitful), and human care (planting, cultivation, harvesting and then the final transformation of wheat into flour, olives into oil).

Also, no one wants to eat flour or oil as they are — they require yet another level of mixing or cooking before they become part of the meal. A quick reading of the relevant paragraph (Leviticus 6:7-10) might be illuminating:

“And this is the ritual of the meal offering: Aaron’s sons shall present it before the Lord, in front of the altar. A handful of the choice flour and oil of the meal offering shall be taken from it, with all the frankincense that is on the meal offering, and this token portion shall be turned into smoke on the altar as a pleasing odor to the Lord. What is left of it shall be eaten by Aaron and his sons; it shall be eaten as unleavened cakes, in the sacred precinct; they shall eat it in the enclosure of the Tent of Meeting. It shall not be baked with leaven; I have given it as their portion from My offerings by fire; it is most holy, like the sin offering and the guilt offering.”

The ingredients come before the Divine Presence in the form of possibility. They are mixed with frankincense, another natural product that requires human engagement to produce (it come from the resin of a tree), but which is not edible. And that mixture is burned on the altar as the part for God.

The rest gets made into biscuits for the priests, and never leaves the sacred space. So the offering to God is still in an incomplete form, not really ready or even designed for human consumption. This is a small part of what is offered — the majority undergoes the last transformation, and becomes a bread for the servants to the people, and of the Lord.

So this offering is the jumping off point: a combination of human and Divine agency which goes to satisfy the needs of both parties. The sweet savor, which rises to the metaphorical nostrils of God, is the desire of the people to be in connection. The cakes that feed the priests are the continuation of the promise of well-being. More goes to us than to God — just as we are taught that even the beginnings of tshuva (turning) at Yom Kippur arouse the Divine Mercy, so a small part of what we bring is sufficient to make that special connection, and then the rest of our offerings serve to nourish us.

Notice, lastly, that the cakes made are unleavened. I believe that this gives us the same opportunity as we head toward the feast of unleavened bread — a small portion is set aside for God (look on your matzah boxes — it says “Challah is taken”) and the rest goes to nourish us.

That flat bread, eaten in the context of the seder, serves to remind us of our own roles as priests, as those who can bring the holiness from our hands to the now transformed altar of our Passover tables, and invite the strangers and children to ask about and re-connect with the mystery that is hope and freedom, passion and joy.

Rabbi Elisheva Salamo is the spiritual leader of Keddem Congregation in Palo Alto.