S.A.L.T. – PARASHAT VAYIKRA

By Rav David Silverberg

Motzaei Shabbat

            In the context of the korban mincha (meal offering), the Torah in Parashat Vayikra (2:11) issues a prohibition against including honey or leavening agents with one’s offering.  The implication, seemingly, is that the korbanot that one offers are to be plain and simple, without artificial enhancers.  In the very next verse, however, the Torah commands that salt be added to every sacrifice (“al kol korbankha takriv melach”) – conveying the precise opposite message, that it is appropriate, and even obligatory, to add seasoning to sacrifices.

            Rav Mordechai Gifter, in Pirkei Torah, suggests an insightful symbolic explanation of these two laws.  The different seasonings that must or may not be added to a korban symbolize voluntary “enhancements” to our “offerings,” to our religious observance.  Beyond our compliance with the basic obligations and demands of Halakha, we are allowed, and encouraged, to add “enhancers,” voluntary measures to express our devotion to God.  However, the Torah warns that we must enhance our avodat Hashem with “salt,” and not with “leaven” or “honey.”  Adding leaven to a product enhances the product by changing its consistency, and honey has the effect of adding a sweet flavor that dominates the food’s taste.  In short, leaven and honey enhance a food by changing it – either its taste or consistency – into something different.  Salt, by contrast, has the effect of bringing out the food’s natural flavor.  When salt is added to food, it does not change its natural taste, but rather improves its natural taste.  We might say that it enhances the food from within, by enhancing its intrinsic properties, rather than overtaking the food’s flavor from without.

            Similarly, “enhancements” to our avodat Hashem must come from within, and not from without.  They must express our sincere feelings of commitment of devotion.  All too often, people undertake measures that merely mimic what they observe around them.  Rather than expressing sincere emotions, these measures are external acts superimposed onto a person’s religious life.  Though ostensibly intended for the sake of spiritual devotion, they in truth serve to satisfy one’s desire for conformity, to bring him the comfort of knowing that he acts like the people around him.  The Torah encourages us to add “enhancers” that bring out the best within us, not that force external qualities upon us.  It therefore requires enhancing sacrifices with salt, and forbids enhancing sacrifices with leaven or honey – to teach us the importance of sincerity and honesty in finding our unique path in avodat Hashem, and to warn against mistaking superficial, robotic conformity for genuine religious commitment.

(See Rav_Dovid_Gottlieb’s “Salt vs. Honey: The Spiritual Taste Test”)

Sunday

            The Torah introduces the topic of the korbanot in the second verse of Parashat Vayikra by stating, “Adam ki yakriv mikem korban l-Hashem…” (“A person among you who offers a sacrifice to the Lord…”).  Rashi famously cites the Midrash as noting the use of the term “adam” in this context, and explaining that the Torah alludes here to Adam Ha-rishon.  According to Midrashic tradition, Adam offered a voluntary sacrifice to God to atone for his sin, and the Midrash views this sacrifice as a paradigm for future sacrifices.  Just as Adam quite obviously did not take a stolen animal for his sacrifice – for, after all, there was nobody else in existence from whom he could steal – likewise, a person who offers a sacrifice must ensure not to bring a stolen animal.

            Many later writers and darshanim noted the difficulty in the Midrash’s comment.  While the message itself is clear, the need to extract it from this verse is hard to understand.  Is it not obvious that one may not steal for the purpose of offering a sacrifice, and that such a sacrifice is disqualified?  And, why does the Midrash view Adam’s sacrifice as the paradigm of a sacrificial animal obtained through legal means?  Adam did not have the possibility of stealing, even if he wanted to.  Why, then, is he seen as the exemplar of an ethical sacrifice?

            One possible answer is that the Midrash seeks to warn against not offering a stolen animal, but rather offering an animal whose ownership is in question or disputed.  What was unique about Adam’s sacrifice was not simply the fact that the animal belonged to him, but rather that it was clear and evident that it belonged to him.  There could not have been any question or possible claim that the animal was stolen property.  And it is in this sense, perhaps, that the Midrash viewed Adam’s sacrifice as the paradigm offering.  It goes without saying that stealing an animal and offering it as a sacrifice is outright hypocrisy and makes a mockery of the Torah’s sacrificial system.  What might be less obvious, though, is the need to ensure that there are no suspicions or claims surrounding the animal.  The animal must be not only legally owned, but undisputedly so.  Even offering disputed property as an offering denigrates the Mikdash and brings shame to the sacrificial rite.

            The context of this verse at the beginning of Sefer Vayikra is a korban nedava, a voluntary sacrifice.  The Midrash perhaps seeks to teach us that voluntary measures are appropriate only if a person abides by the strictest standards of ethics to the point where he is above suspicion.  Just as stealing for the sake of serving God is disgraceful, so is allowing room for suspicion of stealing for the sake of serving God.  If a person seeks to enhance his relationship with God through voluntary religious measures, he must first ensure that he both is and appears strictly honest and ethical.  Embarking on ambitious religious pursuits when one’s reputation is tainted by suspicion brings shame and dishonor to those pursuits, and to Torah generally.  We are therefore bidden to follow the example of Adam, of being not only ethical, but also above suspicion, and only then are we able to come before God with our personal, voluntary “offerings.”

Monday

            Yesterday, we noted Rashi’s famous comment to the second verse of Parashat Vayikra concerning the use of the word “adam” in the context of a voluntary sacrifice: “Adam ki yakriv mikem korban l-Hashem...”  Citing the Midrash, Rashi writes that the Torah seeks to allude here to Adam Ha-rishon, who offered a sacrifice to God.  His sacrifice, quite obviously, could not have been from stolen property, as the entire world belonged to him at the time, and thus the Torah conveys the message that any person who offers a sacrifice must follow this example, and not bring an offering from stolen property.

            Some have noted another possible aspect of the Torah’s subtle allusion to Adam in the context of voluntary offerings.  As the only person in existence, Adam could not possibly have been attempting to impress anybody through his sacrifice.  His offering was sincere, and not driven by a desire to score social points by making an impression on his peers.  And it is perhaps in this sense, too, that the Torah draws our attention to Adam in its discussion of sacrifices.  People who undertake voluntary religious measures must ensure that their motives in setting and pursuing these goals are sincere.  Part of the lure of voluntary religious measures is the opportunity for distinction.  A person does not distinguish himself – or might not feel he distinguishes himself – by observing the same mitzvot and fulfilling the same halakhic obligations as everybody else.  Somebody who seeks distinction, who craves attention and the admiration of his peers, might be driven to undertake some kind of voluntary “korban” to that end, to earn respect and esteem.  The Torah therefore admonishes us to ensure that our voluntary measures are undertaken sincerely, like the offering of Adam, who was certainly not out to impress anybody.

We mustn’t use Torah and mitzvot as means for bolstering our social standing, or our ego.  Our commitment must be sincere, fueled by a genuine desire to serve our Creator, rather than the interest in serving ourselves.

            (See Rabbi Eli Mansour’s “Reverse Marranos”

Tuesday

            Commenting on the first verse of Sefer Vayikra, Rashi cites several passages from Torat Kohanim relating to the manner in which God spoke to Moshe after the Mishkan was erected.  In one passage, Torat Kohanim notes the Torah’s description of God speaking to Moshe “mei-ohel mo’ed” (“from the Tent of Meeting”), which Torat Kohanim explains to mean that the sound of God speaking was confined to the inside of the tent.  Torat Kohanim emphasizes that although the sound was loud and forceful, the same sound which a verse in Tehillim (29:5) describes as capable of shattering cedars, it did not leave the confines of the Mishkan.  The voice was somehow disrupted by the walls of the tent so that only Moshe heard it, and not those standing outside.

            What might be the significance of a loud, thunderous sound that was inaudible outside the Mishkan?  If God wanted to speak to Moshe privately, without allowing Benei Yisrael to hear, then why did He not simply communicate with Moshe in a softer tone?  What might the inaudible loud voice represent?

            Although only Moshe heard God speak, this was not because God did not speak loudly enough.  His words are spoken loudly enough for anyone to hear them…but not everybody does.

            The Rambam famously writes in Hilkhot Teshuva (5:2):

Do not let the idea that the fools among the gentiles and most ignoramuses among the Jews say, that the Almighty decrees upon a person from his inception that he will be righteous or wicked.  This is not so; rather, every person is worthy of being righteous like Moshe Rabbenu or wicked like Yerovam…

Beyond simply emphasizing the doctrine of free will which says that each person is capable of choosing a path of piety or sinfulness, the Rambam goes so far as to say that every individual is capable of “being righteous like Moshe Rabbenu.”  The voice that spoke to Moshe Rabbenu speaks loudly enough that it can, theoretically, be heard by all.  It goes unheard only because of our choice to remain “outside the tent,” because we do not exert the effort needed to raise ourselves to the level of Moshe Rabbenu.  God did not whisper to Moshe because He wanted to let it be known that His voice is, in principle, accessible to one and all.  He does not lower His voice to speak to one person; He instead speaks in a voice loud enough to be heard by all, even though it generally goes unheard. 

The loud voice spoken to Moshe thus serves as a reminder that God’s special relationship could, potentially, be achieved by any person who works to achieve Moshe’s unique spiritual stature.  God’s “voice” is capable of reaching us, too.  The shortcoming is not with God, but rather with us.  Through dedicated hard work and effort, we, too, can take a step or several steps closer to the “tent,” and be worthy of hearing the “voice,” each according to his or her level and capacity.

Wednesday

            The Gemara in Masekhet Menachot (22a) raises the possibility that when a person takes it upon himself to bring a sacrifice, he must bring not only the sacrifice itself, but also the firewood and materials for igniting the fire.  After all, we might have assumed, if a person wishes to offer a sacrifice to God, then he must assume responsibility for the consumption of the sacrifice on the altar, which obviously entails the matches and firewood.  The Gemara dispels this notion by citing a verse from the beginning of Parashat Vayikra (1:8), which instructs that the kohanim must place the animal “on the wood which is on the fire which is on the altar.”  By mentioning the wood, fire and altar in the same clause, the Gemara comments, the Torah indicates that the wood and fire must resemble the altar.  Just as the altar is built with public funds, and not through private donations, similarly, the firewood and matches used to ignite the fire are supplied by public funds.  The individual who brings a sacrifice does not purchase the wood or matches, as these must be supplied by the Temple treasury which is funded by the entire nation.

            On one level, this halakha simply establishes that the firewood and matches are to be viewed as part of the altar, rather than part of the sacrifice.  The Torah speaks of the firewood, matches and altar in a single clause, alluding to the fact that they are all part of a single system.  Thus, as the Temple treasury is responsible for providing an altar for sacrifices, it is, by extension, responsible for providing the firewood and matches.  We view the firewood and matches not as part of each individual sacrifice, but rather as part of the altar, and they are therefore provided by the public treasury.

            Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his Yalkut Yehuda, suggests an additional insight into the significance of this halakha.  The effective result of this provision is that anytime an individual offers a sacrifice, the entire nation participates in the offering.  He bears the brunt of the expense, certainly, as he supplies the animal, but all Am Yisrael take part in a small way by supplying the accessories.  What this might symbolize, Rav Ginsburg suggests, is the collective responsibility that we all bear for the wrongdoing of each individual.  As “all Yisrael are responsible for one another,” we all, on one level or another, bear some degree of accountability for the mistakes committed by individuals.  We all contribute to the environment within which everyone else lives and functions, and thus just as we can rightfully claim a small degree of credit for the meritorious behavior this environment engenders, we also bear some degree of responsibility for the wrongful behavior that it leads to.  Therefore, when a person commits a sin and brings a sacrifice for atonement, the entire nation joins in his sacrifice, to a small extent, to atone for their small share in the offense.

            We might extend this theory to apply to other voluntary offerings – meaning, shelamim sacrifices, which are generally brought to celebrate a festive occasion, and not as atonement.  It appears that when it comes to a Jew’s personal festivity, too, we all must share in the celebration.  If somebody brings a sacrifice to celebrate and give thanks to God for his good fortune, we all share in his joy and in his expression of gratitude to the Almighty.  The entire nation’s participation in a festive shelamim sacrifice represents the sense of gratitude that we must all experience for the good fortune bestowed upon our fellow.  Just as we bear some degree of accountability for the mistakes of our peers, similarly, we bear an obligation to feel grateful for their success and good fortune, and therefore all Am Yisrael share in the expenses of the shelamim sacrifice, just as they do in those of atonement offerings.

Thursday

            Sefer Vayikra begins with the verse, “He [God] called to Moshe, and the Lord spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying.”

            The Gemara comments in Masekhet Yoma (4b), “From where do we know that when one says something to his fellow it is presumed forbidden to be relayed unless he says to him, ‘Go and say it’?  As it says, ‘the Lord spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying’.”  This verse is cited as the source of the halakha forbidding one to relay to another person that which somebody had told him unless he received authorization from the speaker.  Rashi explains that the Gemara reads the word “leimor” (commonly translated as “saying”) as “lo amor” – “do not say.”  This word thus subtly alludes to the fact that one may not relay information unless the speaker explicitly grants him authorization to do so.  The Maharsha explains differently, claiming, simply, that the word “leimor” means “to say,” and thus indicates that God explicitly authorized Moshe to convey the information to the people.  Otherwise, Moshe would not have had permission to relay the material he heard spoken by God.

            Several writers addressed the obvious question of why the Gemara cited specifically this verse at the beginning of Sefer Vayikra.  Throughout Chumash we find God’s commands introduced with the term “leimor,” which (regardless of which interpretation one accepts) indicates that God had to specifically authorize Moshe to relay the information.  Why, then, does the Gemara point specifically to this verse?

            Indeed, the She’iltot, in his codification of this halakha (28), cites a random sampling of verses which mention the word “leimor” in introducing God’s commands to Moshe.  The Netziv, in his Ha’amek She’eila, notes that, as indicated by the She’iltot, the Gemara’s inference is not from any particular verse, but rather from the frequent use of the term “leimor” which indicates that a listener must be authorized to convey the information.  Support for this theory may be drawn from Dikdukei Sofrim (cited in Torah Sheleima to this verse, note 31), which cites a text of the Gemara’s comment where only the word “leimor” appears, without the phrase, “the Lord spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting.”  Clearly, according to this version of the text, the inference is from the common word “leimor,” and not specifically from the first verse in Sefer Vayikra.

            Others, however, uphold the prevalent editions of the text, and seek to explain why the Gemara chose to cite specifically this verse.  The Ritva, in his commentary to the Gemara, suggests that the Gemara cites this verse because it begins with the phrase, “He called to Moshe” (“Va-yikra el Moshe”).  Unlike in most other instances of God’s communication with Moshe, the Torah here relates that God called to Moshe before speaking to him.  The people likely heard the call to Moshe, even though they did not hear what God then said to him after he entered the Mishkan.  One might have thought that since the people heard the calling to Moshe, they are then entitled to hear the information spoken to Moshe even without God’s specific authorization.  The Gemara therefore cited this verse to indicate that even when there is reason to suspect that the speaker intended for the information to be relayed, one must receive permission to do so.

            We might also add that this verse tells of God’s first communication with Moshe inside the newly-constructed Mishkan, and the main purpose of these encounters in the Mishkan was to issue laws that would be then conveyed to the people.  When God issues the command to construct a Mishkan, and describes the Ark, He says to Moshe, “I will convene with you there; I will speak to you from above the kaporet, from between the two cherubs that are on the Ark of Testimony, all that I will command you regarding the Israelites” (Shemot 25:22).  The entire purpose of speaking to Moshe inside the Mishkan was to issue commands to Benei Yisrael.  And yet, when He spoke to Moshe, God made a point of emphasizing “leimor,” that the information is to be relayed to the people.  Even though this might have been self-understood in light of the context and stated purpose of these meetings, God nevertheless gave explicit authorization for the material to be relayed to the people.  Thus, this verse, more than others, demonstrates the full extent of this halakha, requiring that one receive permission before relaying information that he heard, even if he has good reason to suspect, based on the context of the conversation, that such permission has been implicitly granted.

FRIDAY

            In its discussion of the voluntary ola offering of a bull, the Torah writes in Parashat Vayikra (1:5) that the animal must be slaughtered “lifnei Hashem” (“before the Lord”).  Rashi explains this phrase to mean that the animal is slaughtered in the azara (courtyard outside the Mikdash).  The implication of Rashi’s comment seems to be that the animal may be slaughtered anywhere in the azara.  This is not, however, correct.  The Mishna in Masekhet Zevachim (5:4) explicitly establishes that the slaughtering of an ola sacrifice takes place specifically to the north of the altar in the azara.  Indeed, when the Torah describes an ola offering of a sheep (1:11), it requires that the sheep be slaughtered on the north side of the altar.  The Gemara in Masekhet Zevachim (48a) establishes that the requirements that apply to the sheep offering are relevant as well to the bull offering.  The Torah begins its discussion of the sheep offering immediately after the section dealing with the bull offering, and it uses the conjunction “ve-“ (“ve-im min ha-tzon” – 1:10), indicating a connection between the two.  Thus, the requirement that the sheep offering be slaughtered specifically to the north of the altar applies as well to the bull offering.

            In light of this, it becomes difficult to understand why the Torah requires slaughtering the bull ola offering “lifnei Hashem,” which, as Rashi explains, appears to refer to the entire area of the azara.  If Halakha in truth requires performing the slaughtering specifically to the north of the altar, why did the Torah simply mention “lifnei Hashem”?

            This question was raised by Rav Eliezer Lipman Lichtenstein in his Sheim Olam commentary to Sefer Vayikra (Warsaw, 5637).  He notes that the commentaries on Rashi do not address this question, as to why the Torah would require slaughtering the bull ola offering in the azara, if in truth this must be done in one specific part of the azara, the north side of the altar.  And, he adds, this might be the reason why other sources interpret the term “lifnei Hashem” in this context differently.  Abarbanel writes that the phrase “lifnei Hashem” here refers to the positioning of the bull with its face turned westward, toward the kodesh ha-kodashim (the inner sanctum of the Temple).  The location of the slaughtering – to the north of the altar – is established based on the parity between the bull offering and the sheep offering, as mentioned, whereas the positioning of the animal’s face during slaughtering is established through the term “lifnei Hashem.”  Rav Lichtenstein notes that this interpretation of “lifnei Hashem” also appears in the anonymous commentary to Masekhet Tamid (4:1).

            The seeming difficulty with this interpretation, however, as Rav Lichtenstein notes, is that this halakha does not appear anywhere in the Talmud or other sources.  The sources speak about positioning the animal in this manner in the context of the daily tamid offering, but not with regard to voluntary private offerings.  According to Abarbanel’s interpretation, we would expect to find mention of this requirement that an animal brought as a voluntary ola is slaughtered with its face turned toward the kodesh ha-kodashim.

            Rav Lichtenstein easily answers this question by noting the berayta cited in Masekhet Yoma (36a) requiring that when one brings a voluntary offering, the animal is positioned with its face turned to the kodesh ha-kodashim during “semikha.”  The Torah requires one bringing a voluntary offering to place his hands on the animal’s head, and the berayta establishes that the animal’s face is turned to the kodesh ha-kodashim at that moment.  The Rambam (Hilkhot Ma’aseh Ha-korbanot 3:12) rules explicitly that the slaughtering takes place at the same location as the “semikha,” and immediately following the “semikha.”  It stands to reason that the animal must be slaughtered in the same position required for “semikha,” and there was thus no reason for the Talmud to specify this requirement that the slaughtering be performed with the animal’s face turned toward the kodesh ha-kodashim.  This requirement was specified with regard to the daily tamid offering because it does not require “semikha,” and thus the animal would have to be positioned in this manner especially for the slaughtering.