May 5th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
I would like to focus on three passages in this week’s Torah portion. The first provides a philosophical and aesthetic basis: “When you sacrifice a thanksgiving offering to the Lord, lir’tzon’chem tizbachu / sacrifice it so that it may be acceptable in your favor.” (Leviticus 22.29) The Hebrew word ratzon is usually translated as acceptable and is found in many places in our Tradition. The most famous example is at the end of Psalm 19: “May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart l’ratzon be acceptable to You, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.”
The interesting and problematic thing about this word is that it is not very specific. Acceptable is a concept based on a variety of situations and cultural mores. An acceptable menu for a back yard barbeque is not the same as an acceptable menu for a formal banquet. Acceptable behavior for a raucous party is not the same as acceptable behavior for a worship service. Acceptable explanations for five-year olds are not the same as acceptable explanations for grown-ups. One could extend this to diverse cultural settings. While, in some cultures, a loud belch is a sign of appreciation for a delicious meal, such a response would not have been appreciated at my Mother’s table.
It seems pretty obvious that we would want our worship to be acceptable to God, but exactly what does this mean? Fortunately, the Torah gives case-specific definitions: “The sacrifice shall be eaten on the same day; you shall not leave any of it until morning: I am the Lord.” This is for the zevach todah / the sacrifice of thanksgiving. For a different sacrifice, the zevah sh’lamim / sacrifice of well-being, the rules are a little looser: “It shall be eaten on the day you sacrifice it, or on the day following, but what is left by the third day must be consumed in fire.” (Leviticus 19.5-8) In both cases, however, the yuckiness of leftovers lessens the honor God feels in the sacred meal, and worshippers are warned lest they desecrate (lessen the sacredness of) their intimacy with the Lord.
Acceptability is always a mixture of intention and form, and, if we really want a gesture or ritual to mean something to someone else, we need to pay attention. Just going through the motions does not accomplish the emotional or spiritual connection intended.
Our second passage follows this theme, reminding us that the gifts we bring to God should be in good shape: “When a man offers, from the herd or the flock, a sacrifice…to be acceptable it must be without blemish; there must be no defect in it.” (Leviticus 22.21) A variety of physical imperfections for livestock are then delineated—the point being that giving something to God that would not fetch a good price in the market is not respectful. Farmers know the comparative values of perfect or imperfect livestock, and, as the Torah reminds us, God knows as well.
What is disturbing is that this focus on physical perfection is carried over to the priesthood. In our third passage, Aaron is instructed: “No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the food of his God. No one at all who has a defect shall be qualified: no man who is blind, or lame, or has a limb too long, too short, or mutilated, or has a broken leg or a broken arm, or who is a hunchback, or a dwarf, or who has a growth in his eye, or who has a boil-scar, or scurvy, or crushed testes…” (Leviticus 21.16-20) These “imperfect” priestly descendants are allowed to eat the sacred meals—the priests’ share of the sacrifices being an important part of the priestly families’ income, but they cannot officiate in the Tabernacle or Temple. In the ancient mentality, this imperfection signals disrespect for God. It is not l’ratzon / acceptable.
Hopefully, we are past this kind of thinking, and enlightened legislation like the Americans With Disabilities Act has hopefully cleared the way for “less than perfect” individuals to participate more fully in society. The past century has seen great strides in inclusion and accommodation for people with a variety of physical, intellectual, and emotional disabilities. Though these human beings may be limited in some ways, the challenge has been to find ways that they can function fully and constructively. As the specifics have been explored, it is remarkable how many disabilities seem to pale before the real work these formerly disenfranchised individuals can do. I remember, in particular, a cashier at a Wal-Mart in Pensacola who had dwarfism. Her short stature made that work impossible—until the store provided a pedestal for her at the register, and she was able to work as well as any other cashier. The accommodation was remarkably small for the result, and these kinds of adjustments have given new life to thousands of disabled individuals in thousands of situations.
Who knows whether God or the priesthood would have re-evaluated these ancient rules as time went by, but, when the Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE, the priesthood faded into inactivity, and such rules became irrelevant. The scholars who succeeded the ancient priests—the Rabbis—had no such limitations, and heredity and physical perfection ceased to be official factors in Jewish leadership.
That does not, however, remove the biases that perhaps gave rise to those ancient prescriptions and which continue today. Is there not something in our souls which makes us think that “better” people are better at their tasks? Why have all of our U.S. Presidents been over six feet tall? Why was Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s disability hidden as much as possible? Why do we believe the testimonies and endorsements of famous and beautiful celebrities? Do successful athletes really know more about beer or trucks or sandwiches?
This is not a new situation or realization—which is probably why the ancient sage Rabbi Judah HaNasi felt the need to give this famous counsel: “Al tis’takel b’kan’kan, elah bemah she’yesh bo. Do not look at the bottle but at what it contains: a new bottle may contain old wine, and an old bottle which may not even have new wine.” (Avot 4.20)
We all know that this is true, but we somehow keep forgetting. We sacrifice our good judgment to fluff and pretty packaging, and we often pay the price. May we learn to look into the heart of things—into the internal truths which possess quality or truth or the lack thereof. Perhaps reminding ourselves of this ancient unfairness—of only allowing physically “perfect” priests to officiate—can help us in this process. God knows what is in every heart and mind, and God, I believe, is not deterred by what humans regard as imperfect. We are all—all of us!—created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, so let us look carefully.