The Bible for the Clueless But Curious

God tells the Israelites the laws of sacrifices. Sacrifices are primarily brought in atonement for serious crimes.

Imagine you make a very serious mistake that leaves you feeling alienated and distant from God. You take a cow -- a large, expensive, warm-blooded animal with soulful brown eyes and you bring it to the Temple. You rest your hands on its head and you confess the mistake you made. Then you slaughter the cow. It's butchered in front of you. The blood is poured on the altar. The fat is put on the altar to burn. How do you feel? (Don't say disgusted.) I'll tell you how you feel. You feel overwhelmed with emotion, jarred by the confrontation you've just had with death, and grateful to be alive. You've had a catharsis. The cow on the altar was a vicarious offering of yourself.

No more so than the ways we customarily use animals already. We routinely eat animals, wear them, turn them into furniture, use them for medicinal research, and hunt them for sport. God created animals for our use (though not for wanton abuse). The need of someone who is oppressed by guilt to restore his relationship with God is just as legitimate as the desire for a dinner that's "finger lickin' good."

In fact, the Hebrew word for "sacrifice" is korban. The root karev means to "draw close." Sacrifices are to help us draw close to God.

When the Tabernacle is finished, there are seven days of celebration. On the eighth day the Children of Israel put a sacrifice on the altar. A great ball of fire descends from the heavens and consumes the offering. The people are overwhelmed with excitement and emotion. They know God is in their midst. Then two of Aaron's sons, Nadav and Avihu, filled with ecstatic desire for even greater closeness to God, take incense and rush into the Tabernacle -- and God strikes them dead. The Children of Israel are stunned.

The Bible's only clue to Nadav and Avihu's crime is the Bible's words that "they brought an offering God had not commanded." But what's wrong with volunteerism?

Did you ever notice that kids are models of helpfulness at a friend's house but won't pick up their socks at home? It's easy to be good when you don't have to, because there's no obligation to make you feel trapped and resentful. But when you're expected to clear the table, it gets your back up, and then being good is an altogether different and greater challenge. Goodness that comes and goes on a whim is neither meaningful nor reliable. Real goodness is accepted as an obligation.

Autonomy from constraint is a core American value. Pilgrims seeking religious freedom settled the 13 original colonies, and flight from political and religious coercion continues to fuel immigration to the United States.

But exaggerated emphasis on autonomy has a dark side -- the breakdown of community and of moral obligation. A father needs to come home and feed his kids every night, even though he doesn't always feel personally rewarded. If each person's priority is his own fulfillment, you can't count on anyone.

Nadav and Avihu didn't just value autonomy. They made individuality the guiding principle of their lives. (The word nadav means "voluntary.") They felt like making an offering, and they wanted to do it their way. But if you want to get close to God, you have to do it His way.

The Bible speaks of a disease called tzaras. This is sometimes translated as "leprosy," but it was really an affliction signaling a spiritual illness. People got tzaras if they spoke slander.

Under U.S. law, you're not guilty of libel if you told the truth. But unless there is a practical need, the Bible prohibits derogatory speech about other people even if it's true. (If you were asked to provide a job reference, that would be an example of practical need -- you would be permitted to tell the truth, even if it weren't pretty.)

Casual slander of other people fills our lives and conversations. (Imagine newspapers and magazines without gossip.)

We damage people by speaking ill of them, but the greatest victim of slander is the speaker. If you habitually focus on other people's faults and failings, it fills your life with poison.

Two men were walking together on the road when they passed the carcass of a dog.

Why fill your conversation with criticism and complaints? Look for the good, and speak of that instead. You'll be happier.

Life isn't lived alone, it's lived with others. If through slander we destroy our community's atmosphere of trust, we destroy our own ability to live fully. If you got tzaras, you learned that when you speak slander, the life you destroy is your own.

God tells Moses that Aaron should perform the Yom Kippur services. It is his job to intercede for the Israelites with God, bear their prayers aloft, and seek forgiveness for their transgressions.

The central event of the service involves casting lots (like dice) on two identical goats. One goat is then sacrificed and its blood sprinkled in the Tabernacle's innermost sanctum, the Holy of Holies. The other goat becomes the "scapegoat." Aaron places his hands on it and confesses the Nation's mistakes. The scapegoat is then thrown over a cliff, symbolically bearing the guilt of the people on its head (Leviticus 16:1-28).

Two men may be identical in genes, upbringing, and experience. One sanctifies his life, and uplifts the world around him. The other destroys himself, and drags the world down with him. This is the miracle of free will.

The psychologist Victor Frankl survived the Nazi death camps. He points out that in the camps some people became monsters and others became saints.

Pain embitters some people; their misery taints the lives of all around them. Pain deepens other people; they grow and enhance the lives of everyone they know. Whatever the circumstances of our lives, we still have choice. That is the meaning of "free will."

The two Yom Kippur goats begin identical. Then one ascends to the highest level of holiness, while the other achieves the deepest shame.

Though Aaron's loss might have embittered him, instead it made him a greater, deeper, better person. Having demonstrated in his own life the power of free will, Aaron could now lead the Israelites toward a greater intimacy with God on Yom Kippur.

It has been my experience that a moment of tragedy is no time for philosophy. All life's energy goes into coping and getting though the day. But eventually, the pain recedes, and then looking carefully, we may find it has left behind gifts of insight into the meaning of our lives.

#3 of 5 in the Aish.com Bible For Clueless Series
<< Previous The Bible for the Clueless But Curious - Exodus	Next >> The Bible for the Clueless But Curious - Numbers

If you would like to receive "Aish Weekly Update" or other features via e-mail, please enter you email address here:

Listen to audio by
Rabbi Nachum Braverman

Hear related audio on this topic