Tzav
Leviticus 6:1-8:36
Jeremiah 7:21-8:3; 9:22-23
Throughout my childhood, my parents taught me the importance of a well-written thank-you note. I was not allowed to play with a toy or use money received for a birthday or Hanukkah gift until the handwritten card was signed and sealed.
There was a time, as an adolescent, when I decided to test the system. I let a gift from my grandma go unmentioned — and it wasn’t long before the lack of response was the subject of a very stern phone call. My parents’ disappointment was clear, and I knew better than to try out that rebellion a second time.
As an adult, the message of proper thank-you notes has stuck with me. For every gift received, the box of stationery comes out. Thank you, I write, doing my best to sincerely relay my gratitude for the gift in my possession, my appreciation for the physical gesture of another’s thoughtfulness. After an important life event, like the birth of each of my children, I have been blessed to feel the ache in my wrist as I write note after note. “How lucky am I,” I try to remember as I wring out the cramp in my hand and prepare to write the next note, address the next envelope, affix the next stamp.
In Parashat Tzav, our tradition shares with us another (perhaps messier) way to show gratitude. This section of our text goes into deliberate, gory detail about the instruction to offer korbanot, sacrifices, to communicate with the Holy One. Some sacrifices come from the harvest, but the most significant ones come from the flock. As we read on throughout the book of Leviticus, each sacrifice appears bloodier than the next. While some are as simple as “leavened cakes with oil mixed in” (Lev. 7:12), they often are accompanied by animal blood that has been “dashed on the altar” and the flesh of which is “eaten on the day that it is offered” (7:14-15). We learn that thanks are expressed in the form of a primal barbecue. You could say that ancient sacrifice is the prototype for our modern-day Thanksgiving feast.
The instructions come from another world. The idea of ending an animal’s life to show gratitude for our own no longer resonates. We no longer thank God with blood or fire or flesh. The structure of our religion has changed: We no longer thank God with our hands; we thank God with our prayers, saying “may the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable.”
And yet, we still understand the importance of thanking the people in our lives with physical acts. We write thank-you notes. We offer hugs, handshakes and heartfelt words. In the moments when God’s presence feels impossibly far away, we might wish that we had a way to incorporate our whole selves in an act of gratitude. We might feel that words and meditations are not quite enough for the magnitude of our experience. We might wonder: How can we feel the same ache in our wrist, glue enough stamps or send enough cards to the One whose address is all of creation?
My teacher, Rabbi Richard Levy, considered the role of the priests in the ancient Temple in the d’var Torah “Unlikely Holiness: Pancakes, Trash, and the Priest’s Big Toe.” After the sacred feast had ended, the priests would carry out the ashes from the fire, cleaning the altar so it would be ready for the next round. In other words, the priests would take out the trash. “Yes, for the ‘trash’ — the ashes left over by the fire — contain the remnants of k’dushah, the holiness, of the original offering, and so carrying out the trash is a noble task!” We thank God in our most mundane interactions with the world. If God exists in every space and place, then we are offering our Thanksgiving when we act in appreciation — even in the most ordinary moments.
We physically manifest our gratitude when we stand outside in the rain and, instead of shielding our skin from the wetness, we let ourselves feel each drop. Our bodies offer thanks when we pause for a moment after a meal, and notice the fullness in our bellies. Our mouths partner with us when we exclaim words of blessing. And when the perfect words fail us, we utter a simple “wow.”
When our hearts inform our hands, we offer our deepest thanks.
Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin is an associate rabbi and educator at Peninsula Temple Beth El in San Mateo. She can be reached at [email protected].