Parshat Tzav paints a vivid picture:
Before the entire community of Israel, Moses brings forward Aaron and his sons,
washes them with water and dresses them in the raiment of their station. For
Aaron, the High Priest, that means a tunic, sash, robe, ephod, breast piece
with Urim and Tummim, headdress, and diadem. At the right is a depiction of
what the High Priest’s
garb it thought to have looked like. Next Moses took specially prepared olive
oil and anointed the Tabernacle, the alter and the utensils that would be used
to make sacrifices, the laver in which the priests would wash their hands and
feet before making sacrifices, and finally Aaron, himself. In this way Aaron
and the Tabernacle were consecrated: they were declared sacred to God and
dedicated to the service of God.
Reading this description brought back
a memory from long ago that may strike you as utterly dissonant in the context
of the momentous moment and solemn ceremony Torah describes. In elementary school, one of my most
cherished dreams was to secure a spot on the school safety patrol. Do you
recall safeties? In K–6
school I attended, safeties were sixth graders who directed students in the
hallways and at street corners near the school at dismissal time. Safeties got
to wear white web belts with silver badges affixed. To me, these were the
equivalent of the garb of a high priest. My initial application to be a safety
was turned down because I was too short. When I appealed my rejection, the
teacher in charge agreed to give me a chance. He handed me a brand-new, shiny,
plastic orange belt—a
new version of the old, white standard. I felt my heart sink. I had imagined
wearing the traditional white web belt; that’s what real safeties
wear. “Are there any more white belts?” I asked. The teacher looked at me
quizzically and gently responded, “Please give some thought to why you
want to be a safety.” Given how
much I respected this teacher, I did. And it didn’t take me long to realize that my
ambition to be a safety was all about wearing the belt and the status I
imagined it afforded, not the importance of the job. For years I had listened
to safeties yell and order other kids around and, while I had no interest in
yelling at anyone, the idea of having a post, along with the concomitant
authority, was mighty appealing.
One can easily imagine Aaron becoming
lost in the pomp and circumstance, ceremony and status, of his position. Does
it go to his head? Does he lose sight of the fact that he is there to serve
God and Israel and become enthralled by his power and authority? Aaron has
lived much of his life in the shadow of his younger brother, Moses. It is Moses
whom God appoints to confront Pharaoh. Aaron goes along as his assistant. Moses
gets the white belt; Aaron gets the orange belt. He’s not even
mentioned in the account of the Reed Sea (Exodus 14-15). When the Israelites
fight the Amalekites, Aaron plays a supporting role—literally:
he and Hur hold up Moses’ outstretch
arms to ensure that the Israelites will be victorious in battle (Exodus
17:8-13). When Moses ascends Mount Sinai,
Aaron finds himself, at long last, “in charge.” But what happens? He immediately
succumbs to the demands of the people to build them a golden calf to worship.
He is wildly popular with the people, but the outcome is what tradition has
always branded as the worst case of idolatry in Israel’s history.
Now, Aaron stands posed to take on the highest religious role in the nation,
one that will be passed from generation to generation in perpetuity. He, and he
alone, will enter the Holy of Holies each Yom Kippur. How could this not go to
his head?
The consecration of Aaron and his
sons lasted seven days. Many sacrifices were offered on the altar. I want to
note two curious and telling things: The first is that as soon as Moses
finishes winding turbans around the heads of Aaron’s sons—the last
act in dressing them in their priestly accountrements—Moses
brings forward the very first sacrifice Aaron will ever make: it is a chatat,
a sin offering.
וַיַּגֵּשׁ,
אֵת פַּר הַחַטָּאת;
וַיִּסְמֹךְ אַהֲרֹן
וּבָנָיו אֶת-יְדֵיהֶם,
עַל-רֹאשׁ פַּר הַחַטָּאת. טו וַיִּשְׁחָט, וַיִּקַּח מֹשֶׁה אֶת-הַדָּם וַיִּתֵּן עַל-קַרְנוֹת הַמִּזְבֵּחַ סָבִיב בְּאֶצְבָּעוֹ, וַיְחַטֵּא,
אֶת-הַמִּזְבֵּחַ;
וְאֶת-הַדָּם,
יָצַק אֶל-יְסוֹד הַמִּזְבֵּחַ,
וַיְקַדְּשֵׁהוּ,
לְכַפֵּר עָלָיו.
[Moses] led
forward the bull of sin offering. Aaron and his sons laid their hands upon the
head of the bull of sin offering, and it was slaughtered. Moses took the blood
and with his finger put some on each of the horns of the altar, cleansing the
altar; then he poured out the blood at the base of the altar. Thus he
consecrated it in order to make expiation upon it. (Leviticus 8:14-15)
Why is the first sacrifice, the one
that is intended to purify the altar, specifically a sin offering?And
further, as we will see in next week’s parashah, Shemini, the very
first sacrificial offering made on the eighth day, after the week of
consecration is complete and the regular course of sacrifices commences, is
also a chatat (sin offering). Could it be that the message of the sin
offering, first during the week of consecration and first after the
consecration is complete, is a reminder to Aaron that he is not only as
imperfect as all people are, and vulnerable to doing the wrong thing, but
perhaps even especially so because of his exalted and honored status: if he
lets it go to this head, he will succumb to the temptations of
ego-aggrandizement.
It seems that Aaron heard the
message. The Rabbis tell us that Aaron was particularly respected for being a
peace maker. Hillel taught that Aaron was the paradigm of a peace maker. He
perhaps suggests, as well, that this arose out of Aaron’s love for
others and resulted in bringing people close to Torah:
הוי כתלמידיו של אהרון--אוהב שלום ורודף שלום,
אוהב את הברייות ומקרבן
לתורה.
Be of the
disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace; love your fellow creatures
and bring them close to the Torah. (Pirke Avot 1:12)
In fact, there is a suggestion in the
Babylonian Talmud that because Aaron not only loved peace, but actively pursued
it in the community, he was sometimes more beloved of the people than his
exalted and deeply humble brother Moses.
וכן משה היה אומר יקוב
הדין את ההר אבל אהרן אוהב שלום ורודף שלום ומשים שלום בין אדם לחבירו שנאמר (מלאכי ב)
תורת אמת היתה בפיהו
ועולה לא נמצא בשפתיו בשלום ובמישור הלך אתי ורבים השיב מעון.
Moses's motto
was: Let the law cut through the mountain. Aaron, however, loved peace and
pursued peace and made peace between man and man, as it is written, The law
of truth was in his mouth, unrighteousness was not found in his lips, he walked
with Me in peace and uprightness and did turn many away from iniquity
(Malachi 2:6). (BT Sanhedrin 6b)
Just how did Aaron pursue peace? Avon
de-Rabbi Natan, the midrash on Pirke Avot, Avot provides two
examples. Here is the first:
R. Meir asked,
What does, He prevented many from doing wrong (Malachi 2:6) mean? We
could illustrate it as follows: Whenever Aaron encountered even someone of
questionable reputation, he would stop and greet him. On the morrow, that same
person might want to do something wrong, but would stop and think to himself: “Woe
unto me! How would I lift my eyes afterward and look Aaron in the face? I would
be ashamed before him when he greeted me.” Consequently,
that man would restrain himself from doing wrong.
This is an extraordinary use of
authority and status. We don’t
find that Aaron issuing warnings, making threaten, berating, criticizing, or
leveling condemnations. He greets everyone in the street, even knowing that
they are of questionable reputation. He lives the teachings of Shammai, “Greet
everyone with a cheerful face” (Pirke
Avot 1:15) and of R. Matya b. Charash, “Be the first to extend greetings to
every human being” (Pirke
Avot 4:20). To be acknowledged by the High Priest, and in a warm and
friendly way, inspires those who are inclined to do wrong think twice, think
better of themselves, and consequently behave better. What a wise and powerful
use of authority.
Here is the second example Avot
de-Rabbi Natan offers:
If two people
were feuding, Aaron would walk up to one, sit down next to him and say, “My
child, don’t you see how
much your friend is tearing her heart out and rending her clothes.” The
person would then say to himself: “How can I lift
up my head and look my friend in the face? I would be ashamed to see her
because it is I who treated her foully.” Aaron would remain at his side until he had
removed all rancor from his heart. Afterwards,
Aaron would walk over to the other person, sit down next to her and say: “Don’t you see how much your friend is eating his
heart out and tearing his clothes.” And so this person, too, would think to
herself: “Woe unto me! How can I lift up my head and
look my friend in the face? I would be ashamed to see him because it is I who
treated him foully.” Aaron would sit with this person until she,
too, had overcome the rancor in her heart. And finally when these two friends
met, they would embrace and kiss each other. That is why it is said [that when
Aaron died], And they wept for Aaron thirty days, the entire House of Israel
(Numbers 20:20). (Avot d’ Rabbi Natan, chapter
12)
The second example is a model we
might, ourselves, have the opportunity to follow. (I once did, and it worked
splendidly.) Here Aaron does far more than greet people in the street. He stops
when he recognizes their pain. He sits and listens to their story. He
understands that their quarrel is not black-and-white and that each carries a
share of the responsibility for the breach in the relationship. But Aaron does not
pull rank, judge, and assign blame. Rather, he gives voice to the best in
the other party.[1] In the
safe space Aaron creates, each person can pull back from anger that obscures
their ability to see the situation from the perspective of the other, assume
proper responsibility for the feud, and extend forgiveness to the other.
The two examples of Aaron’s
peace-making skills demonstrate how Aaron uses his authority and status. It’s not
about him. It’s
about what he can do for others.
As a school safety, I was initially
assigned to the K-3 wing of the school; my job was to insure that the students
exited school at 3:20 pm in an orderly manner. It wasn’t easy and
I did a lousy job. Many of the third graders and a few of the second graders
towered over me. No one listened to me. I didn’t last two days. I was
serendipitously reassigned to the “big corner” a block from school where almost
everyone crossed to walk home. It was easy because everyone knew the drill. No
yelling required. Best of all, this was a high-prestige post which I had
snagged not because I was good at the job, but because I was too short to
command authority anywhere else. Several weeks into the job, for some
inexplicable reason, a kindergartner walked out into the road just as a car
approached the corner, even though the crowd of children stood patiently on the
sidewalk. As I had been trained, I grabbed the child and hauled her back onto
the curb. In the scheme of things, it was a minor incident. There were some
gasps and a few sighs of relief, but in 15 seconds it was all over and life
continued. For me, however, something had changed. I finally got it. The belt
was not a mark of greatness. It was the uniform of someone beholden to others. It
wasn’t about me. It also was’t about being a safety; it was
about the safety of the other kids. I was there to serve them. It’s a lesson
most of us have to keep relearning throughout life.
Would that so many in positions of
authority felt that they were there to serve not their egos, but the needs of
others.
© Rabbi
Amy Scheinerman
[1] Perhaps it’s needless to say, but the original
text couches everything on the masculine: both parties to the feud are men. It
was my choice to make one a man and one a woman, rather than say s/he and
his/hers throughout, in order to make the text comport with modern
sensibilities.
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