We’re reading Sefer
Vayikra, the Book of Leviticus. Leviticus reads like a pocket guide for
priests. Not much plot, no character development, lots of rules. There are
eight animal sacrifices and they fall into three categories, based upon who is
permitted to eat them: First are those that are eaten by the person who brings
it: the Shelamin, Ma’aser, Todah, and Pesach (peace, or well-being offering, tithe, thanksgiving, and
paschal offering). Second are those that are eaten by the priests: The Chatat and Asham and B’chor (the
guilt offering, sin offering, and firstborn). Finally, there is the Olah (burnt offering), which is, as its
name suggests, entirely burned on the altar. Its smoke rises to heaven. This
one is for God, and God alone.
To many people, the details of the sacrifices are
tediously boring. If you’re still with me at this point, I hope you’re
wondering what Charles Darwin’s observations of human expressions of emotion
have to do with the sacrifices mandated in Leviticus. It’s coming.
Our parashah
describes several of these sacrifices, introducing each section with the words,
“This is the Torah (law) of the…” and then details where the sacrifice is to be
slaughtered, what should be done with the blood, how various internal organs are
to be disbursed, and so on. In the case of the olah, however, Torah says only this:
God spoke to Moses saying, “Command Aaron and his sons saying:
‘This is the Torah (law) of the olah (burnt
offering); it is the olah which shall
burn upon the altar all night until the morning, and the fire of the altar
shall burn in it. (Leviticus 6:2)
Now, I’m not a huge fan of animal sacrifice. (We
have a dairy kosher kitchen in our home.) I take comfort in knowing that no
less than Rambam (Moses Maimonides) believed
that the purpose of animal sacrifices was to wean the Israelites off idolatry;
having served its purpose, animal sacrifice is no longer necessary. Isaac Abarbanel
said that God prescribed animal sacrifices for Israel specifically to wean them
off the idolatrous sacrificial practices of Egypt. Rashi
goes further. He says God didn’t particularly desire animal sacrifice at all;
it was Israel that wanted it. How does Rashi know this? From a verse in the
Haftarah for Shabbat Vayikra: I have not burdened you
with a meal-offering, nor wearied you with frankincense (Isaiah 43:23).
If Rambam,
Abarbanel, and Rashi — who are certainly no lightweights — are correct, why
would the olah be burned entirely?
God doesn’t need it. It’s a waste of meat that could nourish priests or
Israelites, and more, it’s a waste of a life.
Perhaps
the meaning and value of the olah is
not in the details of where and how it is sacrificed, but that it is a total sacrifice. Giving up
something entirely, without any reward or recompense, is difficult. Many of us
would consider it a loss. The olah trains
the Israelites in altruism, the disinterested
and selfless concern for the wellbeing of others: people learn to surrender to
God something of great monetary value and practical significance.
Philosophers
are divided concerning whether we humans can ever truly exhibit altruism. After
all, could we not say that the gratification that comes of knowing I have done
a good thing is in itself an intrinsic reward? That’s not an argument I wish to
enter. I’m content with a definition of altruism that includes doing the right
thing because it’s the right thing to do.
Charles Darwin, 1809-1882
Finally, we return to Charles Darwin. He observed
that mammals naturally empathize with the suffering of others and respond
accordingly, and that this quality is crucial to the successful rearing of
offspring to the age of reproduction. In other words, we are evolved to exhibit
altruism.
Neurologists
concur. In 2006 using magnetic resonance imagining, Jorge
Moll and Jordan Grafman, showed that acts of altruism light up the subgenual
cortex and septal region of our brain, both of which are connected with social
attachment. Subsequent studies have confirmed these findings and expanded on
them. It turns out that we are
hard-wired for altruism. Neurologists have identified in us what they term
“mirror neurons” which are the biological source of human empathy. (Robert
Krulwich explains mirror neurons nicely for NOVA here.) It is our capacity for empathy
that makes altruism possible and indeed a basic human behavior. Darwin’s thinking
has yet again been confirmed.
The Yerushalmi
(Jerusalem Talmud) recounts two stories of altruism, both in tractate Ta’anit
1:4. The context is a discussion of whether and when prayer brings rain in a
time of drought; these stories illustrate the Rabbis’ contention that the
prayer of a simple person brings rain. In the first story, R. Abbahu learns
through a dream that although his prayers do not bring rain, when a certain donkey driver prays for rain, the
rains fall. Upon questioning him, R. Abbahu learns that on one occasion, the
donkey driver’s client was a woman weeping for her imprisoned husband. The
donkey driver sold his donkey — sacrificing his livelihood — and gave her the
money to use to free her husband. In the second story, the protagonist is
Pentakaka, so named because every day he committed five sins connected with the
brothel he ran. Pentakaka was unquestionably a reprobate. When he encountered a
woman weeping for her imprisoned husband, he sold his “bed and cover” and gave
her the proceeds to use to redeem her husband (and not without irony) so she
could avoid becoming a prostitute to raise the funds needed. Like the donkey
driver, Pentakaka sacrificed his livelihood, an act of altruism. The Rabbis are
not telling us that we, too, should sacrifice our very livelihoods when a stranger
in need enters our lives, but these stories convey deep admiration for genuine
altruism and the power of such righteousness to repair lives.
The term olah
means “ascend” and connotes the smoke of the sacrifice that ascends to heaven. An
altruistic act ascends straight to heaven, which is to say that it is sacred
and repairs the world. The olah offered
daily in the Mishkan (Wilderness Tabernacle) and later in the Mikdash (Temple
in Jerusalem) trained people to act according to the better side of their
nature: with compassion and generosity. Rather than worrying with psychologists
and philosophers whether we are truly capable of altruism, or whether deriving
satisfaction from doing the right thing obviates the altruistic quality of the
good we do, perhaps we should take comfort from biologists and neurologists in
knowing we are evolved and wired for it. And then take that knowledge and run
with it.
© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman
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