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by Rav David Silverberg

In Parashat Vayikra we encounter the prohibition of "se'or u-dvash" – the mitzva forbidding us from bringing any leavened products or honey on the altar with a sacrifice (2:11). Many different explanations have been suggested as to the reason underlying this prohibition. Today we will present the approach cited in the name of the Chatam Sofer.

The Chatam Sofer suggests that we associate this prohibition with the mitzva that appears just two verses later – the requirement to add salt to all mincha (grain) offerings (2:13). These three elements – leaven, honey and salt – correspond to the three negative qualities of jealousy, desire and honor, which, the mishna establishes in Pirkei Avot (4:21), "remove a person from the world." Salt, the Chatam Sofer claims, symbolizes jealousy. This is based on a famous Midrash cited by Rashi here as to the reason behind the obligation to salt all mincha offerings. On the second day of creation, God made the firmament, which entailed separating between the "upper waters" and the "lower waters." The Midrash relates that the lower waters complained, as it were, that they had been "relegated" to the lower world, far away from the Almighty. In response, God promised the ocean water that its salt will always be placed on the altar with mincha offerings, and thereby the waters can draw nearer to God. Accordingly, the Chatam Sofer writes, salt symbolizes kin'a, jealousy, as the lower waters envied their upperworld counterparts.

The two forbidden food types, leaven and honey, represent honor and desire, respectively. Leavened products, which result from rising dough, are often viewed as a symbol of arrogance and lust for power; the rising dough corresponds to the "rise" of one's self-image and sense of self-importance – which generally lead to a preoccupation with honor and prestige. The sweetness of honey represents the instinct towards physical enjoyment and indulgence.

With this in mind, the Chatam Sofer explains, we can understand why the Torah forbade leaven and honey on the altar whereas it required salt. In the spiritual ideal represented by the Temple and the korbanot offerings, there is no room for arrogance or indulgence. The site of the Shekhina is meant to subdue the individual before his Maker, and the concept of sacrifices involves (at least in part) the willingness to sacrifice one's natural tendencies in the service of God. Salt, by contrast, the symbol of jealousy, must be placed upon the altar, because one type of jealousy is not only tolerated, but – to one extent or another – required of the Jew: the type of jealousy exhibited by the lower waters. Chazal comment in Pirkei Avot, "Kin'at soferim tarbeh chokhma" – the jealousy between scholars increases knowledge. There is much to be said for a degree of academic competition among students of Torah; Chazal looked favorably upon some sort of positive "peer pressure" when it comes to Torah and mitzvot. We should feel envious of the "upper waters," of those spiritual giants who have had the privilege of reaching great heights in avodat Hashem. Therefore, whereas leaven and honey have no place on the altar, and they must be kept at a distance from the altar of God, the jealousy symbolized by salt must indeed make its way onto the altar, it must play a role in our religious lives.

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One of the sacrifices described in Parashat Vayikra is the "korban chatat," or "sin offering." It emerges from the pesukim that the specific type of korban chatat required depends on who commits the transgression. In chapter 4, the Torah presents two general categories of korban chatat, known in Talmudic jargon as "chata'ot penimiyot" and "chata'ot chitzoniyot." The sin offerings brought by the Sanhedrin after issuing an incorrect ruling concerning a grave violation, and by the kohen gadol, are called "chata'ot penimiyot" – "internal sin offerings," because their blood is sprinkled on the incense offering situated inside the Mishkan. The chatat of a regular citizen, by contrast, has its blood sprinkled on the outer altar, and is therefore called "chatat chitzona," or "exterior sin offering."

It is interesting to note that the Torah introduces the sin offerings of the Sanhedrin and of the kohen gadol in two separate sections (see 4:3-12, and 4:13-21), despite the fact that they are identical. The Torah outlines the precise same procedure for both these offerings. Why, then, do they receive two different sections in the Chumash? This question led Chazal to understand that the two sections deal with two very different situations. In the case of the Sanhedrin, they issued an incorrect ruling with regard to a prohibition punishable by karet, and they thus caused a nationwide violation. The situation of the kohen gadol, however, is quite simply when he himself commits a grave transgression. Given his stature, he must bring a unique sin offering, different from that brought by everyone else. The two different sections in the Torah reflect the fact that we deal with two entirely different sets of circumstances.

Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch, in his commentary to this chapter, adds that this difference between the two cases reflects a fundamental difference between the roles served by the Sanhedrin and the kohen gadol. The Sanhedrin's responsibility involves pesak halakha – rulings on matters of halakha. They must therefore bring a special sacrifice when they fail in this regard, when they render a wrong decision on an issue of grave religious concern. This is not, Rav Hirsch argues, the role of the kohen gadol. He instructs the nation not through scholarship and halakhic decision-making, but rather through the medium of personal example. He is to be a great person, a holy person, a spiritual person, and thereby inspire the layman. His conduct must present a model of what the Torah expects and demands. He does not determine the law, but rather embodies unbridled devotion to the law through his conduct and lifestyle. By committing a grave transgression, even unintentionally, the kohen gadol has failed in his role. He has undermined his status as the representative model of sanctity and spirituality, and must therefore bring a special sin offering as atonement.

We should note that the Abarbanel adopts an entirely different approach. He is of the opinion that the two cases – of the Sanhedrin and kohen gadol - in fact resemble one another. The situation of the kohen gadol, too, involves a mistaken ruling issued by the high priest which led many in the nation to innocently transgress a severe prohibition. He must therefore suggest other reasons as to why the Torah affords each case its own independent section; the reader is referred to Abarbanel's commentary on this chapter where he suggests two such explanations.

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The second sacrifice described in Parashat Vayikra is the korban mincha, the meal offering. One of the first questions we might immediately ask when approaching this korban has to do with its name, "mincha," a word that generally means "gift." Why do we refer to specifically this korban as a "mincha"? Is not the intention of all korbanot, at least in part, to offer a gift of sorts to the Almighty, as it were?

A survey of the usage of the term "mincha" in Tanakh might give us a clue as to its particular significance in the context of the korban mincha. Generally, the term connotes a specific kind of gift – a gift of submission, an expression of the giver's recognition of his inferiority with respect to the recipient. Yaakov, for example, upon hearing of the arrival of his vengeful brother, seeks to appease him through the offering of a "mincha" (Bereishit 32:14). Later in Sefer Bereishit (43:11), when Yaakov sends his sons back to Egypt to purchase grain, he prepares a "mincha" for the Egyptian viceroy (who was actually Yosef) in an attempt to soothe his hostilitowards the brothers. Towards the beginning of Sefer Shoftim (3:15), when Benei Yisrael came under the oppressive rule of Moav, they prepare a "mincha" for Eglon, the king of Moav.

It thus turns out that "gift" is perhaps too broad a translation of the word "mincha." We might prefer to translate the word as "tribute," a gift specifically intended to express submission and acceptance of authority.

We should expect, therefore, that the korban mincha serves this purpose, to express the individual's sense of submission before his Creator. Indeed, as Rashi (2:1) mentions (based on the mishna towards the end of Masekhet Menachot), the korban mincha was generally brought by a pauper. Rather than bringing the more costly animal sacrifices, a poor person who wishes to bring an offering would choose the relatively inexpensive meal offering, instead. He humbly brings a small offering to God to express his feeling of lowliness before Him. As we know from the Gemara, the mincha offering consisted of just an "omer" of flour. Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch pointed out that this is also the amount of manna that descended each morning from the heavens. Thus, the mincha offering represents a person's minimum daily ration of food. The pauper comes before the Almighty and declares that the very scraps of bread off which he lives belong not to him, but to God.

Rav Yaakov Mecklenberg, in his "Ha-ketav Ve-ha'kabbala," extracts this theme of submission from the word "mincha" itself. He claims that the word evolves from the term "le-hani'ach," which means to place, to put down. Someone bringing a mincha lowers himself before the recipient in obedient and humble submission, and for this reason this type of gift is called a "mincha."

Rav Mecklenberg even applies this theory to justify the title "mincha" given to the afternoon prayer service. Over the course of the afternoon, the sun begins moving downward from the middle of the sky towards the horizon. Since, as we have seen, the word "mincha" relates to the term "le-hani'ach," lowering, Rav Mecklenberg suggests that the mincha prayer received its name because it is recited as the sun begins making its way downward.

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In a famous and controversial passage in his Moreh Nevukhim (3:32), the Rambam presents a most surprising approach to the institution of korbanot, which the Torah discusses at length in Parashat Vayikra. According to the Rambam, the concept of sacrifices as a mode of religious worship had become widespread among the ancient pagan world. In drawing Benei Yisrael away from pagan beliefs and practices, God could not expect them to engage in religious worship without korbanot. He therefore established an intricate system of korbanot as outlined in the Torah in order to meet Benei Yisrael's "need" for a sacrificial order, and to ensure that they remain faithful to the Torah rather than return to their idolatrous practices.

Expectedly, many later commentaries vehemently opposed such an idea. The most famous rejection of the Rambam's approach is probably that of the Ramban, in his commentary to the first chapter of Sefer Vayikra. Later writers who strongly object to this theory include Rav Yitzchak Arama, in his "Akeidat Yitzchak," and Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch.

The Abarbanel, in his introduction to Sefer Vayikra, attempts drawing support for the Rambam's view from a Midrash in Vayikra Rabba. The Midrash compares God's commandment concerning the sacrifices to a situation of a king whose son grew accustomed to eating forbidden foods. The king said, "Let him eat them on my table at all times and he will gradually refrain." Similarly, the Midrash continues, Benei Yisrael had become very attached to the principles of idolatry and would offer sacrifices to pagan gods. The Almighty therefore declared, "They shall bring their sacrifices before Me in the Tent of Meeting, and they will then separate themselves from idolatry." The Abarbanel claims that this Midrash appears to clearly express the theory presented by the Rambam.

However, Rav David Tzvi Hoffman, in his work on Sefer Vayikra, convincingly refutes this purported proof for the Rambam's position. He notes that in all versions of the Midrash, the text reads differently than as cited by the Abarbanel. According to the Abarbanel's citation, the king in the analogy decided to invite his son to eat his forbidden foods at the king's table. When translated into the situation of God and Benei Yisrael, this would mean that He invited Benei Yisrael to offer pagan sacrifices inside the Mishkan! Such a notion clearly cannot be even entertained. The correct version of the text, Rav Hoffman claims, is the more common version: "He shall always eat at my table and will then soon grow out of the habit." The king invites his son to eat at his table - not to eat his own foods at the king's table, but to eat the king's food. Similarly, in order to wean Benei Yisrael off idolatry, God invites them, as it were, to His table, to eat with Him, to frequent the sacred site of the Tabernacle, to experience the presence of the Shekhina. Thus, the Midrash in no way supports the Rambam's position, that the institution of korbanot was meant as a concession of sorts to pagan rituals.

We should note that many scholars, including the Abarbanel himself, make attempts at rereading the Rambam so as to resolve the many difficulties raised against it. The Abarbanel suggests that in truth, the Rambam concurs with the common view that korbanot do, indeed, possess intrinsic religious value and worth. He sought to explain only why God selected this mode of worship over others which might, at first glance, seem preferable. Similarly, some Acharonim (see the Ketav Sofer's comments in the name of the "Tzofnat Pane'ach") claim that the Rambam was bothered by the question as to why God did not forbid the offering of korbanot given its strong pagan association. Although korbanot undoubtedly are inherently meaningful, we might have expected God to outlaw them in light of its having become a central feature of pagan worship. The Rambam therefore advanced his theory to justify, as it were, the prominent place given to the sacrificial order in the Torah.

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In the second verse of Sefer Vayikra, God instructs Moshe to inform Benei Yisrael of the system of korbanot, which is then outlined throughout the rest of the parasha. This verse begins, "Speak unto Benei Yisrael and say to them…" Apparently bothered by the redundancy in this phrase, Rashi resorts to the Midrashic reading of this verse: "Speak to them ‘divrei kivushin,' that for their sake He speaks with me." The term "divrei kivushin" generally translates into modern Jewish jargon as "a musar shemuez." It usually denotes harsh words of reproach, very direct admonition criticizing the audience's conduct and demanding improvement. The obvious question thus becomes, what kind of "kevushin" is Moshe called upon to administer? God instructs him to tell them, "For your sake He speaks with me." Why does the Midrash describe this as "divrei kivushin"? Can there be any greater privilege for a person than having God speak to a prophet on his account, for his sake, in his merit? Where is the biting admonition in this brief remark to Benei Yisrael?

One explanation suggested by the Chatam Sofer (among the several he poses) presents a new definition of the word "kevushin." This term likely evolves from the word "kibush," capture, and refers to "capturing" the hearts of one's audience, exerting a certain degree of control over their hearts such that they improve. Often, this is accomplished through direct admonition and strong criticism. Hence, we generally associate the term "kevushin" with harsh condemnation. But this is not always the case. It is possible to "capture" the hearts of one's audience through kind words of encouragement. Moshe inspired Benei Yisrael by reminding them of their importance to God, as in their merit He spoke with Moshe.

We may, however, suggest a different explanation, one which follows the conventional definition of the term, "divrei kevushin." Sefer Shemot had ended wthe description of the Shekhina's descent onto the Mishkan and the consequences thereof: "Moshe could not enter the Tent of Meeting because the cloud had settled upon it and the presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle" (Shemot 40:35). God's representative presence in the Mishkan prevented the entry of any human being, even Moshe Rabbenu himself, into the sacred abode. That is until the opening verse of Sefer Vayikra, when God "calls" to Moshe and invites him inside, so-to-speak.

Potentially, Benei Yisrael could have interpreted this personal invitation as establishing an exclusive relationship between God and Moshe. If they must remain outside, they may have thought, then presumably He is interested in maintaining a relationship with only Moshe. Their job was merely to facilitate this relationship by building the Mishkan. They served as the contractors, so-to-speak, assigned to construct the house where God will live together with Moshe Rabbenu. Once the job is finished, they leave and allow the two to proceed with their special relationship. Once this happens, they are free to leave and live as they please.

To dispel this dangerous conclusion, God tells Moshe, immediately upon his entry into the Mishkan, to convey "divrei kevushin" to Benei Yisrael. They may not excuse themselves from the demands of communion with God. Though they are, indeed, barred from the type of prophecy granted to Moshe, they, too, must maintain a relationship with the Almighty, who now "dwells" among them. God invited Moshe inside not for Moshe's sake, to the exclusion of the entire people, but to the contrary, for him to convey God's commandments to the people. They are at the center, not at the periphery. Even after the Mishkan's completion they play the critical role in the Shekhina's residence therein. They are therefore not exempt from the strict demands that result from God's presence among the nation.

In effect, this is what Sefer Vayikra is all about: how the Shekhina's presence affects Benei Yisrael's conduct within the camp. It speaks of the offerings they may or must bring to God in the Mishkan, the laws of ritual purity which govern their entry into the Mishkan and their participation in its rituals, and later the guidelines of day-to-day living which are required of an "am kadosh," a holy people among whom God resides. Sefer Vayikra is itself these "divrei kevushin," it embodies the message that everyone can and must establish a relationship with the Almighty, that such a relationship is not reserved for Moshe Rabbenu alone.

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The first korban introduced in Parashat Vayikra is the ola sacrifice, often translated as “burnt offering,” since, unlike other offerings, it was completely burnt on the altar. The verse describes that the individual “lays his hand upon the head of the burnt offering, that it may be acceptable in his behalf, to atone for him” (1:4). The obvious implication of this verse is that the korban ola serves as an atonement of some sort. For what sin does this korban atone? Later in this parasha, we read about two korbanot, the chatat and the asham, which are required in certain situations of inadvertent – or, less often, intentional – transgression. There, the Torah spells out precisely which violations require these offerings. Here, however, the Torah does not specify.

We find in Chazal different views as to which violations are atoned for through the korban ola. The Gemara, in Masekhet Yoma (36), as well as the Midrash Tanchuma (Parashat Lekh-Lekha), asserts that the ola atoned for one’s failure to perform a mitzvat asei (“positive commandment”), and for a violation of a “lav ha-nitak le-asei” – one of the categories of prohibitions for which one does not receive any punishment from the Beit-Din. A different view, cited in the Sifrei, claims that this korban atones for “hirhurei aveira” – sinful thoughts, rather than actions. (See Ibn Ezra to 1:4, who explains the etymology of the term “ola” based on this theory.) The Ba’alei Ha-tosefot (Da’at Zekeinim, Rabbenu Yosef Bekhor Shor) claim that this sacrifice atones for those violations of which a person is unaware.

According to the first two views, one question remains. Why did the Torah not require an offering for these violations? As we mentioned, a specific obligation requires one to bring a korban chatat or asham under given circumstances, when certain transgressions are committed. A korban ola, however, is strictly voluntarily. One bears no obligation to bring this offering, even when he commits one of the violations mentioned. Why not?

One answer emerges from the comments of Rav David Tzvi Hoffman regarding the korban ola. He takes note of the fact that all the violations mentioned in Chazal share one common thread: a general lack of devotion to avodat Hashem, a degree of neglect and slackness. The korban ola does not atone for a specific violation, as do the chatat and asham, but rather expresses the individual’s general desire for improvement. He senses a general feeling of inadequacy, for which he wishes to atone through this ola offering. (See also Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch, who explains similarly.)

This, perhaps, the Torah cannot require, it cannot obligate with a specific command. Unlike the chatat and asham, which atone for specific acts of violation, the ola atones for general slackness, a phenomenon that is very personal and depends on the specific level and circumstances of each individual. The Torah can command the bringing of an offering for a specific transgression, but it cannot obligate that one brings a sacrifice for a general feeling of slackness and inadequacy.

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In the third chapter of Sefer Vayikra, the Torah describes the “korban shelamim,” translated as “peace offering” or “offering of well-being.” Unlike other korbanot, the sacrifrice is “shared” by three participants, as it were – the altar, the kohen and the ba’alim (person bringing the offering). The kohen receives the “chazeh ve-shok” (breast and thigh), the altar receives the “chelev” (fats), and the owner partakes of the remaining meat. Wherein lies the symbolism of the offering of the “chelev” upon the altar? Why are the fats singled out for an offering?

The Ba’al Ha-turim (3:3) explains that a person’s “chelev,” his “excess fat,” meaning, his physical indulgence, is often the cause of his transgression. The Ba’al Ha-turim quotes in this context a well known verse from Ha’azinu: “Jeshurun grew fat and kicked – you grew fat and gross and coarse; he forsook the God who made him…” (Devarim 32:15). Excessive indulgence in physical enjoyment may at times lead one to inappropriate, sinful conduct. The offering of the chelev thus symbolizes the sacrifice of one’s overindulgence which precipitated the violation for which he seeks atonement.

This explanation assumes that the korban shelamim comes as an atonement for the individual bringing the offering. Many others, however, assume that this is not the case, that the korban shelamim serves as an expression of “sheleimut,” completion, a sense of joy and fulfillment. In fact, the korban shelamim is often associated with the word “zevach” (see 3:1), which generally means feast or celebration – rather than an act of penitence. Indeed, the Rambam explicitly writes (Hilkhot Ma’aseh Ha-korbanot, end of chapter 3) that whereas normally an individual bringing a sacrifice must recite viduy (confession) as he places his hand over the offering, this is not the case concerning the korban shelamim, where no confession is recited. This would seemingly imply that the korban shelamim is unique, in that it does not come to atone for any sin – in opposition with the underlying assumption of the Ba’al Ha-turim.

In truth, however, we do, indeed, find sources that concur with this position, that the korban shelamim serves as atonement. First, the Rash Mi-Shantz (one of the Ba’alei Ha-Tosefot), in his commentary to Torat Kohanim, explicitly argues with the Rambam and requires confession even during the offering of a shelamim. Secondly, the Netziv, in his “Meromei Sadeh” to Zevachim 29b, advances a surp, counterintuitive reading of the Rambam. Following his comments in his “Ha’amek Davar,” the Netziv writes that the korban shelamim comes as atonement for sins involving interpersonal relations, and he actually draws support for the atonement quality of the shelamim from the Rambam’s ruling. The Netziv argues that if the korban shelamim did not come as atonement, why would the Rambam find it necessary to inform us that no confession is required at the time of its offering? If it does not at all relate to any transgression, for what would the individual confess? Clearly, he concludes, the Rambam felt that the korban shelamim in fact does serve as atonement, and he must therefore tell us that nevertheless, no viduy is recited when bringing a shelamim. Needless to say, this is not the conventional reading of the Rambam.

Returning to the chelev and its symbolic meaning, Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch advances an entirely different approach. The animal’s fat represents excess, that which is not immediately needed but stored away for later. (Rav Hirsch extends this theory to explain this word’s association with the word “chalav,” milk, which does not serve the physical needs of the animal/person itself/himself, but is rather stored for the young.) A successful person would bring a korban shelamim as a celebration of sorts, in which, Rav Hirsch explains, he offers his excess wealth, so-to-speak, to God. He declares that in truth he does not need the chelev, what matters for him is that he has his bare necessities, the possessions he needs to survive. This declaration is represented by the offering of the chelev, the excess of the animal, upon the altar.

This approach reflects an important perspective on the Torah’s attitude towards wealth and fortune. The Torah does not look negatively upon wealth itself, but is concerned with the proper attitude towards worldly possessions. So long as we can make this distinction between what we need and what we enjoy having, between the essential and the expendable, material wealth need not be looked upon adversely. The message of the korban shelamim is the need to maintain a proper scale of priorities and to understand this difference between what we need and what we want.

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