Keeping the Fire Burning: Tzav

Keeping the Fire Burning

D’var Torah for Parashat Tzav

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Parashat Tzav (“Command”), Leviticus 6:1—8:36, contains intricate laws regarding the sacrifice ritual.  These directions are given in context of the ordination of the priests, the ritual that separated them from the rest of the Israelites and culminated in their becoming consecrated to work at the Tabernacle. 

Yet before the description of any of the sacrifices, however, comes the commandment to keep the altar’s fire going day and night.

As I taught this portion to my 6^th grade class last Thursday, almost to a one, they were intrigued by this mitzvah more than all the other commandments this parasha contains. “What if it rains?” asked one.  “What happens when you have to move,” was another question.

Perhaps they were goading me somewhat, as 6^th graders have been known to do.  Yet the questions expressed not only their budding need to defy authority, but also their natural curiosity.  The questions showed that they were thinking, not merely absorbing like sponges.  These young, smart students intrinsically understood the challenge that this commandment posed.  It wasn’t going to be easy or straight forward.

Beyond the obvious perks and social status associated with the position of being a cohen—a priest—it was actually hard work.  It demanded meticulous attention to detail, but also other responsibilities, physical, spiritual and psychological.  Bridging the chasm between God and humans was not easy.  It was a charge that could be filled with its own dangers (as we will see in a couple of portions).  It was a task that only a priest could perform—not from a distance, not through an intermediary, but personally, by himself.  As with similar professions in our own day, being a priest in ancient days required the ability to listen, to hear, to be of support.  Only a priest could absolve a person of guilt.  And only a priest—if for no other reason than that he lived and worked in closer proximity to the Divine—could bring your story or petition up to God and ask for intercession.

The elevated position of the priest could, of course, lead to greed and abuse of power.  There were definite perks—outright gifts as well as choice portions of certain sacrifices.  But the tasks weren’t always pleasant, either.  Visiting or diagnosing the sick for the various ailments, encouraging the weak and disheartened, comforting the bereaved and providing guidance to the lost demanded compassion and understanding.  A priest driven by his own ego or who was in pursuit of glory or honor was doomed to failure.

The precarious position of the priest was highlighted by one of the last steps in the process of his ordination.  For seven days and seven nights, the novice priest had to stay just outside the Tent of Meeting.  Not one of the ordinary folk anymore, nor yet a priest, he was somehow part of both camps.  With one foot in this world and the other, as it were, in the next, the priest being initiated was learning to be attentive less to his own needs and more to those of God and the people he would serve.

I remember the days when I was considering becoming a rabbi, nearly 20 years ago.  I was thinking of leaving the familiar behind me and starting something new, something I knew about yet had never experienced myself.  I consulted with many people—friends, family and mentors.  Standing out from all the other words of advice I received was the guidance given me by Rabbi Dr. Norman Cohen, who—if I’m not mistaken—was then Dean of Students or perhaps already Provost at Hebrew Union College in New York.  After advising me of the challenges and difficulties of a mid-life career change, Rabbi Cohen told me, “If you have a fire burning in your belly, go ahead and do it.”

The moment he said these words, I knew I would have to follow through. 

It was the fire.

Three times in this portion, Parashat Tzav, God commands that the fire on the altar not be allowed to go out.  It’s no simple matter.  As my students pointed out, it could be raining.  The wind could make the sparks burn out of control—or die.  How do you make sure the fire goes on burning even when you move?  How do you carry it with you wherever you go? How do you protect it?

How many times have we seen the spark nearly die out?  Twice when the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed.  Many times more since then.  Yet, both in our own Land of Israel and throughout our communities in the Diaspora, despite all the cultural changes and influences, the assimilation, the ghetto-ization, we made sure the spark burned on.  Even the Holocaust could not suppress the sacred flame—once we learned how to take care of it.

So what’s the secret?  How do we fulfill the words of this precious commandment?

We internalize the flame.  We carry it inside us.  We nourish it daily, weekly or perhaps even only once a year.  We protect it with our minds, hearts and bodies, carrying it with us on all our journeys, wherever we pitch our tents.  And we pass it on to our children with the same admonition with which we received it—do not let the fire burn out; day and night it must burn on the altar; it shall not go out.

I think my students last Thursday got the message.  Now it isn’t all up to me anymore.  Now, even before they become full-fledged k’lei kodesh—instruments of holiness—themselves, a year before their own bar or bat mitzvah, the ceremony of their ordination as adults in the Sacred Community of Israel, they assume responsibility for this fire.  Let them mull over that for a year or two—or perhaps for the rest of their lives. 

How do we maintain the fire and keep it burning?

Any way we can.

©2013 by Boaz D. Heilman