Moving With Astonishing Speed

This week’s Torah portion is all about sacrifices. The Hebrew word for sacrifice is korban, which means closeness. There are two ways to view an offering: (a) something I give up for G-d, (b) something that draws me close to G-d. The question is what religious worship means to you. When you give up a night out with friends to celebrate Shabbat, did you lose a night out with friends, or did you draw closer to G-d?

The bottom line depends on whether you think of yourself or G-d when celebrating Shabbat. When you pay extra for a kosher steak, are you thinking it is so expensive to keep kosher or that you are fortunate to connect with G-d even when buying steak?

This is the question of G-d or me, and it can be asked in many ways. Let’s present it differently: When you give ten thousand dollars to charity, do you think about how much gratitude you deserve or how grateful you are to help?

There is an ironic twist when it comes to religious observance. Judaism is meant to draw us closer to G-d, yet sometimes it draws us closer to ourselves. It serves our ego. Some outstanding Jews are scrupulously observant. They ensure that every morsel entering their mouths at home or on the road is kosher. They would never do business on Shabbat and are meticulous about their observance. They spend hours in passionate prayer and diligent study. They spend liberally on their Torah library. They are paragons of observance in every way. If you had to choose someone close to G-d, you would point to them.

Yet, despite their high level of observance and closeness to G-d, they look down on those who don’t observe like them. Those who are still beginning to keep Shabbat, learning how to keep kosher, or familiarizing themselves with prayer. Some very religious people look down on such Jews. This makes you wonder whom they worship. Is their religious observance a form of Divine worship or self-worship? Do they worship their ego as they increase their commitment to Judaism?

You Make an Offering
The Torah introduces the laws of sacrifices with a curious redundancy. “When a person among you brings a sacrifice to G-d, bring the sacrifice from animals, cattle, or sheep.” The words “bring a sacrifice” appear twice in this passage. This is unusual for a Torah that is so careful and sparing with words.

In the last talk of his lifetime on earth, the Lubavitcher Rebbe pointed out this anomaly.  He explained that when we want to make a sacrifice, we must first recognize that the sacrifice is about G-d, not us. Wealthy people can afford expensive sacrifices such as cattle. The middle class can afford to bring a lamb. Poor people can only afford a flour offering. If we are focused on what we are giving, how much we are spending, and how others regard us when observing our offering, we are not focused on G-d.

The first thing we must remember is that our offering is to G-d. If we are focused on G-d, it matters little whether we give a million dollars or five cents. It matters little whether we devote an entire day or five minutes. The key is that we each give all that we can. Nothing more is asked of us, and certainly nothing less. If we observe the first stitch of this passage and make our offering about G-d, the extent of our offering will make little difference.

The Stalk of Grain
Our sages tell us that a wealthy person once brought a large bull as an offering in the Temple. He was proud of his expensive offering and walked behind his servants as they urged the bull up the Temple Mount. However, the bull planted its legs, and no matter how much it was urged, it refused to budge.

A poor fellow was passing by with a stalk of grain—all he could afford to bring. The poor man swiftly ascended the mountain with no obstacles to slow him down. However, as he passed the wealthy person’s entourage, he sized up the situation. Without a word, he approached the bull and used his stalk of grain to entice it to the top of the mountain.

When they reached the Temple, the poor man gave his stalk of grain to the bull, whereas the bull was offered ceremoniously as a sacrifice to G-d. The rich man was inordinately pleased with himself until the high priest informed him that the poor man’s stalk was more precious to G-d than his bull. Both gave us as much as they could, but one served his ego, and the other served G-d.

Ironically, the poor person never made it into the Temple. He never got to give his offering. The bull ate it at the top of the mountain. Yet, his offering was more pleasing to G-d. The poor man served G-d, and the rich man pleased himself.

There is a Mitzvah to invite guests into our home. If you are wealthy and have a large house, you can hire a caterer, set out many chairs, and host hundreds of guests. If you are poor, you might barely manage to host one guest a week. The poor person would naturally be jealous of the rich person. How the poor wish they could host as well as the rich.

Yes, in G-d’s eyes, they are equally precious. Both host as much as they can. Both fill their homes with guests. One has a larger home, which takes more guests to fill. One has a smaller home, and it reaches capacity with one guest. Both houses are full.

But the key is that both hearts are geared towards G-d. If the rich person is pleased with himself as he regards his many guests, his efforts are a form of self-worship. He has many guests, but the poor person who hosts with humility is closer to G-d. The rich person hosts for fame, and the poor hosts for G-d.

My friend Allan used to refer to arrogant people as a heyse dande. I never knew what that meant and assumed it meant a hotshot because heys means hot in Yiddish. One day, he explained: When he was a child, his father would get him tickets to comedy shows in the Borsch Belt in the Catskills. They sat with the poor people in the back seats. But sometimes, the rich people with front-seat tickets would stand up and block their view. At this point, the poor immigrants in the back would shout, “Hey, sit down dere.” That clinched it. A big shot was a heyse dande. When you worship G-d, don’t be a heyse dande.

What Is Close?
We began by pointing out that the Hebrew word for sacrifice is karban, which means closeness. How does one define close? If someone invades your space, are they close to you? Are they sharing your space or pushing you out of your space? Sometimes we can get too close. We bring a colossal offering but take up all the space in the room, leaving no space for G-d.

We can be a million miles away, yet close to the one we love, or two feet away, yet at a great distance. Combatants in close combat are very distant from each other. Lovers at a distance are very close to each other.

Let us resolve to be authentic in our Judaism. We are not here to show others how good we are. We are here to draw as close as we can to G-dliness, holiness, kindness, devotion, humility, and nobility of spirit. In other words, to emulate G-d as much as humanly possible.[1]

[1] This essay is loosely based on Menachos 104b, a poor person’s offering is considered by G-d to have offered his very soul and 110a, whether you give more or less so long as your heart is directed toward G-d. It is also based on Toras Menachem 5752:2, p. 345.