With the Book of Va-Yikra (Leviticus) we return to the heart of the Torah, to those remarkable passages that translate the lofty values of Sinai into the concrete practices of everyday life, that instruct how to infuse the most mundane and conventional of deeds with the glow of sanctity, that teach how to invest every moment of our day with the intimacy of God's presence. Through the detailed descriptions of the rituals of the Mishkan (the Tabernacle) and later the Beit Ha-Mikdash (the Temple), the Torah provides observant Jews with the guidelines that shape our lives, our communities, and our religious practice to this very day.
The Torah portion opens by describing the most ancient of the sacrifices performed in Israel, that of the Olah (the burnt offering). The Olah could be taken from the herd, involving cattle, or from the flock, involving goats or sheep. These animals were quartered and then offered in flames as a way of expressing joy before God or as a way of expressing contrition and teshuvah (repentance). They required male animals, without any blemish. Imagine just how expensive such an offering must have been! Considering the cost of meat today, think about purchasing an entire cow and then burning it without getting to take any of it home. As a complete gift to God, the Olah must have been a possibility only for the very wealthy.
Here the Torah provides for the needs of Israel's poor by allowing the offering of a turtledove or young pigeon as well. This Olah would have been well within the reach of any Israelite, expressing the democratizing impulse that motivates much of the Torah and traditional Jewish belief.
The rabbis of antiquity and the medieval period recognized this sacred inclusiveness in the Olah of the birds. The Torah comments that once the pauper hands over the bird, "the kohen shall tear it open by its wings, without severing it." Why, the rabbis wondered, are the wings to remain on the bird. And why aren't the feathers removed before burning the birds' remains? That question becomes particularly prominent when we recall that the offerings of cow, lamb, or goat did have their skins removed and returned to the original supplicant. Why not in this case as well?
Rashi (11th Century France) paraphrases the insight of Rabbi Yohanan in Midrash Va-Yikra Rabbah, observing, "it is true that no one can smell the smell of burning feathers and not be nauseated. So why, then, does God say to sacrifice it [with the feathers]? So the altar should satisfy and adorn the sacrifice of the poor."
Rashi understands that people attach great significance to appearances. We can't help but compare our own achievements against the accomplishments of someone else. We compare our homes or apartments, our status and our wealth, not against our internal standards but by reference to the people around us. Imagine then, how badly an impoverished worshiper must have felt offering a tiny bird when some ancient fat cat just offered an enormous bull! Hizkuni (13th Century France) affirms that the reason the feathers are left intact is "because it [the bird] is small, and if you sever it there will be only small pieces and it won't be seemly to bring before the [divine] King."
That understanding of leaving the feathers on is affirmed by modern scholarship as well. In his magisterial study of Leviticus, Jacob Milgrom writes, "its purpose may be to increase its size and give the appearance of a more substantial gift."
In deference to the potential embarrassment of the poor, the Torah insists that the bird's wings remain intact. Even though burning feathers stink terribly, the slight to the pauper, seeing the offering of the bird made even smaller, was far more offensive in the sight of God. In order to protect the dignity of even the least important Israelite, everyone in the Temple courtyard had to endure the stench of burning feathers. Our Torah is that passionate about the nobility of each human being, that zealous for the worth of the least among us.
In our own age, when most Americans give precedence to their own comfort at the expense of the homeless, the illiterate, or the unemployed, the stench of burning feathers should fill us with shame. Our God commands, and our ancestors' example inspires, a life of deference to simple human dignity.
Don't strip the feathers; endure the stench. Perhaps if the smell gets bad enough, we might become motivated to care and to act. The measure of our humanity is at stake in our response.
Shabbat Shalom