Retaining the Remnants

Parshat Tzav

Rabbi Dr. Erin Leib Smokler

Director of Spiritual Development

Advanced Kollel: Executive Ordination Track

Class of 2018

^{15 Adar II 5776 | March 25, 2016}

Parshat Tzav opens with an arresting image of an altar ablaze:

The korban olah, or burnt offering, was a sacrifice unique for the totality of its consumption by fire. Every night, throughout the entire night, an animal would burn down to ashes on the altar, keeping the mishkan aglow continuously. Even during the depths of nighttime darkness, there was always a little devotional light flickering, ensuring that that hallowed space never ceased to be a place of active worship. "אֵשׁ תָּמִיד תּוּקַד עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּחַ לֹא תִכְבֶּה"--A fire burned incessantly on the altar, never extinguishing.

This constancy of burning devotion became, for Chassidic masters, an analogy for the human heart on fire with spiritual passion. The Baal Shem Tov himself, and later his grandson, the Degel Machaneh Ephraim, articulated this aspiration clearly:

Yet, despite this high-pitch presentation of the ideal spiritual life, the Torah's description is far more complex. The great image of the altar on fire is actually tempered by a strong focus on the embers it generated. The action of interest is not only on top of the mizbeach (altar), but also "etzel ha-mizbeach," beside it (Lev. 6:3). Our parsha instructs the kohen (priest) every single morning, first thing in the morning, to move the scorched ashes of those burned up animals to the side of the altar--gently, carefully, ritually. The remnants of the overnight fires on the holy altar had to be retained right next to the altar. And there they would remain until they built up overwhelmingly, at which point the priest would move them to a pure place ("makom tahor") outside of the camp. This repetitive, ritualized act, known as terumat ha-deshen, would be a central priestly responsibility, one that the anchored the priest's daily practice. Shoveling that grit from the altar to the side of the altar was his first act of service as he began each day of devotion.

The precise attention paid to these ashes, and their conscious retention, is striking. Why hold on so preciously to these remains?

The Sefat Emet, in the tradition of the Chassidic thinkers already mentioned, sees in this willful juxtaposition of fire and ashes, an insight into the nature of spiritual passion. He writes:

In other words, the fire that burns inside of a person alive with religious fervor has a tremendous capacity to consume "alien thoughts"--perhaps doubts or fears or regrets that get in the way of piety. Ecstatic passion can quiet voices of uncertainty; compensate for inklings of indecision; quash intimations of temptation. In so doing, it can overcome darkness and yield radiant light.

And yet, as our verses indicate, and as the Sefat Emet amplifies in another drasha, our mizbeach model does not actually ask us to rid ourselves completely of darkness.

The pious act of terumat ha-deshen, of shoveling the detritus of fiery consumption from the center of the altar to its side, reminds us that the light does not, and need not, make darkness disappear. It merely moves it from center stage to a more peripheral place, and then honors it there. The altar juxtaposes fire and ashes because our hearts too must learn to contain and retain light and darkness. Not to ignore, throw away, or deny those parts of ourselves that threaten passion, but to give them their place. If we can cultivate an excitement that acknowledges boredom; a commitment that allows for alienation; an enthusiasm that makes space for malaise, we just might find a more sustainable, more integrated way to keep our fires burning tamid, continuously.

The Maggid of Mezerich was once asked how one can sustain passion for God. He responded:

In the embers of our burned out hearts lay the sparks to light our flames anew. So keep them close, etzel ha-mizbeach.