The money didn’t come out of the priests’ own pockets. It came
from the well-filled coffers of the Temple. Every year, money poured
from all the Jewish people to a special fund which provided for the daily
sacrifices. There really was no reason to skimp.
And yet, I this week’s Torah portion we read that Hashem told
Moses to “command Aaron and his sons” regarding the daily olah
sacrifice. Why did the priests have to be “commanded”? Why wasn’t it
enough for them to be “told,” as was usually the case? Our Sages tell
us that Hashem was forewarning the priest not to cut corners in order to
reduce the considerable expense of bringing an animal every morning
and every afternoon.
But why was this necessary? Why would the priests even consider
such a thing? After all, there was no cost to them personally, and there
was plenty of public money for the sacrifices.
Let us consider for a moment the nature of the sacrificial service.
There were actually two aspects to it. First, the detailed physical
process of the sacrifice. Second and even more important, the
thoughts, feelings and commitments that the sacrifice represented;
without the idea behind it, the sacrifice was meaningless.
Unlike most of the sacrifices, which were partially burnt on the altar
and partially eaten, the olah sacrifice was kalil, completely incinerated.
Therefore, the commentators explain, there was a real possibility that
the priest would focus on the intent and not attribute enough importance
to the physical act itself. Since the sacrifice was all being given to
Hashem, they might reason, what difference would it make if fewer
funds were expended on the sacrifices? All that mattered was the intent.
Not so, the Torah warned. It was not the place of the priests to
make such judgments. If the Torah commanded that two animals be
brought daily, the commandment was to be obeyed without question.
An elderly king appointed a new chamberlain to oversee his palace
“Your first major responsibility in your new post,” said the king, “will
be to arrange the parade in honor of my birthday next week. Find out
how it is done every year. The information is in the palace records.”
The following week, on the king’s birthday, there was no parade.
Instead, the chamberlain brought together the greatest poets in the land
in a gala public ceremony, and each of the poets read an exquisite
poem composed for the occasion. The king was pleased.
The next day, the king summoned the chamberlain and removed
him from office for failing to stage the customary parade.
“But, sire,” the chamberlain protested, “I only tried to please you,
and if I am not mistaken, you really did seem pleased.”
“The poems were very beautiful,” said the king, “but it is not for you
to substitute poems for the customary observance. You are not a
chamberlain for me.”
In our own lives, it is easy to take a somewhat cavalier attitude
towards the rituals and observances of the Torah by rationalizing that it
is the heart that counts. The heart indeed counts a great deal, but
actions speak more loudly than words. As servants of the Almighty, we
should leave it to Him to decide what form those actions should take.
With our own limited scope, we cannot possibly know the extent to
which a particular ritual or observance described in the Torah may
stimulate our inner feelings and touch our very souls. We all understand
that the Almighty needs nothing from us. Therefore, if the Torah calls
for a certain action, we can rest assured that it is for our own benefit
and that in the end it is we ourselves who will be immeasurably