Beasts and Birds: On (Im)Perfection
by Trinidad Gómez
Parashat Vayikra introduces the korbanot, the various offerings made to Hashem by the priests of the Temple. “Korban” comes from the root “קרב” (karov,) to draw close or come near—we make sacrifices in order to draw closer to Hashem and their creation.[1] Of course, this is a ritual that the Jewish people haven’t engaged in since the Temple’s destruction, which can make this section of Torah difficult to read and interpret. The laws of animal sacrifice may not be applicable to Jewish life or practice today; I would suggest, however, that there is much to glean from this passage about the sacrifices we do still make and the ways they draw us closer to G-d.
A few varieties of offerings are described in this Parasha—burnt, meal, sin, peace, guilt—with differing implications and stipulations described for each type. The burnt offering, or korban olah, consists of an animal which is, appropriately, burned in its entirety. The flesh of this offering can come from a few different beasts; but if the sacrifice is a bull or a ram it must be “a male without blemish” to be ritually acceptable.[2] The burnt offering is the offering described first because, as Rabbi Hezekiah ben Manoah asserts, the burnt offering is “most welcome by Hashem.” [3]
Today, instead of the flesh of animals, we offer the wholeness of ourselves-- our intention, devotion, and dedication to continuing the traditions and ideals of the generations before us. As Rabbi Zalman of Liadi interpreted the parsha, sacrifice has always been a metaphor for offering oneself.[4] The flesh and soul of the animal stand in for our own animal flesh and soul; the flames of Hashem, “a consuming fire,” examine and devour the body in its entirety.[5] This raises a question in my mind—is this sacrifice an equivalent exchange? If I am not free of blemishes, not fit to be given over to Hashem, is it right that an animal stands in for me?
The stories of our ancestors who first offered korbanot all very much feature challenges with drawing near to G-d.[6] Abel chose the “choicest of the firstlings of his flock” for his korban, an offering more pleasing than his brother’s offering of fruit;[7] Noah sacrificed specimens of “every pure animal and every pure bird” upon escaping the Flood to express gratitude for his survival;[8] and in place of his own son, Abraham offers a ram provided by Hashem, free of blemish, whose horns were trapped in a thicket of branches and brambles.[9] All felt uncertain, afraid, and imperfect as they attempted to draw nearer to Hashem. Their korbanot did not make them more perfect, did not erase the trauma of surviving an apocalyptic tempest or almost committing filicide, but in the end, they somehow approached the divine. If our patriarchs and progenitors struggled with feeling near to our people, or traditions, and our G-d, then how are we, blemished and imperfect as we are, to draw closer?
This question has felt relevant to my own life lately, and hopefully I am not alone in that feeling. I’m Hard of Hearing, and I have worked hard to adapt to a world that is not designed for me: though it has been out of necessity, I have embraced my disability as a part of myself, and I take pride in deriving strength from my difference. But those very things which make us strong—how we move through the world, how we present ourselves, who we love, and how we adapt and survive—are being cast as blemishes, now more than many other times in recent memory. Though I have lived my life as a person with a disability, it is challenging not to feel imperfect and uncertain when trying to adapt to this environment. So, does the parsha have an answer to our question? In a world that is ever more demanding that we hide or change parts of ourselves to conform to a specific ideal, how do we survive? How do we draw close to G-d if we are blemished?
I think the answer is birds. Parashat Vayikra tells us that the purity of birds is a different matter from their terrestrial counterparts. A sacrifice of birds should be “from turtledoves or pigeons,” whose heads are “pinch[ed] off” with the Priest’s own hands and “[turned] into smoke on the altar.” [10] Torah says nothing about the “purity” of the birds, unlike the other korbanot. While there are varieties of pure and impure birds (chickens and turkeys, the Ramban tells us, are not acceptable “because of their inclination to lewdness,” for example,[11]) the “purity” of the individual specimen doesn’t apply to avian sacrifices as it does to bovine or caprine specimens. We are much closer to birds than sheep or goats—not scientifically, sure, but metaphorically. The birds sacrificed in the korban olah have imperfections, flaws, blemishes, and yet they are still pleasing offerings. They still stand in for the human flesh and spirit, and their bodies are still devoured by the flames.
We cannot fear imperfection, and we must expose ourselves fully to the proverbial flames. The “consuming fire” is the same fire that came to Moshe Rabbeinu—our teacher, who was uncertain; and afraid; and perfect in imperfection. We do not have to be perfect or change ourselves to conform to some ideal that isn’t our own; but we do have to present ourselves fully. One must place their entire body on the altar, blemishes and all, to be “most welcome by Hashem.”
Trinidad is a graduate student in English at the University of Illinois. When they are not writing or reading, you can likely find them somewhere doing more writing or reading.
[1] Sefaria
[2] Vayikra 1:3
[3] Chizkuni
[4] Likutei Torah “Vayikra” 2
[5] Devarim 4 :24
[6] Sefaria
[7] Bereshit 4:4
[8] Bereshit 8:20
[9] Bereshit 22:13
[10] Vayikra 1:15
[11] Ramban, Commentary
