By way of introduction, I’d like to say a few words about my mother, in memory and in gratitude.
When she passed, she gave me a remarkable gift—the gift of davening. I’ve never been a great davener. I’ve never been a regular shul-goer. But through the process of saying Kaddish for her, and through thinking about her over the course of this past year, I’ve become something I wasn’t before: a davener, a shul-goer.
I try now to schedule my day around davening, something I had never done before. That’s a gift. A real, meaningful, incredible gift, and one that I’m deeply grateful for. I also want to express my gratitude to my wife, Stefanie, who has supported and encouraged me every step of the way—nudging, reminding, and yes, pushing me at times, to go to shul. That, too, is a wonderful gift.
As prayer is our modern form of Avodah, service of Hashem, I chose to learn Seder Kodashim, the order of the Mishnah that deals with the Avodah in the Beit HaMikdash, for this yahrzeit. Korbanot, sacrifices, offerings—this is a part of Torah that feels distant and strange to the modern mind. But there are also deep insights that are very relevant to us today as ever. Here, I will focus on one particular halacha that I’ve been thinking about a lot—one that, while somewhat obscure, is incredibly important. It’s the law of pigul.
It so happens that we read about pigul the Shabbat before this yahrzeit, in Parashat Kedoshim. The halacha is that every korban—whether it’s entirely burned on the altar or partly eaten—has a strict time limit for its consumption. Some may be eaten for one day, some for two. But if the korban is eaten or offered on the altar after its given time frame, it becomes pigul—rendered invalid. But not only is the offering invalid, but anyone who eats of it (or offers it on the altar) incurs the punishment of karet—spiritual excision. (The same punishment as for idol worship.)
Now, this is not the only way to invalidate a korban. For example, if a non-kohen offers it up, or if the blood is spilled improperly, or if the flesh is taken outside the precincts of the Temple—all of these will render a korban invalid. But only pigul carries the punishment of karet.
Even more significantly, merely intending to eat the korban after its time while performing certain parts of the Avodah can make it pigul. You don’t even need to act on the thought—just the intention is enough to render the korban pigul and make one who eats it liable to karet.
Why? Why should pigul be different from any other invalidating intention or act?
The answer, I think, is this: In the other cases of an invalidated korban, such as when a non-kohen performs the service, or the offering is physically taken outside the Temple, it’s obvious you’re doing something wrong. There’s no ambiguity. But pigul is more subtle. You’re doing everything right, just, well, a little late. One might think, “What’s the big deal? I’m just a few minutes late.”
That is exactly the point.
When a meaningful deviation doesn’t seem significant to us, when we feel like “it’s not a big deal,” that’s exactly when the Torah reminds us that it is a big deal.
The key is that a korban is not a “sacrifice.” The word actually means “drawing close.” The purpose of a korban is to facilitate a connection between a person and HaKadosh Baruch Hu. From this perspective, we can understand why being even a little late is so significant. If you want to connect to someone else, you cannot be focused only on yourself. But if you say, “I want to connect, but only on my own schedule,” you’re undermining the very essence of connecting with another.
This halacha becomes even more poignant when we consider which part of the service is affected by the improper intention—it is the portion of the Avodah of receiving and sprinkling the blood on the altar. This is the matir, the ‘permitter’—that portion of the service that permits the korban to be offered on the altar, to be consumed in purity and ultimately accepted by God.
The bringing of the blood, the nefesh, to the altar can be said to symbolize the opening of one’s heart. That is the necessary first step toward connection, and hence the matir for the korban. Without an open heart, there can be no connection.
And if you open your heart—but only half-heartedly, thinking “yes, but…” or “yes, in a minute…”—then you’re not really opening it at all.
As depicted in Shir HaShirim, when the beloved comes:
Hark, my beloved knocks!
“Let me in, my own,
My darling, my faultless dove!
For my head is drenched with dew,
My locks with the damp of night.”
But his lover thinks:
I had taken off my robe—
Was I to don it again?
I had bathed my feet—
Was I to soil them again?
And so
My beloved took his hand off the latch,
And my heart was stirred for him.
I rose to let in my beloved;
I opened the door for my beloved,
But my beloved had turned and gone.
She delays a few moments, and He is gone. An open heart means now. This is the lesson of pigul.
And this is something I’ve come to learn through the act of davening and saying kaddish for my mother over the past year. To daven means to open one’s heart. Rachmana liba ba’i—God wants the heart. And my mother was all heart. That was her avodah. She gave with her heart, she loved with her heart, she lived with her heart. So many stories have surfaced since she passed—so many chassadim, acts of kindness, large and small, that she did quietly, without fanfare. She didn’t talk, she didn’t boast. She just lived from her heart.
And I—well, I was all brain. I wasn’t able to hear what she was trying to say, and she didn’t know how to speak with me either. But now I think I understand something of her. And I owe that to her, and also to my wife Stefanie, Freidel Liba, as well. She has a rare gift—she can see people as they truly are not just from her own perspective. She sees our children with all their strengths and struggles, and guides them with love and wisdom. What I learned from her prepared me to receive the gift of understanding my mother better, to see her heart more clearly.
May this learning be a zechut, a merit, for my mother’s neshama. I hope that my davening, every day, will continue to bring her and HaKadosh Baruch Hu nachat.
Let us now conclude with the final Mishnah in Seder Kodashim, from Masechet Kinim:
Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish said:
Ziknei am ha’aretz, kol zman she’mazkinin, da’atan mitarefet aleihem.
“The elders of the ignorant— as they age, their minds deteriorate.”
Aval ziknei Torah einam kein. Ela kol zman she’mazkinin, da’atan mityashevet aleihem.
“But the elders of Torah are not like this. As they age, their minds become more settled.”
Even though my mother suffered from Alzheimer’s in the final years of her life, her heart was never lost. Even when she was 99% in the next world, you could still feel her love. Her da’at may have faltered, but her lev—her heart—remained present.
