Siyum on Masechet Menachot, on My Mother's Second Yahrzeit

 Masechet Menachot deals primarily with the Korban Mincha, the flour offering brought to the Temple. There are many types of Mincha, but nearly all are brought according to the following general procedure.

A precise measure of flour is placed into a sacred vessel (kli sharet). (In most cases, with oil and frankincense on top.) A kohen then performs kmitzah, scooping some flour mixed with oil (but no frankincense) with his three middle fingers pressed against his palm. He places that flour, called the kometz, into another kli sharet, and it is then taken to be burned on the altar. The remainder, called the shirayim, is eaten by the kohanim.

This is relatively straightforward. But there’s one strange detail.

Nearly every standard of measure in the Temple is fixed and objective. A log of oil is a log. A hin is a hin. These are absolute quantities, the same for every offering regardless of who brings it or who performs the service. Indeed, in Menachot we learn how there was a veritable set of measuring cups which were klei sharet. But the required measure for the kometz is not objective—it depends on the size of the kohen's own hand. A large-handed kohen and a small-handed kohen each perform a valid kmitzah. And it is not because there is no specific measure needed. If a tiny bit of flour were missing from a large kohen’s kometz, it is invalid, even though there may be more flour left than would have been in a full kometz from a smaller kohen.

There is only one other place in all of Temple law where we find a similarly "subjective" measure: the chofen, the double handful of incense that the High Priest alone burns the Kodesh haKodashim, the Holy of Holies, on Yom Kippur. There too, the measure is defined not by an absolute volume but by the individual High Priest's own two hands.

What is the connection between these two, seemingly very different, offerings? And why should these two, among all the Temple rites, be the ones uniquely defined by the person rather than by an external standard?

To approach this question, we need to understand what the kometz is, and ultimately, what the Mincha itself is all about. To start with the kometz, we’ll take a short detour to a technical analysis of kmitzah by Rav Chaim Brisker (Chidushei R' Chaim al haRambam, Ma'aseh Hakorbanot 13:12)

The Rambam rules that if a kometz (after it is scooped) is inadvertently divided between two different klei sharet, the situation can be remedied by pouring the contents of one kli into the other, reuniting the kometz and allowing it to become sanctified.

However, this contradicts what we would expect, based on the halachot for animal korbanot. The act of kemitza for a Mincha is parallel to the act of shechita (slaughtering) of an animal korban. A shiur of blood is collected in a kli sharet directly from the animal’s neck, and it is sprinkled or poured on the altar (depending on the type of korban). That blood is analogous to the kometz. However, if the blood gets divided between two klei sharet, such that neither has the requisite amount, all is lost. They cannot be recombined – it is as if the blood had spilled on the floor.

Why the difference between the two cases? Why can part of the kometz be held in transit in another kli sharet, but blood cannot.

R. Chaim's conceptual analysis that answers the question is this. Blood has no legitimate intermediate state between the animal and the kli sharet. It must go directly from the animal to the vessel, and the vessel is the sanctifying agent. If insufficient blood reaches the vessel, it is effectively as though it were spilled; there is no legitimate way to hold it in transit.

The kometz, however, by definition, passes through an intermediate stage: the kohen's hand. The kli sharet into which the kometz is then placed acts, in R. Chaim's analysis, as an extension of the hand. The hand is itself a legitimate waypoint in the sanctification process — not merely the means of transport, but a recognized stage in the korban’s journey to the altar. This is why a split kometz can be reunited: because the portion that was held up in another kli sharet is still considered to be on its way to its ultimate destination.

The process, then, has three distinct stages: the act of scooping (kmitzah); a holding phase, in which the flour rests in the hand or its extension, the kli sharet; and the final sanctification as it comes to rest fully in the vessel. In this sense, the kohen's hand holding the kometz is structurally parallel to the dynamic flow of blood from the animal into the kli sharet — both represent the transition from the raw material of the offering into its sanctified form. But in the Mincha, uniquely, the kohen's body is part of that transition.

This now enables us to understand the similarity and difference between kemitza of a korban Mincha, and the chafina of incense by the High Priest on Yom Kippur. In the latter case, as Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik has argued, the High Priest's cupped hands are themselves a kli sharet – they do not merely convey the incense, they sanctify it. On Yom Kippur, the High Priest stands before God as the representative of Klal Yisrael, the community of Israel, a living vessel for the holiness of the entire people. His hands do not point toward the sanctity; they embody it.

In the Mincha, by contrast, the kohen's represents an individual, and so his hand is not the vessel of sanctification, but a conduit. It is a tzinor, a pipe, one might say, that takes the offering from a lower to a higher state of holiness (when it reaches the kli sharet). The kohen here does not create holiness; he channels it. He is not the source but the means by which holiness is reached.

And yet, functioning as a conduit for holiness, his hand is irreplaceable and irreducibly his own. Each kohen, every individual, has their own specific mode of sanctifying this world. The individuality of the measurement of the kometz represents the fact that none of us can substitute for anyone else in bringing the Divine into the world. We each have our individual derech which we must each seek and follow.

Why is this lesson connected specifically to the Mincha, however? To understand the essential nature of the Mincha, we turn to R. Samson Raphael Hirsch, who examines the name of the korban, the word Mincha itself. Mincha is often used outside of the context of the Temple service, to mean a gift. More specifically, it means a tribute, a gift given by a person of lesser standing to one of greater standing, expressing one’s submission to and dependence on the will of the recipient. The paradigmatic case of this in the Torah is when Jacob was traveling back to Israel, and prepared to meet his brother Esau by sending him a Mincha, to seek to appease him (Gen. 32:14). The gift was not given out of gratitude or love, or because Esau could use the flocks that Jacob sent. It was a concrete expression of Jacob’s submission to Esau’s authority and power.

God, of course, does not need anything from us. He does not need the kometz burned on the altar, nor does it benefit Him in any way. The Mincha is not a gift in the sense of transfer of ownership; it is a tribute that declares, "Everything I am and have is Yours." It proclaims our submission and dedication to God’s will.

This is why the measure of the kometz depends on the hand of the one who brings it. Absolute quantity is beside the point. What matters is the completeness of one’s devotion, symbolized by the kohen bringing to sanctity everything his hand could hold.

This is expressed beautifully in the very last Mishna in Menachot:

Echad hamarbeh v'echad hamamit, bilvad sheyechaven libo l'Shamayim.

It is the same whether one gives much or little, as long as the heart is directed toward Heaven.

The measure of the hand represents the measure of the person.

And the measure of the person is the measure of the heart’s devotion.

This is what characterized my mother a”h.

As a mother, there were many things she did wonderfully; at the same time, like all people, she had her limitations. But there is no question that she sought to devote herself one hundred percent, with everything she had to give, to HaKadosh Baruch Hu, to my father, and to her children and family.

She lived the lesson of the Mincha. God does not look at the absolute size of the offering. Rachmana liba ba’ei, God wants heart. He cares that it was a complete expression of her heart.

May this learning be a zechut for her neshama.

 

Siyum on Seder Kodashim on my Mother’s First Yahrzeit

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.

What's in a name?

Parashat Shemot, the weekly Torah portion that opens the book of Exodus, describes the transformation of the Children of Israel from a family, as they were at the end of Genesis, into a nation.

We also see the birth, quite literally, of the first Jewish leader, Moshe Rabbeinu. Indeed, the Torah presents him as the very archetype of what a leader should be - certainly not without flaw (no Biblical characters are), but absolutely without peer. He is the only individual in all of Tana"kh to wield all Biblical forms of leadership: political, judicial, priestly, and prophetic. And, while his successor Joshua is without a doubt great in his own right, the Torah ends on a wistful note, implicitly sighing, "If only Moshe had been the one to lead us into the Promised Land!"

What can we then glean, from the narrative of his early life, about the character of this man destined to become the paradigmatic leader?

A fundamental lesson can be seen in an apparently small detail - his name. He is named "Moshe" by Pharaoh's daughter when he is returned to her after being weaned (his own mother having clandestinely served as his hired wet-nurse). What had he been called before that point? The Torah says nothing - the only name relevant to its narrative is just this one, "Moshe". In fact, the Yalkut Shimoni states that he had many other names, and yet he is referred throughout Tana"kh only as "Moshe", the name given to him by his Egyptian foster mother. This name is clearly of great significance.

The Torah tells us that she gave him this name because, as she says on naming him, "I have drawn him out of the water" - כִּי מִן-הַמַּיִם מְשִׁיתִהוּ. The name Moshe derives from the Hebrew root מ.ש.ה meaning to draw something out of the water, and so memorializes for the rest of his life the fact that he was saved by the princess' hand.

Yet, as R. S. R. Hirsch points out, the grammar is wrong. If the name was to mean "The one who was drawn from the water," it should have been "Mashui" (משוי). The name "Moshe" (משה), by contrast, means "One who draws out of water."  By naming him Moshe, Pharaoh's daughter is charging him with a mission, saying, "I drew you out of water. Now grow up and be someone who will draw others out of water!" This charge of hers propelled him to leadership, and is key to understanding the Torah's view of what true greatness is.

She tells him, in effect, "You were saved from a dangerous and traumatic situation. Do not view yourself as a victim, as helpless. Use this experience to help others. Let your memory of salvation guide you to save others. You were afraid, so be sensitive to the fear of others. You were in pain, alleviate the pain of others. You were in danger, save others. You felt threatened, protect others."

Pharaoh's daughter teaches this infant, through his very name, how to have an Existence of Destiny, in R. Joseph Soloveitchik's formulation - how to respond to suffering not with "Why do I suffer?" but with "What do I do with my suffering?" By reorienting himself thusly, the victim becomes the hero.

Such heroism as a response to trauma is the character of the Torah's archetypal leader, Moshe.

There never was, nor ever will be a leader as great as Moshe. However, we are, all of us, capable of following a similar path. Of taking our suffering, our fears, our pain, whether great or small, and using them as an impetus, and as a teacher, to help others. In this way, we can redeem our own suffering, and also bring a measure of redemption to the world.