Vayikro / וירקא

This is a weekly series of parsha dvarim written by a frum, atheist, transsexual anarchist. It's crucial in these times that we resist the narrative that Zionism owns Judaism. Our texts are rich—sometimes opaque, but absolutely teeming with wisdom and fierce debate. It's the work of each generation to extricate meaning from our cultural and religious inheritance. I aim to offer comment which is true to the source material (i.e. doesn't invert or invent meaning to make us more comfortable) and uses Torah like a light to reflect on our modern times. The full dvar is paywalled for four weeks to help me sustain my work as a writer; if you can't afford to subscribe, email me and I'll send you the link for free.

An appeal: My friend Madleen needs help to support her children in Gaza. This fundraiser is run by a friend of a comrade, and I talk to Madleen regularly. Any amount helps, no matter how small.

Content note: Genocide in Palestine

This is the first parsha in the book of Vayikro (Leviticus). After the details of constructing the Mishkon in Shemoys, we're given instructions on when and how to offer korbones (offerings, sacrifices) at the alter of Hashem.

The social function of guilt and sin offerings was to alleviate guilt and move on. Without the alter, what frameworks do we have for atonement? How do we reckon with the collective Jewish sin of genocide in Palestine?

There are five types of offerings: עלה (oylo: ascending or burnt offering), מנחת (min'khas: meal offerings), שלמים (sh'lomim: well-being or peace offering), חטאת (khatos: sin offerings), and שסם (oshom: guilt offerings). The ascending, meal, and peace offerings are voluntary; the sin and guilt offerings are obligatory.

Parshas like this are a shtark reminder of how ancient Judaism is. We had an alter and animal sacrifices. We gave our best, unblemished livestock and finest flour mixed with the purest oil and frankincense not to kings or priests but to Hashem. Today, of course, we don't do this. It's understood that we're not meant to make such offerings without the Temple. Instead, as I noted last week, our davening replaces the offerings. Words are given as substitution—and by some accounts, the words are more precious than the sacrifices. This is a reminder of how much Judaism can change. Halakha can and will change to reflect the lives of Jews, and that doesn't have to mean assimilation or a watering-down of practice.

Why did we make offerings? Partly as deference to Hashem: we are instructed in sacrifice. But the social function of sacrifice for guilt and sin is tshuva, or "return"—that is, accountability and moving on. Sin and guilt offerings were made whether the transgression was committed on purpose or out of ignorance, for individuals or the entire community. After we completed the offering, we were no longer responsible for the guilt.

What do we do today to acknowledge our transgressions, and to move on? The Jews in medinas Yisroel are still killing civilians and aid workers. We have committed the communal sins of Zionism (i.e. ethnonationalism) and genocide. As a people, we are not yet willing to even admit that this is wrong, let alone to do tshuva. How could we possibly atone and "move on" from genocide? Shockingly, the best model we have for that is Germany: self-congratulatory memorialization, but at least an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, even if it now lends itself to committing another genocide in the name of anti-antisemitism.

It is hard for me to imagine tshuva, or transformative justice, or any other model of reconciliation and healing after genocide. What do I wish the post-war Germans did? How can we make amends for so many dead?

We won't find answers by looking to the descendants of Nazis; neither should we expect today's war criminals to suddenly have moral clarity. In several verses of Torah it states that Hashem visits the iniquity of parents upon children and children’s children, upon the third and fourth generations. The descendants of Nazis and IDF soldiers will be troubled for several generations. Likewise, my children will be scarcely comforted by the fact that I wasn't a Zionist because my comrades and I still failed to stop the war. Standing on the shoulders of giants, I want to built a Yiddishkeyt divorced from Zionism; but I can't simply absolve myself by saying "it wasn't me." Stopping genocide is everyone's responsibility, especially when it's your family holding the guns, bombing the hospitals, and starving the children in prisons. I too am guilty. But G-d forbid we fall into the disgusting habit of the Germans by fetishizing that guilt. The guilt must be productive in helping the victims.

Our offerings are meant to reflect our means: if you can't afford to offer a sheep, then you can offer pigeons or, if that's too much, flour. Judaism is a religion for the living—it is not meant to bankrupt us, financially or otherwise, and we are not expected to sacrifice more than we have. But we are expected to make sacrifices "without blemish", offering only the best to Hashem and to each other. My best offering right now is not a solution: in my better moments, I am more consumed by the urgent question of how to stop the genocide than with the accounting of the Jewish collective soul. Dedicating a piece of my life to helping people in Palestine is my best offering.