(Delivered March 28, 2026)

Shabbat shalom!

At the risk of annoying my Torah study folks, I have to say it again. You might even want to say it with me: The Torah is always right on time. 

This week our reading, from Parshat Tzav, is teaching us about offerings, about fire and purification and even chametz. As the taxonomy of different offerings takes shape, Aaron and the Kohanim are downloading instruction for how to make different kinds of offerings, how to take on the mantle of Priesthood: what to offer, what to keep and what to take elsewhere.

Meanwhile the calendar is teaching us that it’s time to clean out our kitchens to prepare for Pesach. We are engaged in sorting and switching and cooking and planning and consulting a taxonomy of what’s allowed and what’s not. Like the ancient Priests, we, too, are downloading instruction. Like the ancient Priests, we, too, find ourselves discerning what to offer, what to keep, and what to take elsewhere.

The fact that the word chametz comes up in the parsha; the fact that there is an aliyah which seems so clearly to be about matzah brei in this parsha that always occurs around this time of year, can certainly start to make you wonder. What’s the link? Other than the literal קָרְבַּן פֶּסַח—one of the three essential elements of the seder, according to Rabban Gamliel—what does the ancient system of offerings have to do with Pesach? Why does our tradition throw them together?

This question came up in Torah study the other day, but I didn’t quite know how to address it. Of course there are the obvious links, but why are they there? The Torah is generally not for the obvious, not for the easy answers. The conversation Thursday moved on unconcluded, but I couldn’t shake the subtle question from my mind. 

Why are the offerings and the holiday of Pesach so entangled?

As it says in the הַגָּדָה, we begin to answer.

The link I’m starting to make out, as if through fog, comes through the Kabbalistic teaching that chametz can be interpreted metaphorically, as an excess of ego. Just as leavening causes breads to rise and puff up, so too our own egos can cause us to get puffed-up, to become arrogant and full of ourselves. When we invest too much in shallow or self-serving ideas and actions, we tend to lose sight of what’s important. Preparing for Pesach is a way to take stock of the excesses in our lives, in the kitchen, and in our very selves. It’s like a tune-up for the work of teshuvah that we do in the sweep from Elul into the fall holidays. 

In the springtime, as we seek out the chametz in our kitchens, we also examine our own attitudes and temptations: Where am I sliding into self-regard? Where am I turning my compass toward praise and ego-gratification, rather than integrity and service?

And then, when we’ve sought out all those places of puffery and hubris, when we’ve gathered them together, we sweep them out. What we do in our physical homes, we do for our spiritual selves. 

The tradition of Biur Chametz (burning chametz) calls us, on the morning of the day of the first Seder, to collect, disavow, and burn any remaining chametz in our kitchens. After we’ve gathered all the crumbs, we place them on a pan, light a fire, and turn them into smoke, enacting a kind of mini קָרְבַּן of all that we must avoid during Pesach. As with our crumbs, so too with our own failings. If chametz represents our vanity, burning our chametz represents trimming our egos back down to size.

Biur Chametz recalls the burnt offerings of the parsha, and indeed when we look at the practice outlined in the first aliyah, of תְּרוּמָת הַדֶּשֶׁן—raising up the ashes—we can begin to flesh out the analogy. The act of תְּרוּמָת הַדֶּשֶׁן involves the Kohen, dressed in his priestly finery, beginning each morning by sweeping up the ashes of the previous day’s offerings. The work of תְּרוּמָת הַדֶּשֶׁן is unglamorous; it’s simply what needs to be done. In the same way that the world is created anew each morning, the Kohen wiping the slate clean of ashes around the altar makes it possible to start afresh ritually each morning. The picture of such an exalted figure as a Kohen basically relegated to cleanup duty is a powerful call to examine our relationship with status. The medieval Jewish scholar, Bahya Ibn Pekuda describes the spiritual valence of תְּרוּמָת הַדֶּשֶׁן as, “forsaking greatness and honor by serving God.” And after lifting up the ashes, the Kohen changes into the Priestly equivalent of his dungarees and does the even less exalted part, of taking the ashes outside the camp to a place of purity for disposal. That the primary religious leaders of the time were implicated in this mundane and messy task tells us a lot about how our tradition wants us to deal with our egos.

Elsewhere in the parsha we encounter the description of the butchery of the guilt offering: what to do with the various animal parts like the blood and the fat and the kidneys. Tucked into this alienatingly exacting—and graphic— passage is the phrase הַיֹּתֶרֶת עַל־הַכָּבֵד—the protuberance on the liver. Playing with the language, we can wander into the realm of allegory to discover yet another wink at controlling our own egos. If we repoint the vowels, it reads הַיֹּתֶרֶת עַל־הַכָּבֹד—the excess of glory. This excess of glory, like the fat and the kidneys, is ultimately burned up, as an offering to something larger than the self.

So with respect to our original question about what’s underneath the subtle alignment of Torah reading and calendar, I suspect it has to do with inviting us to open the metaphor of Pesach preparation and allow it to work on our souls as much as on our kitchens. Turning a process that could be just a panicked scramble into something rich with meaning is one way for us to fulfill the principle that comes to us from the Mishnah by way of the Haggadah: 

בְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם
In each and every generation, a person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally went out from Egypt.

Preparing our homes, burning our chametz: these are a way of making an offering to God, of connecting with our ancient practices and investing them with modern, personal meaning. 

Bechol dor vador indeed.

Shabbat shalom!