"Rabbi, I never joined a synagogue, and we don't practice our religion at home, but I've always had a warm feeling for Judaism in my heart. I know that I've always been a good Jew." Over and over again, in countless variations, Jews rehearse these lines before rabbis, federation volunteers, and anyone else who holds a position of Jewish responsibility: "I don't show support in any visible way, you can't tell I'm Jewish by any practice in my life, but all of that means nothing compared to the powerful emotional connection I nurture inside. Deep down, I'm Jewish".
This cardiac Judaism (warm feelings in the heart) may claim the majority of America's Jews. And, certainly, warm feelings are an important component of Jewish identification and faith. But are warm feelings enough? Our Torah portion offers a useful distinction between the role of warm feelings and the need for tangible signs and actions that nurture and transmit those feelings across the generations and throughout a community.
The Book of Va-Yikra, opens with a description of the animal sacrifices which the Kohanim were to perform in the Tabernacle and in the Jerusalem Temple. One of those sacrifices was the Olah, the burnt offering. The Olah was a voluntary offering, brought by a Jew who had a specific need to bring to God's attention. The perceived danger of standing in the presence of God was mitigated through offering a pleasing sacrifice that would focus God's attention on the needy Jew (thus the Tanakh elsewhere refers to God as one "who responds with fire).
The range of possible offerings for this attention-getter included the full-grown cow, which only the very wealthy could afford, to the pigeon, which was easily accessible to anyone. Any one of these animals was acceptable as a burnt offering. Why?
Noting this remarkable commitment that all Jews should be able to use the sacrificial system to gain access to God, the Talmud remarks ,"It doesn't matter to God whether one brings much or little, so long as one's heart is directed toward heaven."Taken by itself, that line in the Talmud appears to justify doing the minimum. After all, if doing a lot and doing a little both count the same, then why bother doing a lot?
Additionally, this passage seems to place intention above deed, raising the possibility that if a person has the right intention there may be no need for any action at all. There are many who champion this position today: religion, we are told, is an affair of the heart, what counts are private feelings.
Within Jewish circles, this Talmudic passage is often quoted as the justification for religion stripped of ritual or obligation. Yet such a view misreads both the Talmud and the role of religion. The Talmud is here speaking about a ritual bein adam la-Makom, between humans and God.
Few would argue that n the realm of bein adam le-havero (ethics or social justice) a little and a lot are the same. There is a big difference between giving a dollar to save Jews or to fight cancer and donating a fortune. Regardless of one's intentions, it is better to give a lot. But, what about the realm of ritual: of prayer, Shabbat. Kashrut, and other mitzvot that comprise traditional Jewish expression? Is a little as good as a lot?
If the goal of Judaism were simply the feelings of the individual, then the answer would have to be yes. One can feel favorably inclined as a Jew without a lot of Jewish practice. But is that really the only, or even the highest, Jewish goal? What of the need to instill Jewish values? What of the need to teach self-restraint? What of our ability to improve ourselves and our society by reaching beyond our own perceived needs to a higher level? What of God's warm feelings?
The key phrase of the Talmud is that the heart must be directed toward heaven. That doesn't just mean thinking of God as our big buddy in the sky, eager to approve our friendship on any terms. Rather, to quote from the Mishnah, it means a willingness to "make God's will your will."
In allowing an agenda of holiness and righteousness to replace the drives of the human heart--our own whims, fads, and lusts-we offer our very core to God as a gift. We make of ourselves altars in the service of redemption. What matters is substituting God's agenda for our own, and then participating in the ritual--whether lavishly or not.
You don't have to eliminate poverty by yourself, but give to charity as much as you can. You don't need two sets of china, but keep a kosher kitchen. The value of the sacrifice is not its size. But without some sacrifice, there can be no values.
Shabbat Shalom.