By Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel in Chula Vista, California
Whenever I read the Book of Leviticus, I find myself asking: What is the purpose of sacrifices—especially for people living in the 21st century? Leviticus may not have the excitement of Genesis or Exodus, but I do believe there is much we can learn from its lessons and laws.
This point segues beautifully into the heart of our parsha. As we open Leviticus (Sefer Vyikra), we encounter a word that has long defined Jewish worship for millennia: korban (קָרְבָּן). Translated as “sacrifice,” it often conjures images of ancient rituals—animals on the altar, blood, fire—that feel distant, even alien, in our modern world. After all, it’s been nearly 2,000 years since the Temple stood, and animal offerings ceased. Yet the root of korban is קָרַבqerab which means to “to draw near,” “to approach,” “to come close.”
Far from loss or payment, a korban was always about kiruv: bridging the gap between our everyday, imperfect selves and the Divine Presence.
Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, a prominent rabbinical scholar of the 19th century, argued that the term “sacrifice” conveys a profound misunderstanding. It imports foreign ideas of deprivation or bribery—giving up something to appease a deity who needs placating. But God needs nothing. The korban benefits us: it elevates the human spirit, refines our character, and brings us into closer orbit with God’s will.
Hirsch saw the animal as a symbolic representative of our own animalistic drives and physical nature. Through semikha (the act of placing one’s hands upon the sacrificial animal), shechita, and the sprinkling of blood (our nefesh, life-force), we dedicate our energies to holiness. The altar’s fire consumes the offering, teaching us to let the “fire of Torah” burn away selfishness, transforming base impulses into a reiach nichoach—a pleasing aroma of aligned living. The Sanctuary was no slaughterhouse; it was a “workshop of the soul.”
Hirsch’s remark contrasts well with the attitude seen in purely transactional religion. The Roman do ut des—”I give, so that you may give”—was quid pro quo: bargain for favors, victory, prosperity. Medieval indulgences sometimes reduced atonement to payments from a “treasury of merit.” Even today, we might encounter echoes—treating tefillah, tzedakah, or mitzvot as quick fixes to “earn” blessings or avert trouble, without embracing a deeper change.
The Torah’s vision is transformative, not transactional. At first glance, customs like kapparot before Yom Kippur or pidyon nefesh (charity as a symbolic ransom) might look similar: give something valuable and hope for heavenly relief. But these are not bribes. Semikha declares, “This represents me—my life-force offered to draw near.” Charity in teshuvah sacrifices our “blood and fat”—the effort, time, and resources we invested—redirecting them to holiness as evidence of a heart turning back to its Source.
Our tradition cautions against outsourcing holiness. We invoke the merits of our ancestors and give tzedakah for the soul of our departed loved-ones, but true closeness requires personal sincerity. Baal HaTurim’s insight on the small aleph in וַיִּקְרָא reminds us: it all begins with humility. Moses shrank his presence so God’s call could be heard. Without ego-contraction, no external act suffices.
We see this early in Cain and Abel. Cain’s offering from the ground felt obligatory, lacking heart. Abel brought the choicest firstlings with genuine devotion. God regarded Abel’s—not because of the gift, but the yearning for closeness. The Book of Leviticus builds on this: an offering must express a sincere approach, not mechanics.
The offerings’ structure proves it. The olah is wholly consumed—total dedication. The shelamim is shared in a meal—creating shalom among God, kohanim, and the offerer. The aim: reconciliation, harmony, wholeness.
In our time, without a Temple, these ideas remain profoundly relevant. The rabbis transformed korbanot into prayer—our daily Amidah echoes the Temple service, our words rising like offerings. Tefillah demands we “sacrifice” time, focus, and ego, drawing near through intention. Tzedakah [charity] and chesed [acts of loving kindness] become our modern korbanot: giving of resources or self to mend brokenness in the world and soul. In an era of instant gratification, consumerism, and self-optimization apps promising quick spiritual “hacks,” Vayikra challenges us: true change isn’t transactional. It costs personal effort—surrendering habits, investing in relationships, confronting our “animal” side through discipline and growth.
Think of it in daily life: waking early for minyan, choosing kindness over convenience, redirecting money from excess to those in need, or simply showing up fully in prayer despite distraction. These are our korbanot—pathways to kiruv in a fragmented, digital age where closeness feels elusive.
The “cost” of closeness isn’t payment or loss; it’s transformation: yielding ego, committing effort, yearning to approach the Divine. May we merit that kiruv through our tefillah, tzedakah, and daily self-refinement—bridging the human and Divine not through bargains, but heartfelt proximity.
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Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel is spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California.