VaYikra: Sacrificing and Hoping

This week we begin reading the book of Leviticus, Sefer Vayikra. Its name derives from the tribe of Levi, whose members are elevated to serve as priests, entrusted with the sacred work of maintaining the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary that accompanied the Israelites through the wilderness. Much of the book is devoted to the structure of that service—how a people draws close to God through ritual, discipline, and devotion.

The opening parashah, Vayikra, immerses us in the details of korbanot - ritual offerings. Over its first five chapters, Leviticus carefully outlines when a sacrifice is required, what kind must be brought, and the method in which it is offered. To the modern reader, these passages can feel distant - filled with imagery and practices far removed from our own religious lives.

When I encounter these chapters, I often feel that distance. The world of sacrifice - of animals, of altars, of blood - can feel foreign, even unsettling. But this year, the idea of sacrifice feels painfully immediate.

Because sacrifice, at its core, is not about ritual alone. The Hebrew word korban shares a root with karov, meaning ‘to draw near.’ A korban is an act of coming close: to give something of ourselves in order to create connection, to consecrate ourselves and our belonging to a greater collective.

And this year, my thoughts turn to the people of Israel, who are being asked every single day to give of themselves in ways that feel all too real.

We are inspired, rightly, by the resilience of Israeli society. There is something profoundly moving about communities in the north declaring they will remain in their homes despite constant threat, about young people insisting on celebrating Purim even as sirens pierce the night, about couples standing under the chuppah in bomb shelters, choosing love and life in the shadow of fear.

But alongside that resilience is sacrifice.

There is the sacrifice of sleep, as families are jolted awake night after night, racing to shelter. The sacrifice of routine, as parents struggle to balance work and childcare without the stability of schools and kindergartens. The quiet, grinding sacrifice of emotional energy to care for others, to reassure frightened children, to attend to one’s own needs and fears.

And there are even more difficult sacrifices. The elderly who cannot reach shelter in time. Ilana and Yaron Moshe z’’l, both in their seventies, could not physically make the trip down four flights of stairs before a missile struck their home Tuesday evening. Individuals already carrying trauma who are forced to relive it daily. Families who have lost loved ones, whose absence leaves an unfillable void.

These are not symbolic offerings. They are living, breathing korbanot - acts of endurance, of courage, of love.

And yet, just as in the ancient world, sacrifice is not the end of the story. It is meant to lead somewhere. It is meant to bring us closer: to one another, to our values, and to hope.

At the heart of the Jewish story is a stubborn, unyielding hope. Even in moments of profound uncertainty, we hold fast to the belief that a better future is not simply possible, it is certain.

“Od lo avda tikvateinu - our hope is not yet lost,” wrote Naftali Herz Imber, words that became the emotional core of Israel’s national anthem, Hatikvah - the hope. That hope has sustained us through generations of hardship and sacrifice.

It sustains us now.

As we read about the ancient korbanot this week, may we expand our understanding of what sacrifice means. Not only what is placed on an altar, but what is given of the heart, the body, and the spirit in the pursuit of life and peace.

May the sacrifices of these days not be in vain. May they bring us closer to safety, to healing, and to a future defined not by fear, but by dignity and peace.

And may our enduring hope give us the strength to build a world worthy of those sacrifices.

Am Yisrael Chai.Shabbat Shalom.