The opening chapters of the Book of Vayikra map out the world of sacrifices offered on the altar. Sacrifices are not one-dimensional. Some sacrifices respond to failure and repair. Others express gratitude. Others are brought simply because a person wants to move closer to G-d. After laying out the system, the Torah offers a neat summary [Vayikra 7:37]: “This is the law for the burnt offering, for the meal offering, and for the sin offering, and for the guilt offering, and for the investitures (miluim), and for the peace offering.” The Torah does this elsewhere. After the laws of kashrut, the Torah summarises [Vayikra 11:46-47]: “This is the law regarding animals, birds… to distinguish between the unclean and the clean, and between the animal that may be eaten and the animal that may not be eaten.” But then something curious happens. After the sacrifices are summarized, the Torah appends one more verse [Vayikra 7:38]: “[These are the laws] which G-d commanded Moshe on Mount Sinai, on the day He commanded the children of Israel to offer up their sacrifices to G-d in the Sinai Desert.” The medieval commentators are perplexed by this verse. The Ramban[1] asks why the Torah mentions that the sacrifices were commanded “on Mount Sinai”. Weren’t all of the commandments commanded on Mount Sinai? And why are both “Mount Sinai” and the “Sinai Desert” mentioned? Aren’t they in the same place? But I want to ask a more basic question: Why is this verse here at all? After kashrut, the Torah doesn’t add: “…which G-d commanded Moshe on Mount Sinai, on the day He told Israel not to eat cheeseburgers in the desert.” Why does sacrificial law get this extra line and no other topic does?

Our answer starts with a clue the Ramban himself brings. He points to a verse about the daily Continual Offering (Korban Tamid), described as something that was offered [Bemidbar 28:7] “at Mount Sinai”. Put Ramban on hold for a moment and bring in the Hizkuni[2], who makes a striking claim. The daily Tamid, he says, was seeded by an earlier sacrifice offered at the foot of Sinai even before the Torah was given [Shemot 24:5]: “Moshe sent forth the young men of the Children of Israel and they offered burnt offerings.” According to the Hizkuni, these sacrifices were so meaningful to G-d that He instituted a daily sacrifice so that the practice should remain in use forever. What made those particular sacrifices so meaningful? Again, we turn to the commentary of the Hizkuni, who suggests that by offering those sacrifices, the young “Children of Israel” meant to fulfill what G-d had foretold to Moshe at the burning bush [Shemot 3:12], that the Israelites would, in due course, worship Him at that mountain. The offering of sacrifices there at the foot of the mountain was the entire point of the exodus from Egypt – not freeing the Jewish slaves from their bondage but freeing them to bind ourselves to a Higher Authority. Those offerings at Sinai were Israel fulfilling the purpose of redemption. They were not a side ritual. They were the mission statement.

Now we can circle back to our earlier question – but first, one last problem. The Hizkuni asserts that G-d institutionalized the offerings given at the foot of Mount Sinai as the Tamid. This seems contextually imprecise. The “Children of Israel” offered the sacrifices at Sinai in a ceremony in which the Jewish People entered into a covenant with G-d [Shemot 24:8]: “Moshe took the blood and dashed it on the people and said, ‘This is the blood of the covenant that G-d now makes with you…’” The Tamid is a “Burnt Offering (Olah)”, in which the entire animal is consumed by fire. If you are sealing a covenant, you would expect a Peace Offering (Shelamim), where owner, Priest (Kohen), and altar all share in the act, and the owner eats part of the meat. Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, explains that “Shelamim” means “Shalom” – “peace” – precisely because it creates unity across the parties. So why would the covenant-moment be anchored in an Olah, not a Shelamim?

I suggest that what G-d found meaningful about the sacrifices offered at the foot of Mount Sinai does not lie in the category “Offering (Olah)” but in the adjective “Continual (Tamid”). The Talmud in Tractate Berachot [9b] records an exchange about which single verse most comprehensively captures the entire Torah. Ben Zoma says it is [Devarim 6:4] “Here, O’ Israel” – the declaration of G-d’s unity. Ben Nanas says it is [Vayikra 19:18] “Love your neighbour as yourself”, the great principle of interpersonal ethics. Shimon ben Pazi says he found an even more encompassing verse: “You shall offer one lamb in the morning, and the other lamb you shall offer at twilight”, referring to the Tamid. Not a grand philosophical statement. Not a soaring moral imperative. A schedule. A routine. A discipline. But that is exactly the point. The Tamid teaches that consistency is not a technicality of religion; it is the infrastructure of religion. Morning and evening, regardless of mood, weather, fatigue, fear, or distraction, the service continues. Not because the people always feel holy, but because they are committed to something beyond the fluctuations of emotion. This is what G-d wanted from the Jewish people. This is why He took us out of Egypt. This is what stood behind the covenant at Sinai. And this is why the laws of sacrifices receive that “extra” verse tying them back to Sinai. Korban comes from “karov,” to draw near. A modern trend suggests closeness to G-d is primarily emotional and sensory: the right melody, the right scenery, the right inspiration: singing, dancing, incense, prayer in a field. Worse, we are told, strict law can turn a relationship into rote, and rote creates distance. The Torah’s concluding verse after sacrifices quietly rejects that idea. “He commanded the children of Israel to offer up their sacrifices to G-d.” Closeness to the Divine is not measured by how close we feel. It is measured by how close we are, by how we align ourselves with what G-d demands of us. The covenant is not a mood. It is a commitment. Whether we are happy or sad, energized or depleted, confident or afraid, what matters is that we keep showing up.

When Shimon ben Pazi chose the Tamid as the “most encompassing verse,” he wasn’t praising dramatic faith. He was praising the faith that survives a week of broken sleep. The faith that survives another siren when you thought it was finally over. Israelis have been living this verse since before Purim: morning and evening – alerts, interceptions, running, checking on family, scanning headlines, trying to function, trying to be normal, trying not to become numb. And the hardest part is not fear in the moment. The hardest part is the grinding uncertainty: How long? What does a person do with a life that can’t fully plan next week? The Tamid answers with a counterintuitive strategy: Don’t wait for the feeling of resolution in order to live with purpose. Build purpose through what you do repeatedly. The Torah does not say: “You shall offer one lamb in the morning when you are inspired, and the other at twilight when conditions improve.” It says: Just do it. Not because you are pretending everything is fine, but because you refuse to let chaos become your only rhythm.

There is another layer. The Tamid was offered twice daily, meaning: even if one missed the morning emotionally, he still had an evening. Even if the day was heavy, the covenant was not cancelled. Judaism does not demand constant spiritual altitude. It demands return. It demands continuity. It demands that you do the next right thing. So to the Israeli who is exhausted, who is angry, who is afraid, who is simply worn down: The Torah is not asking you to feel heroic. It is asking you to stay connected. The smallest acts of “Tamid” matter more than you think. One more bedtime story even when the child jumps at sounds. One more phone call to a soldier. One more ride for a neighbour. One more “I’m here.”

May G-d send protection to those in harm’s way, healing to the injured, strength to the weary, and wisdom to our leaders. May the day come soon when “Tamid” means ordinary routine again – not constant vigilance. Until then, we hold the line, morning and evening, together.

Shabbat Shalom and Pesach Sameach – yes, Sameach –  v’Kasher,

Ari Sacher, Moreshet, 5786

Please daven for a Refu’a Shelema for Rachel bat Malka, Iris bat Chana, Sheindel Devora bat Rina, Esther Sharon bat Chana Raizel, Meir ben Drora, Golan ben Marcelle and Hodayah Emunah bat Shoshana Rachel.

[1] Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, known by his acronym “Ramban”, lived in Spain and Israel in the 13th century.

[2] Rabbi Hezekiah ben Manoah, known as “the Hizkuni”, lived in France in the 13th century.

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