Transitions matter. They are the moments when one chapter closes and another begins, when certainty gives way to possibility—or to anxiety. The Bible, like life, is full of such thresholds. When one of its sacred books ends and another begins, the transition is rarely accidental. Often there is a subtle verbal or thematic bridge linking the two.

One such bridge appears between the end of the Book of Exodus and the beginning of Leviticus.

Exodus concludes with a dramatic scene:

When Moses had finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of the LORD filled the Tabernacle. Moses could not enter the Tent of Meeting, because the cloud had settled upon it and the Presence of the LORD filled the Tabernacle. When the cloud lifted from the Tabernacle, the Israelites would set out on their journeys; but if the cloud did not lift, they would not set out. For over the Tabernacle a cloud of the LORD rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the house of Israel throughout their journeys (Exodus 40:33–38).

The Book of Leviticus begins immediately afterward:

The LORD called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying: Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: When any of you presents an offering of cattle to the LORD, you shall choose your offering from the herd or from the flock. If your offering is a burnt offering from the herd, you shall make your offering a male without blemish. You shall bring it to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting for acceptance in your behalf before the LORD (Leviticus 1:1–4).

The connection between the two books is the Tent of Meeting (Ohel Moed). Exodus ends with the Tent filled by God’s presence, so overwhelming that even Moses cannot enter. Leviticus begins with God speaking from that same Tent.

Yet something important has shifted. At the end of Exodus the cloud dominates the scene. It signals divine presence but also distance and uncertainty. It seems as if God’s presence is also outside the tent, because of the cloud which was always in view for everyone to see (or at least to sense). It would seem in Leviticus that God is still in there speaking to Moses and that no one can enter the tent. Offerings have to be brought to the entrance of the tent. In Leviticus the cloud is not mentioned! The altar will be outside the tent, but God will be able to smell the pleasant odor of the sacrifice from within the tent. Instead, the focus turns to ritual action: offerings brought to the entrance of the Tent. If people wish to approach God, there is now a structured way to do so.

SACRIFICE AND NEARNESS

The first parsha of Vayikra (also called Vayikra) introduce the system of sacrifices, or korbanot. The Hebrew word for sacrifice, korban (קרבן), comes from the root ק־ר־ב, meaning “to come near.” A sacrifice is therefore not merely the destruction of an animal; it is an attempt to draw closer to the divine.

There are five main offerings: olah, minchah, shelamim, chatat, and asham—burnt, meal, well-being, sin, and guilt offerings. Together they create a framework for addressing wrongdoing and restoring balance between human beings and God. In this sense, the sacrificial system prevents moral limbo. There is always a path toward atonement, redemption and repair.

Because Hebrew is a root-based language, the root ק־ר־ב generates a remarkable network of meanings:

le-karev – to bring near

kirbayim – inner organs

Playing further with the letters—a linguistic exercise known as sikul otiot—produces other resonances: kever (grave) and rakov (rot).

These associations feel uncomfortably relevant today. Our whole nation is at a crossroads. We can only guess at what kind of actual sacrifices will be demanded of us. One can even argue that this is so for the Middle East and even the entire world. At the moment, the main topic is gas, fertilizers, cancelled air flights, major damage from missiles. But who knows what lies in wait. Only time can tell.

In a small country like Israel, we are all expected to sacrifice (le-hakriv). We send our children to the army. We are relatives (kerovim) in a national sense, yet we often stand too close (karov) to one another ideologically, leaving little room for disagreement. We live in a near constant state of battle (kerav)—external and internal alike. And if we are not careful, we risk digging early graves (kever) for one another while the moral fabric of society begins to rot (rakov).

Dark humor aside, the biblical system insists that sacrifice is meant to restore order—to bring the community closer to God and closer to one another.

One verse in the parsha stands out sharply:

If it is the anointed priest who has incurred guilt, so that blame falls upon the people, he shall offer a bull without blemish as a sin offering to the LORD (Leviticus 4:3).

Why should the people bear guilt if the priest himself has sinned? Is this descriptive, the way the world runs? Our leader is guilty and we suffer? But this verse is not merely descriptive! Is it also prescriptive! This is the way it should be. When a leader sins, the blame falls upon the people. For sure, it is the priest who sacrifices (hikriv) an unblemished bull as a sin offering. But the blame still falls on the community.

Rashi explains that the high priest represents the community before God. If he becomes morally compromised, the people lose their advocate. Because they depend on him to secure atonement, his corruption leaves them burdened with guilt (here). His impurity/is catching and infects everyone. That is why he has to expiate his sin. He is responsible and accountable for what he has done.

Similarly, in its commentary on the verse “So that blame falls upon the people”, The Jewish Study Bible notes that the Bible often assumes “corporate responsibility for the crimes of leaders.” Since the high priest operates in the innermost sphere of sanctity, his wrongdoing contaminates the sacred space itself (p. 212).

Leadership therefore carries immense responsibility. When leaders fail, the damage rarely stops with them. Their misconduct spreads outward, shaping the moral climate of the entire society. My interim hope is that we can interpret this verse descriptively and not prescriptively. It is time that our leaders take responsibility for their crimes, so that their sins of commission will stop contaminating all of our society. And who knows, in some rosy future, when the wolf will share a bed with the lamb, perhaps this verse will not even be descriptive!!

The transition between Exodus and Leviticus reflects a broader theme: liminality, the experience of standing on a threshold. The word comes from the Latin limen, meaning doorway. Anthropologists such as Arnold van Gennep and Victor Turner used it to describe transitional moments—births, marriages, deaths, and other rites of passage—when an old identity ends but a new one has not yet fully formed. Such thresholds appear everywhere. We see them in the natural world as winter gives way to spring, and in the Jewish calendar as the month of Adar ends and Nissan begins. Even the movement from one biblical book to another marks a crossing point.

Our personal lives contain similar transitions. After my husband’s death, I was no longer listed as a wife but as a widow on my Israeli ID card. Identity itself shifts when we cross certain thresholds. And let us not forget the blood on the lintels around Passover (which is coming around the corner). Without that blood on the threshold, the firstborn in all households would have been killed. Blood itself is liminal; it signals both life and death.

During liminal periods, established hierarchies may dissolve, traditions feel uncertain, and the future becomes difficult to predict. Yet these moments also contain possibility. Because old structures loosen, new ones can emerge.

Our present moment feels profoundly liminal. We live in a world of waiting. We follow the news constantly—missiles, cancelled flights, shifting alliances—trying to understand forces that often seem irrational or cruel. One day life feels normal; the next we find ourselves in shelters. We move between hope and despair, between routine and crisis. We sigh a lot. We keep busy, each in our way. We are in a liminal state, betwixt and between, on the threshold, one foot in life, the other in the grave. It is a “new normal,” but one defined by uncertainty. When we are in this liminal state, it is too soon to predict which way the wind will blow.

CLOUDS AND UNCERTAINTY

The cloud at the end of Exodus captures this uncertainty perfectly. The Israelites move only when the cloud lifts. Their journey depends on something mysterious and beyond their control.

The biblical scholar Robert Alter observes that although Exodus ends with the harmonious completion of the Tabernacle, the Israelites’ situation remains unstable. Their real story continues in the wilderness narratives of Numbers, with their tensions, rebellions, and near catastrophes.

Even Moses cannot enter the Tent when the divine presence fills it. According to Ramban (Nachmanides), the cloud enveloped the Tabernacle so completely that Moses had to wait for God’s invitation before entering.

This image resonates today. Our lives, too, are insecure, in a cloud. The forces of evil have gone too far; they have to be stopped, but the getting there will be arduous and a long trip awaits. The unendurable suffering has continued and there seems to be no ending from this liminal, existential state of not knowing. There is no God to provide us with road maps. Leadership is incoherent and threatening. This describes the uncertainty many are experiencing.

Leviticus responds to this uncertainty by offering structure. If people follow the laws and rituals—bringing sacrifices, acknowledging wrongdoing, repairing relationships—there is a framework for restoring order.

Sacrifice, in this sense, becomes a way of closing the gap between alienation and reconciliation. A korban is meant to bring us karov, closer.

Whether such rituals fully solve the problem of intimacy with God is another matter. Yet the language itself expresses a deeply human longing: to bridge the distance between ourselves and the divine.

CROSSING THE THRESHOLD

We live, it seems, in a time of clouds—uncertain leadership, fragile security, and a future that remains difficult to see. Like the Israelites in the wilderness, we move forward only when the cloud lifts, often unsure where the journey will lead.

Yet liminal moments, by definition, do not last forever. They are passages, not destinations.

Perhaps that is why I am reminded of a poem that impressed me long ago: Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood by William Wordsworth. Though it reflects on immortality, it ultimately speaks to the fragility of human life.

The poem ends with these lines:

To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Even in uncertain times, the smallest signs of life—like that flower—can remind us that renewal is possible. The cloud may linger, but it will not remain forever. Eventually it lifts, and when it does, the journey continues.

May we have a quiet shabbat!

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)