What Are We Really Asking For? Korbanot, the Mincha, and the Avodah of Vayikra

Parshat Vayikra opens the grand topic of Korbanot — a world that, while foundational to Torah, can feel distant in practice. Yet this is precisely the avodah for which we daven daily:

רְצֵה ה' אֱ-לֹהֵינוּ בְּעַמְּךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל וּבִתְפִלָּתָם, וְהָשֵב אֶת הָעֲבוֹדָה לִדְבִיר בֵּיתֶךָ וְאִשֵּי יִשְׂרָאֵל

Hashem our God. please desire Your people Israel and their prayers; restore the service to the inner chamber of Your House and the offerings of Israel

This demands clarification. When we ask for the return of the avodah, what exactly are we asking to be restored?  Can we really relate to the idea of offering animals and bringing flour offerings as way of serving Hashem?

Chazal frame Korbanot not merely as ritual, but as Avodat Ha’adam — a process that transforms the individual. The Ramban (Vayikra 1:9) explains that the actions performed upon the Korban are meant to awaken in a person the realization that, in strict justice, what is being done to the animal ought to have been done to him. The Korban thus becomes a concrete expression of humility, teshuvah, and renewed closeness to Hashem.

At the same time, the very term Korban — from the root meaning “to draw close” — teaches that the essence of the avodah is not loss, but relationship.

Within this framework, the Mincha, the meal offering, becomes particularly illuminating.

Unlike animal offerings, the Mincha is composed of the most basic elements of a person’s existence: fine flour, oil, and frankincense. These are not dramatic expressions of sacrifice, but the simple components of daily life — sustenance, livelihood, and the sense of blessing that accompanies them. The Mincha reflects not extraordinary moments, but the ordinary fabric of human existence.

This idea is captured in a striking statement of Chazal. On the verse describing the Mincha, Rashi, citing the Gemara in Menachot (104b), notes that it is typically the poor person who brings such an offering. And yet, the Torah describes it as if he has offered his very soul. The simplicity of the offering is not a deficiency; it is precisely what gives it its depth.

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch develops this idea further, explaining that the different forms of the Mincha correspond to different human conditions. Whether one’s life is marked by stability or struggle, simplicity or comfort, each situation can become a vehicle for Avodat Hashem. The offering reflects not only what a person gives, but how he lives.

The Kli Yakar (Vayikra 2:1) observes a broader progression in the parsha itself — from offerings of cattle, to sheep, to birds, and finally to the meal offering. As the material value decreases, the Torah’s language becomes more intimate, culminating in the description of the Mincha in terms of the נפש (soul.) The less one possesses, the more the offering reflects the self, but the more that one gives is valued on High.

A similar idea emerges in the teaching of the Sefas Emes regarding the act of Kemitza, the taking of a small handful from the offering. This handful, though minimal in quantity, represents the essence of the entire Mincha. The avodah is not defined by volume, but by the inner point. When the core is given over, the whole is elevated.

Seen in this light, the avodah of Korbanot is not limited to dramatic acts of sacrifice. It is equally, and perhaps more profoundly, about the sanctification of one’s existence — the ability to bring one’s sustenance, one’s daily life, and one’s very being into a relationship with Hashem.

This, in turn, reframes what is missing in the absence of the Bais HaMikdash. In its place we have Tefillah — “our lips instead of offerings” — but the underlying request remains: the restoration of a world in which closeness to Hashem is expressed not only in thought and speech, but in tangible, lived reality.

When we daven for the rebuilding of the Bais HaMikdash, we are not merely asking for the return of a system of ritual. We are asking for the return of a mode of existence in which even the most basic elements of life — our bread, our livelihood, our daily routine — become part of Avodat Hashem.

Understanding Korbanot in this way transforms our Tefillah. It gives substance to our longing and clarity to our request. It reminds us that what we seek is not only a rebuilt structure, but a restored relationship — one in which everything we have, and everything we are, can be brought closer to Hashem.

And that is a loss we feel every day.

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I had the privilege of giving an extended shiur on this topic, which can be seen here .

This essay was published in Israel National News on March 20, 2026

Vayakhel Pekudei - When the Siren Sounds, the Nation Gathers

Life in Israel over the past few weeks has developed a strange new rhythm. Usually, there is first a warning — a message on the phone that something may be coming — and then, sometimes minutes later, the siren cuts through the ordinary sounds of the day. Conversations stop mid-sentence, children are quickly gathered, and people step outside and make their way down the street to the public shelter. The door closes behind us, and for a few minutes we sit together waiting for the all-clear. Sometimes it is only a single siren, and a few minutes later everyone returns home. Other times, another siren follows, and then another, and we remain there longer than expected, listening, waiting, and checking our phones to see what may come next.

The first time this new rhythm became real for me was on a recent Shabbat morning. We were standing in shul listening to the reading of Parshat Zachor, the Torah’s command never to forget Amalek — the embodiment of cruelty without conscience and hatred without restraint. Every year, we hear those words on the Shabbat just before Purim, when we recall how the Jewish people once again faced destruction at the hands of Haman in Persia, another descendant of Amalek, and how that threat was ultimately overturned. The message of that reading is that there are forms of evil that cannot simply be ignored or wished away. They must eventually be confronted and defeated.

And as we stood there thinking about those ancient struggles, the sirens suddenly began to sound. In that moment, the world of the Torah reading and the world outside the synagogue seemed to collide in a way none of us had expected.

A group of neighbors becomes a small community

And since that Shabbat morning, that rhythm has continued. Sirens come and go. People make their way down the street to the shelter, wait together for a few minutes, and then return to their routines. At first, moments like these are unsettling; when the siren sounds, the mind instinctively turns toward danger and uncertainty. But something else has been happening as well. People have begun adjusting. The routine becomes familiar. Neighbors exchange a few quiet words. Someone cracks a joke. Someone checks on an elderly neighbor who needed help getting there. Someone hands a small child a piece of candy to distract them from the noise.

And then, a few minutes later, the moment passes. The all-clear comes. People step back outside and walk home, and life resumes as though nothing unusual had happened.

Except that something important has happened.

In those brief moments underground, something unexpected takes shape. A group of neighbors becomes a small community. People who normally pass one another on the street with a quick nod suddenly find themselves sitting together for a few minutes, sharing a space and sharing a moment. Perhaps the most striking thing about these moments is the mood. Instead of despair, most people are remarkably upbeat. There is a widespread sense that, despite the tension of the moment, Israel is moving toward a stronger, safer future. The progress of the war, whatever its remaining challenges, has given many people the feeling that history itself may be turning in a better direction.

Recently, I noticed something that gave this experience an unexpected resonance. One of the military operations underway has been referred to as “Sha’agat HaAri” — the roar of the lion. The phrase immediately evokes strength and awakening. The Navi Amos once asked, “Aryeh sha’ag mi lo yira?” — when the lion roars, who is not stirred? A lion’s roar does more than frighten; it awakens people and tells them that something powerful is unfolding.

In a strange way, the sirens themselves function like that roar. They interrupt ordinary life and remind us that we are living through a moment that matters — a moment in which courage, patience, and faith are all being called upon.

Before anything can be built, the people themselves must come back together

And that experience — of strangers suddenly becoming a community — kept reminding me of the opening words of this week’s parsha.

At the beginning of Parshat Vayakhel, the Torah tells us, “Vayakhel Moshe et kol adat Bnei Yisrael.” Moshe gathers the entire community of Israel. Only after the people are gathered does the work of building the Mishkan begin. Coming after the painful rupture of the Golden Calf and the long process of forgiveness that followed, the Torah’s first step is not construction but community. Before anything can be built, the people themselves must come back together. The rebuilding of the nation begins with a gathering.

The Mishkan will not emerge through miracles alone. It will be built through the contributions of ordinary people — men and women bringing what they have, artisans offering their skills, and an entire nation rediscovering its shared purpose. Perhaps that is why those moments in the shelter feel so familiar. When the siren sounds, everyone arrives carrying something invisible: a bit of fear, a bit of courage, a bit of faith. For those few minutes, we sit together quietly aware that we are part of something larger than our individual worries. In a small way, it is a moment of Vayakhel — a gathering of the community.

Parshat Pekudei continues the story by describing the careful accounting of the Mishkan’s materials. Every contribution is counted. Nothing is dismissed as insignificant. Every piece given by the people becomes part of the structure that will house the Divine Presence. The Torah is teaching something profound: even small contributions matter. Even ordinary acts can become part of something sacred.

In times of uncertainty, this message becomes especially powerful. Checking on a neighbor, helping someone reach the shelter, offering a calm word to someone who is frightened, keeping a sense of humor when tension fills the air — these small acts form the invisible framework that holds a society together.

And this week we also read Parshat HaChodesh, which introduces the mitzvah of the new month as the Jewish people prepare for Pesach. Before the Exodus has even occurred — before redemption has fully revealed itself — the Jewish people receive their first national mitzvah: “HaChodesh hazeh lachem.” Even while still in Egypt, they are told that they will determine the calendar of their future. It is a remarkable message. Hope appears before redemption is visible.

Perhaps that explains something about the mood in Israel right now. People are living in uncertainty, yet they are already speaking about the future. Conversations in shelters often drift toward what lies ahead — a safer Israel, a stronger Jewish people, perhaps even a region beginning to change in ways that once seemed impossible.

Jewish history often unfolds exactly this way. First comes the gathering — Vayakhel — when people draw strength from one another. Then comes the careful accounting — Pekudei — when every small act becomes part of something lasting. And finally comes the declaration of the future — Hachodesh — when even before redemption arrives, Jews begin preparing the calendar of the world that will follow.

In the meantime, when the siren sounds, we step outside and make our way down the street to the shelter once again. We sit together for a few minutes in a small concrete room. Neighbors talk quietly, children fidget, someone tells a story or makes a joke, and then the moment passes. We step back outside and return to our homes — and in ways both large and small, we keep building.

Published in the Queens Jewish Link and Israel National News March 11, 2026

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From Sirens to Understanding: Sha’agat HaAri and the Light of Purim

I write these words on Motzaei Shabbos after a Shabbos unlike most others.

Throughout the day, sirens sounded again and again across Israel. Families rose from their Shabbos tables, zemiros stopped mid-song, and once more we made the now-familiar walk toward stairwells and bomb shelters. Doors closed behind us. Phones remained silent. Information was scarce. We sensed that something serious was unfolding—likely connected to Iran—but in truth, we did not know what was happening.

Some people were frightened. Others were deeply unsettled. Yet most of us did what Israelis have learned, through long and difficult experience, to do. We gathered our families, walked calmly to safety, and placed ourselves in the hands of the Ribbono Shel Olam.

As Shabbos observers, we were careful not even to ask those who might have heard the news for updates. We chose, consciously, to live with uncertainty rather than compromise the sanctity of Shabbos. And so we sat together without information, without analysis, without reassurance—sustained only by faith that Hashem watches over His people even when events remain hidden from human understanding.

Earlier that morning, we stood in shul listening to the reading of Parshas Zachor, the Torah’s command never to forget Amalek—the embodiment of cruelty without conscience, hatred without moral restraint, evil that cannot be negotiated with or redeemed. Those ancient words felt unusually close as sirens interrupted the rhythm of tefillah and sent us toward shelter. We were thinking about the obligation to confront irredeemable evil even as we lived through a moment when evil felt very near.

Only after Shabbos ended did the picture begin to emerge. Reports began circulating of major military action undertaken against one of the most dangerous regimes threatening Israel and the Jewish people. Early indications suggested extraordinary success—achieved at a moment of grave danger and, strikingly, just in time for Purim.

One detail especially caught my attention: the reported name of the operation—Sha’agat HaAri, “the Roar of the Lion.”

The name was so close to the title of the classic halachic work Sha’agas Aryeh that I found myself reaching for the Sefer almost instinctively—not because I expected it to “predict” history, but because Torah is where Jews go to make meaning when events feel too large to hold in the mind. I did not find a ready-made line that “explained” what we were living through. What I did find was the enduring comfort of Torah’s warmth after fear, and the quiet work of seeking language that allows a Jew to stand within uncertainty without being overtaken by it.

That return led me back to Purim.

Purim is the festival of salvation discovered in retrospect. G-d’s Name does not appear explicitly in Megillat Esther. Events look like random, natural, political machinations. The story unfolds through palace intrigue, human decisions, and remarkable turns of fortune. For much of the narrative, the Jewish people live inside uncertainty. Only afterward does a pattern emerge; only afterward do we realize that what looked random was guided, that what looked like vulnerability was the beginning of redemption.

We make our way into shelters without knowing how the story ends—and only later discover that deliverance may already have begun.

Purim, in other words, is not only about being saved. It is about coming to recognize salvation—about learning, sometimes after the fact, that Hashem was there all along.

Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin describes Purim as the emergence of light, specifically from within concealment—or mitoch ha-hester. Unlike the open miracles of Yetzias Mitzrayim, Purim’s redemption is experienced first as hiddenness, and only later as clarity. First comes the night, then the day.

This Shabbos felt like that night.

We moved to shelters repeatedly without knowing what was happening beyond the walls. We did not have the comfort of explanations. We had only tefillah, Tehillim, and a quiet inner decision: to live inside the uncertainty without letting it break us, to trust that the One Who guards Israel does not sleep.

And then came Motzaei Shabbos—the beginning of “daylight.”

As details began to emerge, the same hours that had been filled with fear began to look different. What had felt like chaos began to appear as a purposeful act of protection. What had felt like helplessness began to appear as the removal of a longstanding threat. Nothing about our experience during Shabbos had changed—only our understanding of it.

That is the Purim pattern.

We live through moments before we understand them. We pray before we know outcomes. We make our way into shelters without knowing how the story ends—and only later discover that deliverance may already have begun.

As we approach Purim—and soon afterward Pesach, the festival of revealed redemption—we pray that the frightening moments of our own time will be seen, clearly and unmistakably, as steps toward security, peace, and a deeper awareness of Hashem’s guiding hand in history.

May we merit not only protection, but clarity; not only survival, but the ability to look back and recognize how darkness itself contained the seeds of light.

לַיְּהוּדִים הָיְתָה אוֹרָה וְשִׂמְחָה וְשָׂשֹׂן וִיקָר

So may it be for us—leading ever closer to the coming of Mashiach and the complete Geulah, speedily in our days.