Listening to the Rings of Leviticus

In this week’s Torah reading, Vayikra, the focus shifts from building the Tabernacle to conducting sacrifices within it. Don’t expect epic tales here, like the creation drama of Genesis or the liberation saga of Exodus. The details of Leviticus might at first seem grisly: how exactly do you take apart a sacrificial dove at the altar?

We tend to love the literary power of the Bible, but does this particular book have any? We yearn for moral instruction—can we find it here? We wonder about our place in the universe—is this book merely about serving up anatomical details, with a lot of cutting, slashing, and burning at the altar?

Some believe the Bible is an anthology of disparate elements from various sources. Is Vayikra merely an instruction manual for priests, plunked into the national epic? Yet in the Tradition, Vayikra was the first book of the Tanakh (the Jewish Bible) taught to little children in Jewish schools.

The Rabbis said it was about purity, making it apt for little ones, the pure among us. The book may indeed be about purity. But should it not also be full of inspirational tales of goodness, resilience, and reverence?

Just as we should see each person charitably, we should view each book of the Tanakh charitably. And if we do, we find that Vayikra doesn’t even need it. The book doesn’t require mere charity—it merely needs understanding.

Read it, hear it, reflect on it, and you realize it is a magnificent piece of art, thought, and theology. How can that be?

Let us begin with the literary art. In a “details” chapter, pay close attention to any gem of narrative. In Vayikra, the first words are: “The Lord called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tabernacle, saying:…” Every word and idea counts.

Vayikra is a revelation from God, to be delivered to all the people, every member of the nation of priests. It is no less a part of the national constitution than Genesis or Exodus that preceded it. It evokes the power of the word—the words that created the universe—and now the words of God direct how the spheres in the Tabernacle, a microcosm of the universe, shall function.

The Tabernacle is a microcosm of the world as designed: organized, separated into distinct parts that fit together harmoniously, ruled over by a just and intelligent Supreme Power—a portable sanctuary soon lost to time. It is a world of ritual and repetition, resisting the dynamism and chaos of human history. On the contrary, Leviticus provides instructions for how the Israelites can restore this mechanism. It details with precision the repair mechanisms. If an Israelite—from an ordinary member to a chief or high priest—breaks the rules, even inadvertently, there are ritual sacrifices that make the microcosm whole and pure again.

This vision reflects the first creation story in Genesis, which historians also attribute to the priestly school of the Israelites.

God, through His words, created an orderly and goodly world out of raw material that lacked form and beauty. We are told so much in so few simple words: human beings are the pinnacle of the created order, a combination of materiality and divine spark. They initially live in a garden where they can dwell in bliss, free from threats from the rest of creation and from tensions between or within individuals.

Before you dismiss Leviticus, reread the beginning of  Genesis. Ask yourself: could the supremely artful generations of literary creators and editors who produced the first creation story possibly have been uninspired drudges in their account of the Tabernacle?

Notice that God spoke at the beginning of Genesis. In chapters of the Bible heavy with detail, always pay close attention to the narratives as they appear. In the narrative at the beginning of Leviticus, God is creating through words: in Genesis, the world itself; in Leviticus, a microcosm.

Can you still be surprised that the authors and editors of Leviticus were superbly attuned to literary nuance?

Now look at the literary surface of Leviticus. Again and again, the repetition of verbal formulas evokes the nature of the Tabernacle, where rituals are repeated in the cycles of weeks, months, and years.

Notice something else: the introductory narrative in Leviticus, with God speaking, spares us any suspense about how God will respond to human errors and sins. God has set out the whole pattern of order—and of celebration when it is honored, or of repair, reconciliation, and restoration when order is broken by human error or sin.

Leviticus uses active verbs to describe how the Israelites conduct the prescribed rituals. But it uses passive formulations to reflect God’s response. God has set out the rules and remedies for their breach: if a sin offering is presented in accordance with the prescribed rules, God forgives—v’nislaḥ lo (וְנִסְלַח לוֹ, “and it shall be forgiven him”).

If a burnt offering is presented, God is pleased—reyaḥ niḥoaḥ l’Adonai (רֵיחַ נִיחֹחַ לַיהוָה, “it is a pleasing odor to the Lord”). We do not wait in suspense to hear God’s response—if the rules are followed, God will be pleased.

Now listen to the shimmering sound of the chapter. Assonance, the repetition of vowel sounds, threads through Leviticus, pulsing like the heartbeat of its rituals. Begin with adam in Leviticus 1:2: “adam ki yakriv mikem korban l’Adonai min habbehemah min habaqar umin hatzon takrivu et korbanchem” (אָדָם כִּי-יַקְרִיב מִכֶּם קָרְבָּן לַיהוָה מִן-הַבְּהֵמָה מִן-הַבָּקָר וּמִן-הַצֹּאן תַּקְרִיבוּ אֶת-קָרְבַּנְכֶם)—“When a man brings an offering to the Lord, from the livestock, from the herd or from the flock, you shall bring your offering.” Here, the “am” or “em” ending hums through adam, mikem, and behema, a subtle echo tying man to the beasts of sacrifice.

The root k-r-b (ק-ר-ב, “to bring near”) resounds in four variations: yakriv (he brings near), korban (offering), takrivu (you shall bring), and korbanchem (your offering). The “k-r” sound weaves a tapestry—soft in yakriv, firm in korban, bold in takrivu, and resonant again in korbanchem—binding the act of offering from start to finish.

Another example glows in Leviticus 17:5: “asher yavi’u… asher hem zovchim ishsheh” (אֲשֶׁר יָבִיאוּ… אֲשֶׁר הֵם זֹבְחִים אִשֶּׁה)—“that they may bring… which they offer as a gift.” Here, twin asher (אֲשֶׁר) calls—“ash… ash”—blend with ishsheh (אִשֶּׁה, fire-offering), their “sh” sounds flickering like embers, sealing the text in a rhythmic, fiery chant.

Now look at the verbal architecture of Leviticus. The words are organized into almost-mathematical structures, as befits a book inspired by a sense of cosmic harmony. Often, ideas are expressed in a mirrored pattern called chiasmus, a crisscross where the order reverses like a reflection: this-that-that-this.

In Leviticus 1:7-8, for example: “The sons of Aaron the priest shall put fire on the altar and arrange wood on the fire; and Aaron’s sons, the priests, shall arrange the pieces… on the wood that is on the fire.” In Hebrew: v’natnu b’nei Aharon hakohen esh al hamizbe’ach v’arkhu etzim al ha’esh; v’arkhu b’nei Aharon hakohanim et hanetachim… al ha’etzim asher al ha’esh (וְנָתְנוּ בְּנֵי אַהֲרֹן הַכֹּהֵן אֵשׁ עַל-הַמִּזְבֵּחַ וְעָרְכוּ עֵצִים עַל-הָאֵשׁ; וְעָרְכוּ בְּנֵי אַהֲרֹן הַכֹּהֲנִים אֵת הַנְּתָחִים… עַל-הָעֵצִים אֲשֶׁר עַל-הָאֵשׁ). This A-B-B-A pattern—fire, wood, wood, fire—reflects the precise order of the sacrificial ritual.

A special form of chiasmus, called a “ring,” follows a pattern of this-that-climax-that-this (A-B-C-B-A), spotlighting the central idea. In Leviticus 2:8-9: “You shall bring the grain offering [this], that is made of these things [that], to the Lord [climax], and it shall be presented to the priest [that], and he shall bring it to the altar [this].” In Hebrew: v’heveita et haminchah asher ye’aseh me’eleh l’Adonai v’hikrivah el hakohen v’higgishah el hamizbe’ach (וְהֵבֵאתָ אֶת-הַמִּנְחָה אֲשֶׁר יֵעָשֶׂה מֵאֵלֶּה לַיהוָה וְהִקְרִיבָהּ אֶל-הַכֹּהֵן וְהִגִּישָׁהּ אֶל-הַמִּזְבֵּחַ). The divine encounter—presenting it to the Lord—sits at the heart, framed by mirrored actions.

Leviticus is a ring of rings, a structure Mary Douglas identified, with sacrifices at its start and finish framing the Day of Atonement in the middle. She noted how it nests multiple such structures within a larger one, where chapters 1-7 outline offerings, mirrored by chapters 6-7 from the priests’ view. The holiness code (chapters 17-26) echoes earlier purity laws, with the Day of Atonement (chapter 16) as the pivot. These interlocking rings create a layered, cohesive masterpiece.

The anthropologist Mary Douglas also proposes a deeper structure of spiritual meaning underlying the sequence of ideas in Leviticus. The structure mirrors the Tabernacle’s design: the outer court, the holy place, and the most holy place. She saw this in the book’s progression: chapters 1-16 address external purity through sacrifices and atonement (outer court), chapters 17-20 elevate to social holiness and community ethics (holy place), and chapters 21-27 focus on the priests’ sanctity and ultimate covenant blessings (most holy place).

This framework symbolizes a journey from physical to moral to divine holiness, aligning human life with cosmic order.

When the Rabbis decided to begin Torah instruction for little children with Leviticus, they were not being cold and scholastic. On the contrary, as lovers of the sacred language, they were responding to the poetry of Leviticus, using the themes-and-variations basis of Hebrew words, with vowels spinning around a compact core of consonants.

As spiritual seekers, they recognized Leviticus’ sublime vision of a sacred space that is a microcosm of the created order of the whole universe, infused by God’s love of structure and harmony.

When today’s bar and bat mitzvah children—are assigned Leviticus, they are not being dealt a bad hand. They are not being asked to sing a dull how-to manual.

They are invited to find a resonance—in their own musicality, in their own interpretation, in their own feelings—with a work whose poetry sings even without the trope marks that guide its chant, that presents a superbly structured vision of a world that operates with justice and precision, and in which we have a clear and certain path to repair whatever is disordered.

Once you enter the world of Leviticus, there is much more to see, to hear, to feel, to reflect upon—its embrace of all Israel as a holy nation, its embrace of every single one within it as part of the nation of priests, its paradoxical commitment to life over death, its respect for the whole living order and not only that of human beings, and its perplexing but ultimately inspiring placement in the time and space line of the Israelites.

I hope I have brought you inside the tent. There is so much more to see and hear and feel and think about…

In the weeks ahead, I will try to post some more observations from inside our Tabernacle—more words about a structure that was mobile and then disappeared, but that remains alive in the words of Leviticus.