I don’t know about you, but when I was growing up, every Monday night there was a oft-repeated instruction coming from somewhere in the house…’Cy, take out the garbage.’ That would be my cue to stop whatever I was doing, go to the garage and shlepp the garbage can to the street. It was hardly the best use of my skills at the time but, on the other hand, it was absolutely necessary.
So why am I telling you about my garbage history? Because, in this week’s parasha, there is also the history of garbage, only this time for the ones who have to clean the altar after the sacrifices. Yes, the Torah has instructions for the trash collectors; what to wear and not wear and when to take out the trash. It may seem insignificant but when we look at the instructions closely we find an important lesson.
In the parasha, we learn who these trash collectors are. And it may surprise you: the remains of the sacrifices were not left not to a sacrificial janitorial team, not to the Israelites or Levites, no-one was hired to clean off the altar. Instead the trash had to be taken out by the priests themselves – even to Aaron the High Priest.
Here is the verse: “He [the priest] shall take off his [priestly] vestments and put on other vestments, and carry the ashes the outside the camp…” (Lev. 6:4). Now just to help you visualize this mess, Rashi gives us even greater detail and tells us that this was not a simple broom and dustpan situation. No, there was a lot of ash and, so he wouldn’t get the holy vestments full of shmutz, the High Priest would take off his holy going-to-work clothes and put on the equivalent of jeans and T-shirt. Imagine the picture here: the spiritual leader, the intermediary between the people and God, started each day by taking the trash out to the curb in full view of the whole people. And that includes Aaron, the high priest, who would also begin each day with a shovel and a shmatta on his head.
This is kind of an odd part of the Torah. It doesn’t seem to elevate or edify in any way. Yet, seeing this commandment as somehow beneath the station of the priests or especially the High Priest Aaron, is to read the Torah the wrong way. You see, taking out the trash is an important part of the sacrificial services because it reminds both the priests and the people that one is not greater than the other and that each person and priest is there to serve God, not to exalt one over the other as if they somehow deserve such a high station. Taking out the garbage in front of the people does something that no other task at the altar can do: it forces humility onto even the High Priest, and in this may lie the highest form of service. As Rabbeinu Bahya ibn Pakuda, teaches us: “the smallest act from a place of humility is greater than the largest act from a place of arrogance.” That’s a lesson worth hearing.
I came across a wonderful illustration of this idea. A one-time celebrity tells the story of how he appeared on the Phil Donahue show so many years ago. He was feeling quite proud of himself and when he wandered through the airport he was looking around to see how many people recognized him. He bragged about his appearance all the way home and when he told his wife how wonderful he was she said, ‘That’s nice, dear, now take out the garbage to the curb!” At that moment, he remembered his lost humility: “Real life is not lived in the glare of the television camera,” he told himself at the time. “Real life is taking the garbage to the dump.” True story!
We often speak of the enormous imperatives and responsibilities on us as Jews. We talk about Tikkun Olam – holy tasks to perfect the world. But we are dispirited because our acts may seem insignificant. They are not. You will notice that the real acts of Tikkun Olam in the Torah don’t have smoke and fire and lightning and big announcements. No. The real acts of Tikkun Olam are found in the small, quiet and often private acts of humility. Don’t take a mother bird with her young (Deut. 22:6) so that we should never we should never think of ourselves so haughty as to force a mother bird to endure the pain of watching her children be taken from her. We should never be too righteous to help an enemy lift up his fallen donkey (Ex. 23:5): even an enemy’s beast of burden deserves our attention. And we should never be to busy or self-concerned to care for the widow (Ex. 22:21–23; Deut. 24:17, 20) and the stranger (Ex. 23:9; Lev. 19:33–34; Deut. 24:17, 20). As a colleague once wrote, “Our charge is not to change the world in one fell swoop, but to change a moment in time. The fallen beast, the forgotten stranger.”
Humility helps open our eyes to grasp these moments in time – to shed our costumed arrogance and see the world through another’s eyes. The small acts, these moments of shoveling ash, are not world-shaking events. But they may be the most sacred.
In the words of the American author and singer/songwriter, Carrie Newcomer:
A shovel is a prayer to the farmer’s foot,
when she steps down and the soft earth gives way …
a friend is a prayer when they ask the right question,
when they bring over soup,
and they laugh at your jokes,
when they text you a photo,
because you are lonely, or weary, or just that far from home…” (“A Shovel is a Prayer” in The Beautiful Not Yet).
It is true that no-one may know the shovel you used or the prayer to you said or the soup your brought to a grieving friend. But each of these is a sacred and humble act. And every one of those humble acts is as important, maybe even more important, that the grand spectacle of the sacrifices at the altar. The sacrifices satisfy God. Our private acts of humility fix a broken heart or a fallen beast. I think even God would say, ‘The sacrifices aren’t that important. And take out the trash to curb because, in that act, here is true holiness.’
Sacred service is in the smallest acts. May each of us be blessed with many chances to shovel ash and change a moment in time.
