When he was something like 10 years old, his school’s idea of an educational experience was bringing in a sheep to be ritually slaughtered and dissected.
Nothing could prepare him for the moment when the sheep went from alive, albeit bound, to an explosion of red blood that burst forward in an instant from its slit throat. So much blood, flowing down the drain in that enclosed courtyard. He looked away in horror a moment later, but it was one moment too late.
The shochet then hung the sheep from one leg off the bars of a window, skinned it, and cut it open. He demonstrated how he takes out the lungs and inflates them, to check for any holes in the lungs. For, we may not eat animals that have physical blemishes that would have killed them. We must only kill animals that would have otherwise lived long and healthy lives.
On Passover Eve, the Mishna relates, there was so much slaughter in the temple that the blood would reach their ankles. He dreaded the day when the temple would be rebuilt and each family would need to slaughter their own sheep, cook it over a fire, and eat an olive’s worth. All while making sure not to break any bones on the animal. Not eating an olive’s worth, or breaking a bone, was punishable by Kares.
Every morning, one could pretend to run an entire temple service just by reciting it during prayers. Your words are the same as a priest actually conducting these rituals, the rabbis had taught. And so, on the rare occasions that he showed up early enough to synagogue to put in some extra time, he recited endless nonsensical verses. It was a lot easier than actually doing this work in the temple, but also a lot more meaningless.
The Pitum of the incense: “Tzari, Tziporen, Chelbena, Levona, 16 Maneh each. Mor, Ktzia, Shibolet of Nerd, Charcom, 17 Maneh each.” He had no idea what he was talking about.
The fats to be removed before an animal could be burnt on the altar (God hates fats): “the Cheilev that covers the Kerev. But also, that Cheilev that is on the Kerev.” Still no clue. “And its kirbo and kra’av shall be cleansed in water, and the priest shall incinerate it all upon the altar, a fiery aromatic smellage for God’s nose holes.”
On Yom Kippur, the priest would bring blood into the Holy of Holies and flick it with his fingers, one up, seven down. “And he would count: one. One and one. One and two.” In Shul, recounting these escapades, the cantor’s voice would trill at these points. It was just so emotional, this flying blood, this counting. “One and six, one and seven.” Repeat.
“In my heart, I shall build a temple,” the poet said. “To the glory of His splendor”.
It really was a very beautiful song.
“And in that temple, I shall build an altar,” the poet continued. “To the rays of His majesty.”
This was a popular song to sing at the Sabbath afternoon meal, when the shadows began to lengthen, the church bells in the Old City began to ring, and the melancholy began to set in. That deep feeling of meaninglessness that came from hours of boredom, unfulfilled plans, and an impending school week.
“And as a sacrifice, I shall give Him my spirit, my only spirit.”
He couldn’t agree more.