Tzav 5777 - English

By Rabbi Guido Cohen

Asociación Israelita Montefiore Bogotá, Colombia

Parashat Tzav, just like Parashat Vayikra, holds an interesting law related to the foods that could be offered in the Bet HaMikdash.  We are taught that the bread used in the Mishkan (and later in the Bet HaMikdash) was unleavened bread, meaning matzo.  Except for the bread offered on Shavuot, all bread used in the temple were matzos. 

Matzah is the Jewish food by excellence. Unlike the typical food found in every Jewish home that is really a version of the food common to the region where the Jews were living, matzos are the most typical and authentic Jewish food, with us since immemorial times. 

But since when? Traditionally we tend to think it has been with us since the exodus from Egypt. However, this presents some issues. The first is that this week’s Parashah mentions matzos as an important sacrificial ritual, with no connection to the exodus from Egypt. 

The second issue is that even in the story of Exodus, Matzah appears two weeks before leaving Egypt, when God commands Moses with the laws on sacrifices. If Moses knew ahead of time that they were leaving Egypt, why not tell the people to bake bread for that day? Also, how did Moses know what matzos were before having to rush out of Egypt? Shouldn’t he have asked God, “what is this?”

The truth is that matzos appear, as we can see, in several parts of the Torah without being associated to the exit from Mitzraim.  Matzos weren’t always the “fast food” of the Jewish people. On the contrary, they appear associated to an elevated dimension of sanctity in the service in the Temple. 

So, what is so special about matzos? Matzos have a very special symbolic meaning, and their importance lies not only in their historical explanation, but mainly in their spiritual sense. Matzos are the essential bread, the product of flour and water. Matzos are the shape bread has when it is only its essence. 

Then, how is bread made? Today, in an industrial sophisticated world, it is easy to bake bread. We add some yeast to the dough and, in a matter of minutes, the fungi in yeast generate a fermentation that causes the bread to rise. But, was it always like this? The answer is no. In ancient times, yeast as we know it did not exist. They used a process that is fashionable today in boutique bakeries known as sourdough starter. To make bread with this method, you use a ferment that the French call ‘levain’, the Germans ‘sauerteig’, and English-speakers ‘sourdough’. This fermentation happens by letting the mixture of flour and water rot a little. The more it ‘decomposes’, the more it rises. This product feeds gradually, while it decomposes and ferments until reaching a condition that, when we add the dough, will feed the bread. (For those of you who might want to learn more details and instructions on this process, I recommend the book Cooked by Michael Pollan, which devotes an entire chapter to this.)

Bread, then, required a product that was rotten, decomposed, to be able to rise. And that product was made by feeding it slowly. The more it grew, the more air it would generate in the bread and the spongier and taller it would be. Good bakers feed their Levain and keep it for decades. 

This compound is called ‘seor’ in the Torah, the leavening agent that allows the making of Hametz, and that is what is forbidden in the service at the temple. The mystic masters teach that the Seor symbolizes that part of our heart which is not good. That it is sometimes necessary or inevitable in small measures, but without noticing we feed it day by day. And without noticing, it grows and bubbles filling our ‘bread’ with more air, pushing it away from our existence.  

We intend to grow, but we grow only in air, in sponginess, and we create a distance from our essential ‘matzo’, the best version of ourselves, that which has nothing ‘rotten’ in it. 

But we cannot stop the Seor from growing. We all have that part inside us that rots and takes us away from our essence. We all have that dimension that inflates us and disconnects us from a life that should be slimmer, with no false appearances or air holes. 

Once a year, we are called to do this cleanse. To chase with feather and candle, carefully and meticulously, that Hametz and clean it. We know we cannot be like the temple. Eventually, the Seor will appear and grow again. But if we eliminate it completely once a year, at least it will not have enough time to grow so much that our essence becomes unrecognizable. 

During these days, when we clean our homes, cars, synagogues and offices, may we take some time to clear the Seor from our heart, to reconnect with that slim and crunchy essence, fragile and basic, without the air of vanity and the distance cast by appearances. May we clean inside more than we clean outside, to have a true Pesach, Sameach and Kosher. 

Rabbi Guido Cohen