Imperfect Man in an Imperfect Society

Emor and the Expansive Meaning of Priesthood

And you must treat them as holy, since they offer the food of your God; they shall be holy to you, for I the Lord who sanctify you am holy. (Leviticus 21:8)

Rabbi Ḥiyya bar Abba said that this Law is derived from here, as it is stated with regard to a priest: “And you shall sanctify him” (Leviticus 21:8), giving a priest priority for every matter of sanctity. And with regard to this verse, a Sage from the school of Rabbi Yishmael taught: “And you shall sanctify him,” giving a priest priority for every matter of sanctity: To open the discussion in the study hall first, to recite the blessing of Grace after Meals first, and to take a fine portion at a meal first, meaning that he can choose any portion at a meal for himself. (Gittin 59b)

Rava said further: It is permitted for a Torah scholar to say: I am a Torah scholar, so resolve my case first, as it is written: “And the sons of David were priests” (II Samuel 8:18). The sons of David could not have been actual priests, as David was not a priest. Rather, the verse indicates that just as a priest takes his portion first, so too, a Torah scholar takes his portion first. And a priest, from where do we derive that he takes his portion first? As it is written: “And you shall sanctify him, for he offers the bread of your God” (Leviticus 21:8). And the school of Rabbi Yishmael taught: The phrase “and you shall sanctify him” applies with regard to every matter of sanctity (Nedarim 62a).

King David’s children are called priests (Kohanim) although they were not literally priests. Rashi and other commentators interpret the word Kohen as meaning leader or minister. This textual oddity provides the basis for an expansive, rabbinic reading of the priestly figure as anyone who is seen as close to God. Thus, the rabbis themselves—Torah scholars—become priests even as the original meaning of priesthood was tied to blood lineage. The optical criteria change over time, but the role remains. Status norms morph, but not our need to rely on credible mediators.

Last week, in parashat Kedoshim, we read that all Israelites are to become holy, in emulation of the priests. What, then, distinguishes a Kohen in the narrow sense from the rest of the people, given that both groups are enjoined to holiness? Korach asks a version of this question and is summarily refuted. The Israelites are a kingdom of priests (Mamlechet Kohanim) but nonetheless require only a subsection of the population to be Kohanim.

Emor tells us that the Kohanim had to abide by specific laws (such as not defiling themselves for the dead or taking non-virgins as wives) that did not apply to everyone else. A modern reader may wonder why these laws were the laws, specifically, but for our purposes let’s focus more on the form. Priests had to behave as priests lest they be perceived as commoners. Moreover, a priest with a blemish had to keep these prohibitions even as he was disallowed from Temple service. He was still perceived as a priest, albeit one who did not bring sacrifices. His disqualification from service did not exempt him from the commandment to remain in a state of purity. While one might offer an ontological argument for the priestly laws, let me suggest that a Kohen’s uniqueness consists in how he is perceived by others. All of Israel are enjoined to be holy, but only the Kohanim are required to appear holy. Or said differently, because Kohanim are perceived to be holy—but the people do not perceive one another as holy—they must accept the extra weight that comes with being in the public eye.

Priests are always “on” and their continuous decorum is part of their personal sacrifice. They are not permitted to break the forth wall and let loose. Even a priest disqualified from service by virtue of his mum (blemish) is part of the theatre of the priesthood. For only a priest can be disqualified from service. Even his disqualification serves as a pointer to his holiness (separateness), and thus the holiness of God.

Thinking of priests as leaders, we find that, for better and for worse, they are held to a higher standard by society, even though they are also just people, too. Regular folk are permitted to have blemishes and to show their flaws, but leaders who are perceived as too damaged may lose their authority. Would you let a barber cut your hair if he had a bad haircut himself? I’m not talking about the now fashionable trend whereby public leaders engage in performative vulnerability, putting their sob-story in their LinkedIn bio. In our therapeutic age, it is commonplace for leaders to share their struggles with mental health and other life challenges. Some do it sincerely to put others at ease and/or attempt to fight back against a social stigma. As if to say: “The mum you think you have isn’t a mum. Thank you for coming to my TedTalk.” A mum is not a struggle or flaw, but something that is widely perceived as disqualifying. If you can give a TedTalk about your imposter syndrome to a room full of applause it’s ipso facto not a mum. The mum is what you won’t share, not the curated failure. Priests could not hide their mums because they were visible. And this is the core idea, not that the disqualified priest had a bodily disfigurement but that his disqualification was apparent.

We’re talking about real stigma. You might say that we no longer live in a world where vulnerability or weaknesses are sources of social shame. Perhaps because of the influence of Christianity, we sometimes celebrate as leaders those who are most stigmatized, most wounded, most historically regarded as defective. But I would counter that we have not thrown off the category of the disqualifying blemish, only shifted the semiotic field in which we determine what is and is not a blemish. Today, a leader can be disqualified for saying the wrong thing in public. “Priests” who espouse contrarian views are canceled. Their mum is their wrongthink, for example. Or a priest whose weirdness goes outside the bounds of socially acceptable weirdness ceases to be a leader. According to the norms of bohemian culture, artists are permitted to be immoral in their personal lives, says Hannah Arendt, but even they can cross a line. When Bertolt Brecht lent his support to Stalin, she writes, he lost his moral authority, and his art suffered. The artist-priest became a propagandist. His mum disqualified him from remaining a great poet.

René Girard describes a world in which outsiders become leaders and leaders become outsiders. Leaders become scapegoats for society’s discontent; scapegoats are promoted to positions of leadership. These “priests” absorb the love/hatred of the mob and thus give it a sense of unity. Leaders receive either unequivocal praise or blame, but nothing in the middle. They are either saviors or traitors, gods or devils. Thus priests must appear different to maintain their outsider status. A therapist who starts telling his patient that his own life is in shambles breaks the hypnotic spell that allows the patient to trust that he is in the presence of someone who knows better. In the show In Treatment, we viewers see the therapist’s mum, but the clients do not see it. The therapist’s mum enables him to be empathetic to the suffering of his clients, but in his generosity he withholds his own sense of being damaged. The office of the priest requires it. This is what it means not to defile oneself in the broad sense. It means that the priest cannot reveal the depth of his own suffering and struggle with his congregation. The priest is not your friend, he’s your priest.

With the loss of the Temple, the priestly office becomes less obvious. We still mark the sanctity of the Kohen through familiar “honors” like the Kohen aliya, or asking the priest to lead Birkat Hamazon, Grace After Meals. But most of us do not relate to Kohanim as that different. The Kohen as Temple leader observing Levitical strictures is more vestigial. But as the Talmudic texts above demonstrate, the higher order concept of priestly authority remains, and has Biblical precedent in the sons of David. A Kohen needn’t be a Kohen. Torah scholars and rabbis are priests. In popular culture, politicians and celebrities can play a priestly role. Even in a world that considers itself democratic, anti-hierarchical and DIY, we do not diminish the authority of priests. Rather, the priesthood is fragmented. The world offers an endless coterie of priestly figures from Jerome Powell and Anthony Fauci to Kim Kardashian and Tony Robbins. We may not regard these folks as holy or divine—in fact, their priesthood depends on a secular horizon that brackets transcendence in favor of immanence—yet we rely on them to mediate our reality and give us a sense of comfort and security. Whether you are buying a story about macro-economics, virology, perfume, or personal improvement, you want it to come from someone who is perceived as more than human. Although we are lacking, they are perfect.

In the years preceding and following the destruction of the Temple, the priesthood was perceived as a semi-corrupt institution. The Kohanim relied too much on their status and failed to mind the gap between the perception they demanded and the perception they deserved. Authority began to flow away towards priests and towards rabbi-scholars. Critically, scholars did not claim to have direct access to God, but only access to God via tradition. The word of God became a matter of debate, not finality. Disagreement in pursuit of the divine word, not conclusive proof became the new criteria for religious authority. This culture of debate meant that a priest was not somebody who had the right answer, but someone who had the right method. As we see from the example of the original priests, no institution is immune from corruption. Dialectical prowess, like the priestly kit, is a costume. And its power depends upon the credibility and trustworthiness of those who deploy it. And here is the dilemma: behave too much like everyone else and you cease to be a priest, but hold on too dearly to your distinct role and risk being perceived as unreal, theatrical, “out of touch,” or, more cynically, “Straussian” (saying one thing, but believing another).

The endless cycle of priests who are promoted to positions of sanctity only to fall in scandal and frayed trust points to a fundamental, and universal, Biblical challenge: We are required to be like God while also acknowledging that nobody is God. We shouldn’t worship priests or expect them to be perfect, even as we want them to be credible and inspirational. Monotheism destroys the illusion that people can and should be worshipped. It is an equal opportunity destroyer of idols and all forms of inflated human authority. Nonetheless, Judaism requires that we aspire to emulate a perfect being and that we should respect and give honor to those who do so. Now that we know nobody but God is God, let’s not be sad about it. Let’s accept responsibility for being created in the divine image. Priests find themselves in the predicament of having to point to God by cultivating their own perfectionism, but also knowing that they are human beings. “The Torah was not given to angels.” The priests’ failure to be perfect doesn’t negate the importance of seeking to become holy. It raises the importance of humility. Great leaders find a way to inspire us to seek to be Godly, while also helping us accept that we are all works in progress—bad leaders accept the unsustainable illusion that they have it figured out. The priest’s distinction consists not in being Enlightened, but in being committed to the path of self-improvement. The teacher teaches the student how to learn. The teacher is a master in student-hood. So too, the priest teaches us how to be servants of the divine. In becoming a nation of priests we hope to spread the priestly ethos of service to the entire world.

Shabbat Shalom,

Zohar Atkins

Etz Hasadeh