One of the blessings of living within a rich tradition is that timeless texts change their meaning in light of changing realities. This year, for example, the text of the Haggadah read differently than it had for the last several decades, as the terrible events since October 7 continue to resonate. The festival of freedom was experienced in a new way. It was not always pleasant or easy, but it does serve as a reminder of what three thousand years of a shared cultural experience can provide – not answers, but a language with which to frame questions and express our deepest concerns and our most fundamental hopes.
This week’s portion brings us into direct confrontation with the mysterious scapegoat ritual, in which two goats are chosen for chatat, a purification offering designed to make expiation for the priest and his household. One goat is marked for Adonai, and the other for Azazel.
The meaning of Azazel remains shrouded in uncertainty. Aron Pinker categorized the various attempts to understand it into four main categories: the name of a supernatural entity, the name or description of a place, an abstract noun, and a description of the dispatched goat. Alongside these four interpretive approaches, various additional suggestions have been made. Countless theories have been loaded up on this poor goat as it is set out into the wilderness. One offered by Ida Zatelli is particularly resonant. She argues that “this fascinating ancestral rite is not a sacrifice; it represents a struggle against chaos, against transgressions and disorder, which threaten the harmony and safety of man, and it expels them to the desolation which they pertain.”
One of the interpretations of Azazel is geographical: it is understood to be the destination to which the goat is headed, described in the Talmud as a tough and desolate place. In Yoma 67b in the Babylonian Talmud, the name Azazel is said to refer to the hardest of mountains. In the social psychology of contemporary Israel, the role of Azazel as a physical destination to which our sins are banished is played by Aza, known in English as Gaza. The Gaza Strip has long played the role of that Azazel: a wasteland on the edge of our consciousness, the place to which we banish our doubts and fears. Indeed, in colloquial Hebrew, telling someone they can “go to Azazel” is to invite them to go to hell. Gaza has become Azazel.
Gaza, I would suggest, has been the place to which we have attempted to banish much that we would rather not see. On October 7, Azazel as a destructive demon came over the border wreaking havoc and ruin. So many months later, it is hard (for me at least) to believe that the havoc and ruin we have brought to the people of Gaza has brought them or us the security and dignity we all crave and deserve.
At the time these words are being written, Israeli hostages still languish in Azazel. In recent years, so much has been expelled out into the wilderness, including the sanctity of the rule of law and our commitment to fundamental principles of democracy. As a society, we have been too quick to banish anything difficult – including social equity, environmental responsibility, and more – to the periphery of our consciousness. As a strategy, it does not work. Azazel comes back to us. However difficult the task, we have to try and face up to our responsibilities, rather than loading them up on a scapegoat.
This week’s portion includes instructions for the meshaleach, the person who sent the goat out into the wilderness, explaining the ritual they have to go through in order to re-enter the camp. Perhaps we are all in the position of that meshaleach, and we all have to work out what needs to happen so that this dynamic of expulsion and reaction can be broken. We have to find a way to come back from Azazel.
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Rabbi Michael Marmur teaches Jewish Theology at Hebrew Union College in Jerusalem. He is a former Chair of RHR. His next book, Elements of a Jewish Theology, is due for publication in 2024.
This week’s portion brings us into direct confrontation with the mysterious scapegoat ritual, in which two goats are chosen for chatat, a purification offering designed to make expiation for the priest and his household. One goat is marked for Adonai, and the other for Azazel.
The meaning of Azazel remains shrouded in uncertainty. Aron Pinker categorized the various attempts to understand it into four main categories: the name of a supernatural entity, the name or description of a place, an abstract noun, and a description of the dispatched goat. Alongside these four interpretive approaches, various additional suggestions have been made. Countless theories have been loaded up on this poor goat as it is set out into the wilderness. One offered by Ida Zatelli is particularly resonant. She argues that “this fascinating ancestral rite is not a sacrifice; it represents a struggle against chaos, against transgressions and disorder, which threaten the harmony and safety of man, and it expels them to the desolation which they pertain.”
One of the interpretations of Azazel is geographical: it is understood to be the destination to which the goat is headed, described in the Talmud as a tough and desolate place. In Yoma 67b in the Babylonian Talmud, the name Azazel is said to refer to the hardest of mountains. In the social psychology of contemporary Israel, the role of Azazel as a physical destination to which our sins are banished is played by Aza, known in English as Gaza. The Gaza Strip has long played the role of that Azazel: a wasteland on the edge of our consciousness, the place to which we banish our doubts and fears. Indeed, in colloquial Hebrew, telling someone they can “go to Azazel” is to invite them to go to hell. Gaza has become Azazel.
Gaza, I would suggest, has been the place to which we have attempted to banish much that we would rather not see. On October 7, Azazel as a destructive demon came over the border wreaking havoc and ruin. So many months later, it is hard (for me at least) to believe that the havoc and ruin we have brought to the people of Gaza has brought them or us the security and dignity we all crave and deserve.
At the time these words are being written, Israeli hostages still languish in Azazel. In recent years, so much has been expelled out into the wilderness, including the sanctity of the rule of law and our commitment to fundamental principles of democracy. As a society, we have been too quick to banish anything difficult – including social equity, environmental responsibility, and more – to the periphery of our consciousness. As a strategy, it does not work. Azazel comes back to us. However difficult the task, we have to try and face up to our responsibilities, rather than loading them up on a scapegoat.
This week’s portion includes instructions for the meshaleach, the person who sent the goat out into the wilderness, explaining the ritual they have to go through in order to re-enter the camp. Perhaps we are all in the position of that meshaleach, and we all have to work out what needs to happen so that this dynamic of expulsion and reaction can be broken. We have to find a way to come back from Azazel.
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Rabbi Michael Marmur teaches Jewish Theology at Hebrew Union College in Jerusalem. He is a former Chair of RHR. His next book, Elements of a Jewish Theology, is due for publication in 2024.