A response to Nathan MacDonald’s “Error and Response in Leviticus 10”
https://www.ancientjewreview.com/read/2022/2/2/error-and-response-in-leviticus-10
Thank you for the opportunity to respond to this paper and to be a part of this discussion on Leviticus 10, which happens to be one of my favorite texts in the Pentateuch. I think that Nathan and I are starting from roughly the same point when it comes to this chapter. I couldn’t agree more with him when he says that “the main problems that the text of Leviticus 10 confronts the modern interpreter with are not primarily compositional, but exegetical.” I have long followed Christophe’s argument for the literary unity of this chapter, which I believe Nathan also does, even as I don’t necessarily agree with the idea that it is among the latest of the priestly texts in Leviticus. To this end, I will follow Nathan’s lead here and focus on the exegetical problems he has raised with respect to Leviticus 9 and 10.
Nathan’s paper has two primary theses. The first is that Leviticus 9-10 are a compositional unity. With this thesis, I wholeheartedly agree. His second thesis is that Leviticus 9 represents one of the latest layers of a book of Leviticus. Near the end of the paper, he picks up on and lists three issues he sees as anomalies pointing to the late nature of Leviticus 9 and 10, and perhaps part of chapter 8 as well. I will structure my response in part around these anomalies. Here I offer my apologies if some of what I am about to say repeats things I’ve published before, but these anomalies are also things that I identified and attempted to address in a number of pieces. These anomalies as Nathan expresses them are:
1. Aaron’s sons have anointing oil sprinkled on them per Leviticus 8:30, which seems unexpected. Several times in P, the high priest is referred to as the anointed priest. If the sons are also anointed, does this mean they are then subject to the same restrictions as Aaron as described in Leviticus 21?
2. What is the relationship between the ritual procedure for the ḥaṭṭāʾt offered by Aaron and his sons in Leviticus 9 and the instructions given for offering the ḥaṭṭāʾt of the anointed priest in Leviticus 4? To put it more bluntly: why do these two ḥaṭṭāʾt offerings look so different?
3. Is the sin committed by Nadav and Avihu that of attempting to offer incense at all? Might it be that only the high priest can offer incense? This issue points to seemingly contradictory instructions in Exodus 30 and in the story of Korah and his followers in Numbers 16.
Each of these anomalies point to issues in different chapters—the first in chapter 8, the second in 9, and the third in 10. Given my limited time to respond, I’ll focus here on the second and third issues, in part because these are also the ones that I have written on most extensively, but also because I think these two issues get to the heart of what I care about the most when it comes to discussing these chapters: the dynamic relationship between ritual and narrative expressed in them. What I abbreviate or gloss over quickly in this paper for the sake of time, I will be happy to discuss in as much excruciating detail as you’d like during the discussion portion. Alternatively, all those details can be found in my JHS article or in chapter 3 of my book.
The Question of Aaron’s Ḥaṭṭāʾt
In Leviticus 9:2–7, Moses instructs Aaron to gather a series of animal and grain offerings, some from the priests and some from the Israelites, and to sacrifice them on the newly consecrated altar. Among the list of offerings, two are designated to be sacrificed as a ḥaṭṭāʾt: a calf from Aaron and his sons, and a goat from the Israelites. Nathan focused on the first of these offerings, so I will do the same here.
Scholars have long noted that the sacrificial materials and the procedure Aaron and his sons follow in Leviticus 9 does not conform to Yahweh’s instructions in Leviticus 4. This has led to all kinds of debates about the origins of Leviticus 9 and its relationship to other priestly texts. The question I want to pose today is this: is there a way to understand this anomaly within the terms of the narrative itself without recourse to diachronic solutions? Is it possible that one author could have written two conflicting ḥaṭṭāʾt procedures?
My analysis at this point relies on a couple of different lines of thought in recent approaches to ritual studies: ritual grammar and textualization of ritual. First: I rely here on Naphtali Meshel’s argument that the priestly sacrificial system is best understood as a kind of generative grammar. According to his theory, the priestly ritual system is made up of a series of building blocks and broad rules, but there is leeway for ritual specialists—in this case the priests—to assemble the various pieces in different ways for different contexts. In other words, the priestly ritual system is not rigid and unbending; there is the possibility for innovation.
Second, I am indebted to the work of Mira Balberg and Andreas Ruwe for their work showing that that textualized ritual is not performed or historical ritual. The process of textualization generates a series of additional considerations such as literary context and rhetorical function. Rather than having their frame of reference in the historical world of ancient Israel, the frame of reference for textualized ritual in P must be the world constructed by the story.
Taking seriously this frame of reference for textualized ritual, I want to suggest another explanation for the disparities between the ḥaṭṭāʾt procedures. The paradigmatic set of instructions for the ḥaṭṭāʾt sacrifice is found in Yahweh’s first speech to Moses in Leviticus 4, after the tabernacle has been erected, but before its inauguration. In this speech, Yahweh describes two different types of ḥaṭṭāʾt offerings. In the first type of ḥaṭṭāʾt, the animal is offered on behalf of Aaron and his sons or on behalf of the Israelite community as a whole. This animal is slaughtered, and its blood is smeared on the horns of the incense altar, which is inside the sanctuary. The animal’s fat is then burned on the altar in the courtyard, and its flesh and skin are burned outside of the camp entirely. I call this type of ḥaṭṭāʾt a sanctuary ḥaṭṭāʾt. In the second type of ḥaṭṭāʾt, the animal is offered on behalf of an individual Israelite or an Israelite leader. The animal is slaughtered, and its blood is smeared on the horns of the altar in the courtyard. The animal’s fat is then burned on the courtyard altar, and its flesh is given to the priests who performed the sacrifice. I call this type of ḥaṭṭāʾt a courtyard ḥaṭṭāʾt.
Now, let’s look at how Aaron’s ḥaṭṭāʾt procedure in Leviticus 9 differs. Aaron starts with the calf for himself and his sons. After slaughtering the animal, Aaron takes its blood and smears it on the horns of the altar in front of him—the altar in the courtyard. Then he burns the required parts on the altar. Then, the flesh and the skin of the animal are taken outside of the camp and burned.
So, what’s the problem? The issue is that if the blood is smeared on the altar in the courtyard, the flesh of the animal is supposed to go to the priests. But also, if the animal is offered on behalf of a priest, the blood was supposed to be smeared on the incense altar, which is inside the sanctuary. So why doesn’t Aaron enter the sanctuary to smear the blood in the right place?
This is where the identification of Leviticus 9 as textualized ritual becomes especially important. This description of ritual activity should not be understood as a transcription of historical events. Neither is it a prescriptive text, describing what should be done in the future. This is a description of a character’s actions at one exceptional moment within a larger story. These actions happen to take the form of ritual procedure. There are aspects of the story that may well affect the actions of its characters.
One of the key issues at this point in the story is access, both to the deity and to the sanctuary. Here’s a diagram of the layout of the tabernacle. With the exception of Moses, only fully ordained priests are able to enter the sanctuary. But Aaron and his sons aren’t done with their ordination yet. As Christophe has rightly argued, full access for Aaron and his sons does not come until Moses brings them into the sanctuary in Leviticus 9:23, after they have finished performing these sacrifices. This means that at this point in the story, Aaron and his sons don’t have access to all parts of the tabernacle complex.
Imagine the position Aaron is in for a moment. He has his instructions, and he knows what he is supposed to do. Both of these ḥaṭṭāʾt sacrifices require him to bring their blood into the sanctuary. But Aaron also knows that he can’t enter the sanctuary yet. There are no rules for this situation. This is not like any of the paradigmatic offerings, and this situation is never going to arise again. The sanctuary is only inaugurated once; the priests are only ordained once. This is all a one-time event, and Aaron has a decision to make about how to handle the situation. Does he try to enter the sanctuary even though he isn’t fully a priest yet? Or does he adapt the ritual?
In my reading, Aaron decides to adapt the ritual. He decides not to try to enter the sanctuary to put the calf’s blood on the incense altar. Instead, he smears it on the horns of the altar right in front of him, in the courtyard—the only altar he is permitted access to at the moment. Aaron then proceeds with the ritual according to those paradigmatic instructions, and burns its fat and sends its flesh to be disposed of in the fire outside of the camp. Aaron has chosen ritual innovation over possible encroachment.
So how does this help us understand what’s going on in Leviticus 9? Well, in the first place, it explains the oddity of the ḥaṭṭāʾt procedure without reconstructing multiple sources, traditions, or authors. It takes seriously textualization of ritual, the unique circumstances of the tabernacle inauguration, and the generativity of the priestly ritual system. The procedure for sacrificing the calf ends up looking like a hybrid form not because this text was written by a later author who doesn’t understand the details of the priestly sacrificial system, but rather because Aaron was forced to adapt and innovate due to circumstances in the story world. Indeed, at that point in the story Aaron and his sons were themselves in a liminal state: not yet priests, but no longer normal Israelites. This is a moment in which narrative and ritual have come into contact and are shaped by each other. What this story shows us is that in the priestly narrative, performance of ritual is subject to the conditions in the story world and the judgment of its characters.
What About the Incense? or: When Ritual Goes Wrong
The question of Nadav and Avihu’s incense offering is interesting in light of this question about ritual innovation. Aaron successfully innovated with the ḥaṭṭāʾt procedure in Leviticus 9, but it seems as though Nadav and Avihu cannot do the same in Leviticus 10 with the incense. Why is this? Might it be because only Aaron, only the high priest, is permitted to offer incense? This is what Nathan suggests in his paper. And I must admit that he picks up on a point here that I missed in my treatment of this passage. In Leviticus 10:1, rather than the expected ending “that Yahweh had not commanded,” the narrator gives us one extra word: “them.” This is a nice observation on Nathan’s part and does seem to point to the fact that it is the two sons who have overstepped their bounds here by doing something that Yahweh did not tell them to do.
But is that the whole story? Is it only that they aren’t permitted to offer incense and only Aaron is? As Nathan rightly points out, the story in Numbers 16–17 seems to point against this when Yahweh says that only the descendants of Aaron may offer incense in front of Yahweh. Nathan points to a seeming contradiction in Exodus 30:7–8, which says that only Aaron can offer incense. What looks like a contradiction is not necessarily one, though. The context of Exodus 30:7–8 is the twice-daily regular offering of incense, lighting of the lamps, and general tending to the outer sanctuary, which is here (and in Numbers 8) designated as the duty of the high priest. This is not the only type of incense offering in the priestly texts—it is merely the most frequent and regularized, and it is part of a larger combination of ritual activities. I don’t think, then, that we can extrapolate from these verses in Exodus 30 that only the high priest can offer incense.
But if ordinary priests are permitted to offer incense, or at least aren’t expressly prohibited from doing so, then what did Nadav and Avihu do wrong? My answer here comes back to where I started. As Nathan rightly points out, the primary (and most interesting) issues in Leviticus 10 are exegetical in nature. One of the most intractable exegetical problems has been the interpretation of Yahweh’s statement, passed to Aaron through Moses, in Leviticus 10:3. Yahweh says two things here: 1) בִּקְרֹבַי אֶקָּדֵשׁ —that he will be sanctified by those close to him (that is, the priests), and 2) וְעַל־פְּנֵי כָל־הָעָם אֶכָּבֵד —that he will be present before all the people.
The first half of the statement suggests that there is a special status for those designated as קרבים, the priests. They have a very specific role as cultic mediators. I think that the second half of the statement should be read as qualifying the first half, though. In this second part, Yahweh claims that he will be present before all the people. The focus here on all the people is critical. In this story, the presence of the people both necessitates and enables the presence of the deity. The tabernacle must exist in the first place because human beings are, by nature, impure, and Yahweh is unable to live in the midst of impurity. Indeed, the Israelites are the ones who were responsible for providing the materials to create the tent of meeting, and the Israelites are the ones who are responsible for providing the raw materials for the ongoing maintenance of the cult. The lamb for the regular daily offering, for example, should be provided by the Israelites (at least as it is described in Lev 9:3). The lengthy list of gifts in Numbers 7 also suggests that the Israelites have taken it upon themselves to supply the tabernacle and its cult.
In the story, mere moments before Yahweh uttered this enigmatic statement, he made a public appearance to the Israelites, in part announcing his residence in the tabernacle and his acceptance of the inaugural offerings. I suggest that his pithy statement in this scene (Lev 10:3) should be read as a short summary of the recent events: the priests have enabled Yahweh’s sanctification, but the cult is not legitimate unless the people themselves enable and perceive the presence of Yahweh within the tabernacle.
But what did Nadav and Avihu do wrong? Most explanations focus on the “strange fire” to explain their transgression: Nadav and Avihu attempted to make an unauthorized sacrifice or used improper materials. These are both certainly problems, but I think that focusing on the אש זרה tells only part of the story. Using the wrong materials does not generate an immediate death sentence anywhere else in the Priestly Narrative. It causes problems that often require purificatory solutions, but nowhere else are the consequences this severe. To me, this suggests that there is something else going on here.
As Nathan rightly points out, part of the problem here is the unwarranted focus on the actions these two individuals. My suggestion is that these two priests, in their enthusiasm after seeing the presence of Yahweh, felt the need to get closer to the deity to make their own personal offerings. There are at least two potential problems with this. The first issue is that as Yahweh said in Lev 10:3, and says again in 10:10–11, the job of the priests is to approach Yahweh for the sake of mediating between Yahweh and the Israelites. When Nadav and Avihu rush forward with their own incense offerings, they are not doing so on behalf of the people; they are doing so for themselves. In truth, it’s possible that two priests could be understood as using their role as public servants for private gain. The second problem is with their offering itself. Nowhere else in the Priestly Narrative is incense ever offered on its own as a standalone sacrifice. By making this offering, the two priests essentially create their own category of sacrifice and bring it to Yahweh. They innovate, but it’s apparent that they have not really learned the building blocks or the general rules of the system. What they create here is outside the bounds of an acceptable sacrifice in the priestly narrative. It is a foreign offering—an אש זרה—in the broader sense. The problem is indeed that they did something that was not commanded of them, precisely as Nathan suggests. But I would nuance this to add that the issue is not that they are not allowed to offer incense; it is that they did so in an unauthorized, or perhaps better, unacceptable manner.
Conclusion
I will wrap up my response here. Perhaps my thoughts did not quite get to the heart of questions about compositional history or editorial activity as we were supposed to do today. Yet as Nathan has rightly pointed out in his paper, the more interesting questions about Leviticus 10 (and Leviticus 9 for that matter) are the exegetical ones and I sought to follow that lead. Why do the ritual procedures in these chapters look different than elsewhere in Leviticus? Why are Nadav and Avihu so swiftly and violently punished? And my favorite—though the one I didn’t get to here—why are Moses and Aaron arguing in Leviticus 10 and why does Moses concede to Aaron in that argument? In truth, my answers to these questions assume a high level of literary unity among chapters 8, 9, and 10. Indeed, this is what I argued for in chapters 2 and 3 of my book. But it is also possible to see this level of literary engagement and creative textualization of ritual as a product of multiple minds and multiple hands at work. The stipulation I’d make in this case is that if there are multiple layers in these chapters, they all seem to presuppose the same general conditions in the story world and they react to those conditions in predictable and logical ways. In short: they all understood the building blocks of the system that Nadav and Avihu did not. In the end it makes little difference to me if Leviticus 8, 9, and 10 were written by one or ten authors, as long as we recognize the interdependence of ritual and narrative in these texts and take seriously the idea that textualized ritual must react to its narrative environment.