A Bride for One Night: Talmud Tales

Yishmael, My Son, Bless Me

139 Yishmael, My Son, Bless Me Rabbi Yishmael ben Elisha said: Once I entered into the Holy of Holies To burn incense in the Inner Innermost sanctum And I saw Achatriel Yah Adonai Tzvaot Sitting on a high and lofty throne of compassion. He said to me: Yishmael, my son, bless me. I said to him: Master of the Universe May it be Your will that Your mercy conquer Your anger, That Your mercy overcome Your sterner attributes, That You behave toward Your children with the attribute of mercy, And that for their sake, You go beyond the boundary of judgment. He nodded to me with His head. What does this come to teach us? It teaches us never to underestimate the blessing offered by an ordinary person. —B. Berakhot 7a1 The sanctuary is silent. All alone, Rabbi Yishmael crosses the twentytwo -cubit distance between the antechamber and the altar. Farther and farther inside, beyond the curtains that are always drawn, as if walking through water and coming ever closer to its source. He has already immersed himself five times in the ritual waters, and his body is as soft as a freshly laundered garment. Now, dressed in four articles of clothing like one of the regular priests, he is conscious of his exposed forehead, which is usually covered with the gold plate bearing the words “holy to the Lord.” In his hands is a fire pan made of beaten gold containing 140 Yishmael, My Son, Bless Me finely ground incense. Its smell enters his nostrils, and the smoke rises like a pillar, parting the hallway before him. The smoke from the incense trembles and then is still, like a solid black candle. His mind is filled with thoughts of the cows, rams, and sheep that passed before the priests in the evening in preparation for the sacrifices. He thinks of the Jerusalem elders who came to make sure he stayed awake all night, as was the custom. Their voices can still be heard in his ears, like the roar of a distant ocean inside a conch shell. His ears are no longer his; his eyes are no longer his; his sleep is no longer his. His whole body has become a sacred vessel. When he parts the last curtain, he can feel the tautness of the string tied around his right ankle. This is the string with which the other priests will drag out his body, should anything go awry in the Holy of Holies. The inner sanctum is permeated by ancient smells. Yishmael has never been able to describe it to his family at home. It is different than anything he has ever experienced. He walks inside, feeling his own death like a ghostly presence. Dizzy and exhausted after a night of no sleep, he feels the weight of the day’s labors on his shoulders. As if performing the steps of a complicated dance, his mind runs through the order of rituals, from the morning immersion to the confessional beside the sacrificial cow and from there to the lottery box where the goats were designated—one for God and one for the demon Azazel—and then to the cliff where the latter goat was sent off into the wilderness, and then another confession and sacrifice and another collection of blood in a bowl, followed by the removal of the fire pans. Although he is alone in the Temple, he feels beleaguered by the priestly elders, who seem to be peering at him with expectant eyes, measuring each step he takes and each wave of his hand. He is seized by a sense of fear: What if he is not worthy? What if he makes a mistake? His mouth is filled with the words of the confessional prayer: “I have strayed, I have sinned, I have transgressed before you, I and my household. Because on this day I will atone for you to purify you of all your sins. You shall be purified before God.” He remembers his hands resting on the head of the cow and the shudder that ran through the animal’s body, its sharp smell, its vigor and strength. He had leaned with all his weight on its great back, trying to lose all his anxieties and doubts in the warm flesh.2 Yishmael, My Son, Bless Me 141 The names of the various types of blood used in sacred worship are...