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Two Goats on Yom Kippur and the Cliff at the Edge of the World

Two identical goats stood before the High Priest. A lot decided which burned on the altar and which walked alive into the wilderness carrying Israel's sins.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Two Goats Before the Lots Were Cast
  2. What the High Priest Said to the Living Goat
  3. The Road Out of the City
  4. What Azazel Was

The Two Goats Before the Lots Were Cast

They were chosen to match. Identical in size, identical in color, identical in value, purchased at the same time so that no one could say one life mattered more than the other. Two goats stood in the Temple courtyard on the morning of Yom Kippur before the High Priest, and the choice of what happened to each of them was removed entirely from human preference. A wooden box held two golden tiles. One was inscribed la-Shem, for God. One was inscribed la-Azazel, for the wilderness. The High Priest reached in with both hands simultaneously and drew without looking. The lot his right hand held determined the animal at his right side. In seconds, two identical animals had completely different fates assigned to them by chance, or by something that looked exactly like chance from the human side.

The lot for God went to the animal that would be slaughtered on the altar. The lot for Azazel went to the animal that would walk out of Jerusalem alive and not come back.

What the High Priest Said to the Living Goat

Before any blood was shed, before the slaughter or the sending, the High Priest laid both hands on the head of the living goat and confessed. Aloud. The confession had a structure. First he named the sins of the priests. Then he named the sins of the entire people of Israel. The words were specific: the willful violations, the unintentional ones, the hidden ones. Everything the nation had done in the past year that stood between them and the God whose presence filled the Temple they were standing in. All of it was named and placed on the animal's head by the weight of two human hands and the authority of the confession.

A crimson thread was tied to the goat's horns. The same color thread was tied to the door of the Temple sanctuary. A tradition preserved in the Talmud records that in the years the ritual worked as intended, the crimson thread on the Temple door would turn white at the moment the goat reached the wilderness. The color change was visible proof. White meant the sins had been carried away. Isaiah had said it: though your sins are like crimson, they shall become white as snow. The thread on the door turned. Sometimes it did not. The years it did not turn were years the priests noted in silence.

The Road Out of the City

A specific man was designated each year to lead the goat out. He was not a priest. A group of prominent citizens accompanied him to the first of ten stations built along the wilderness road, where they stopped and provided food and water, because the day was a fast but the man leading the goat was not required to fast. At each station a new escort took over, walking the goat further from the city while the previous group returned. The stations grew sparser as the road went on. The landscape changed. The city fell away behind them.

At the final station, before the last stretch, the escort stopped. The man designated for the actual sending walked the last distance alone with the goat. The location was a specific cliff. He pushed the goat backward over the edge. The tradition in the Talmud says the goat did not survive the fall. The crimson thread, if tied to its horns in some versions, turned white on the way down.

What Azazel Was

The rabbis argued about Azazel for centuries. Some held it was the name of the cliff itself, a place-name for the edge of the wilderness. Some held it referred to the roughness of the terrain, a Hebrew compound meaning something like hard ground. A minority tradition, which the mainstream rabbis rejected firmly, said Azazel was an entity, a power associated with the wilderness, and that the goat was a kind of payment or appeasement sent to that power on behalf of Israel. The mainstream position was categorical: this is not a sacrifice to a wilderness spirit. The goat belongs to God. God commands it sent to Azazel. The sending is an act of obedience to God, not an offering to anything else. The rabbis built a conceptual wall around the ritual's meaning and would not let it move.

SacrificePriesthoodAtonementTorah
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From the tradition

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The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Antiquities III.9-10Antiquities of the Jews (Josephus)

There was a goat that carried the sins of an entire nation into the wilderness and was never seen again. Every year on Yom Kippur, the tenth day of the seventh month, the Israelites selected two goats. One was slaughtered. The other, the sa'ir la'azazel (scapegoat), was driven alive beyond the boundaries of the camp into the desert, bearing the transgressions of all Israel on its back (Leviticus 16:21-22). Josephus describes this ritual alongside the complete sacrificial system that Moses established at Sinai, and the details reveal a world where approaching God required blood, fire, flour, and oil, every single day.

The daily baseline was two lambs. One was killed at dawn, one at dusk, both burned completely on the bronze altar. On the Sabbath, they doubled it to four. At the new moon, they added two bulls, seven lambs, and a goat for sins committed unknowingly. The system never stopped. It was not optional. It was the heartbeat of Israelite worship.

For individuals, the rules scaled by wealth. A man who could afford it brought a bull, a lamb, or a kid, always male, always for a whole burnt-offering. The priests splashed the blood around the altar, cleaned the animal, salted the pieces, and laid them on the fire. The hides went to the priests. Thank-offerings were different: the animal could be male or female, and after the fat, kidneys, and liver lobe were burned, the person who brought the sacrifice actually ate the rest of the meat over two days with family and friends. Those who could not afford cattle brought two doves instead.

The festival calendar built enormous peaks into this daily rhythm. During Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles in the seventh month, they began with thirteen bulls on the first day and subtracted one bull each day until reaching seven on the seventh day, alongside fourteen lambs, fifteen rams, and a sin-offering goat every single day for a week. Passover on the fourteenth of Nisan meant slaughtering the paschal lamb in groups, eating every last piece before morning, then seven days of unleavened bread with daily sacrifices of two bulls, a ram, and seven lambs.

Shavuot (Pentecost), fifty days after the barley offering, brought the first wheat loaves, leavened bread, for once, along with three bulls, two rams, fourteen lambs, and two goats. And through it all, twelve loaves of showbread sat on the golden table inside the Holy Place, replaced every Sabbath. The old loaves went to the priests. The frankincense that had sat beside them was burned on the sacred fire.

Josephus's accounting is meticulous because he wants his readers to understand something: this was not primitive ritual. It was a comprehensive system of national worship, individual atonement, and communal feasting, all anchored by the conviction that the God who had split the sea now lived in a tent at the center of camp and expected to be fed.

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Shir HaShirim Rabbah 4:8Shir HaShirim Rabbah

That feeling is something our ancestors grappled with intensely after the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. And in Shir HaShirim Rabbah, the ancient commentary on Song of Songs, we find a beautiful and poignant exploration of this very longing.

The verse in question is (Song of Songs 4:3): “Your lips are like a scarlet thread, and your speech is lovely.” Now, The first reading, it's a sweet compliment. But the Rabbis saw something much deeper. They connected that "scarlet thread" to the Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement), Day of Atonement, ritual. a strip of crimson wool was tied to the scapegoat, which was sent out into the wilderness carrying the sins of the people (Yoma 41b).

What happens when there's no Temple? No scapegoat? How do we achieve atonement? According to Shir HaShirim Rabbah, Israel cries out to God: "Master of the universe, we do not have the strip of crimson wool and the scapegoat." These rituals were discontinued after the Temple's destruction. So what now?

God's answer is stunningly simple: “Your lips are like a scarlet thread – the murmuring of your mouth is as beloved to Me as the scarlet thread of crimson wool.” Wow. It's not the grand gesture, but the sincere words, the heartfelt prayer, that truly matter. Rabbi Abbahu sums it up powerfully, quoting (Hosea 14:3): “We will pay bulls with our lips.” Instead of sacrifices, we offer our words.

Rabbi Abba bar Kahana even suggests that even in its desolation, the Temple's boundary still holds a certain sanctity. Rabbi Levi adds a fascinating perspective: God says that in its destruction, the Temple produced righteous people like Daniel, Mordechai, and Ezra, while in its standing, it sometimes produced wicked ones like Ahaz and Menashe. It’s a powerful reminder that holiness isn't just about a physical place; it's about the people and their actions. Rabbi Abba, quoting Rabbi Yoḥanan, supports this sentiment with (Isaiah 54:1): “For the children of the desolate are more than the children of the married woman," meaning the desolate Temple produced more righteous people.

The commentary continues, drawing parallels between the Temple and the human body. "Your neck is like the tower of David" – this, we're told, refers to the Temple. Why the neck? Because as long as the Temple stood, Israel held its head high among the nations. But with its destruction, Israel’s neck was bowed. (Leviticus 26:19) says "I will break the power of your might," referring to the Temple.

And the Temple was situated at the height of the world, just as the neck is situated at the height of a person. And just as the neck has the most jewelry, so too the priesthood and Levites emanate from the Temple. No neck, no life for the person. No Temple…well, you get the idea.

Then comes a beautiful image: “Magnificently [letalpiyot]” means a mound [tel] toward which all mouths [piyot] pray. Even when the Temple is gone, our prayers still turn towards it. From all corners of the world, we direct our hearts and voices towards Jerusalem, towards the place where the Shekhinah, the Divine Presence, once resided. Those outside of Israel turn towards the land, those in Israel toward Jerusalem, those in Jerusalem toward the Temple, and those on the Temple Mount towards the Holy of Holies.

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi derives from I (Kings 6:17) that, "This is the Sanctuary to the front [lifnai]" meaning the Sanctuary toward which all the faces [hapanim] are directed. Rabbi Avin says that even in destruction, letalpiyot, the Sanctuary remains a focal point for prayer. We say "Builder of Jerusalem" in the Shema, the Amidah, and Grace after Meals.

But here's where it gets truly mind-bending. How do we reconcile the idea of God being present in the Temple with the idea of God being everywhere? One verse says, “My eyes and My heart will be there always” (I Kings 9:3), while another says, “I will go and return to My place” (Hosea 5:15). Is God here, or is God… elsewhere?

The Rabbis offer a stunning synthesis: God’s face is on High, but God’s heart is below. We should direct our hearts toward the Holy of Holies, both the earthly and the supernal – the one in heaven. As (Exodus 15:17) says, “The place [makhon] You fashioned for Your dwelling, Lord” – it is aligned [mekhuvan] with Your dwelling place, the supernal Temple.

Mount Moriah, the Temple Mount, is so named, according to Rabbi Ḥiyya the Great and Rabbi Yannai, because either bitterness [mara] or awe emerged from there to the world. From the Ark [aron], either light [ora] or a curse [arira] emerged to the world, depending on whether one accepted the Torah or not. From the Sanctum [devir], either a plague [dever] or precepts [diberot] emerged.

Finally, the commentary concludes with a reminder of God's unwavering protection. "One thousand bucklers are hung upon it" – God shortened one thousand generations and brought them the protection they desired. Abraham asks, "You have been a shield for me, but will You not be a shield for My children?" And God replies, "I have been one shield for you...but for your children I will be many shields."

So what does this all mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in the absence of grand rituals, the power of sincere prayer remains. That even in times of destruction and despair, holiness can still emerge. And that even when we feel disconnected, we can still turn our hearts towards something greater, towards a place where our prayers are heard and our longings are understood. Maybe, just maybe, that scarlet thread is always within reach.

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Legends of the Jews 5:135Legends of the Jews

Sometimes, the stories behind them are even more incredible than the rituals themselves. Let's

The Legends of the Jews tells us that Abraham’s circumcision wasn't just a personal act; it became a foundational moment for the entire Jewish people. Performed on the tenth day of Tishri – that's Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement – it took place on the very spot where the altar of the Temple would later stand. Abraham's act, a physical commitment to the covenant, is forever linked to our collective atonement. The story says it remains a "never-ceasing atonement for Israel."

The story doesn’t stop there. Imagine Abraham, three days post-circumcision, likely in immense pain. According to the legend, God decides to visit him. A simple act of kindness. Well, the angels aren't so keen on the idea.

They question God: "What is man, that Thou art mindful of him? And the son of man, that Thou visitest him? And Thou desirest to betake Thyself to a place of uncleanness, a place of blood and filth?" Their words, dripping with celestial disdain, remind us of the inherent tension between the divine and the mortal. Why should God, in all His perfection, concern Himself with human suffering, with something as messy as blood and pain?

God's response is striking. "As ye live," He proclaims, "the savor of this blood is sweeter to me than myrrh and incense, and if you do not desire to visit Abraham, I will go alone."

Wow.

This isn't just about visiting the sick. It's about the value God places on human commitment, on the sacrifices we make to uphold our covenant with Him. He sees the pain, the blood, the "uncleanness," and finds it… sweet? Sweeter than the most precious offerings?

That's a radical thought. It suggests that our imperfections, our struggles, even our physical vulnerabilities, are not repulsive to God. They are, in fact, a evidence of our devotion. He values our willingness to engage with the covenant, even when it’s difficult, even when it hurts.

What does this story tell us about our own lives? Perhaps it's a reminder that God sees the beauty in our struggles, that our imperfections don't diminish us in His eyes. Maybe it even suggests that those very struggles are a form of offering, a evidence of our commitment that is, in its own way, "sweeter than myrrh and incense." Food for thought, isn't it?

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