Have you ever heard of a ritual so strange, so seemingly out of place, that it makes you stop and wonder, "Where did that come from?" Let's talk about the scapegoat.
Specifically, the scapegoat for Azazel.
The book of Leviticus (16:5-10) describes a fascinating, and frankly bizarre, ritual performed by Aaron, the High Priest, on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Two goats were chosen. Lots were cast. One goat was designated "for the Lord," and offered as a sin offering. But the other? The other was designated "for Azazel," and sent out into the wilderness. Alive.
What in the world was that about?
This custom – sending a scapegoat into the desert as an offering to Azazel – it just screams of something older, something… pagan. It feels like a remnant, a whisper of a time before, woven into the fabric of Israelite ritual. And the rabbis knew it.
Who was Azazel anyway? The Talmud (B. Yoma 67a) vividly describes the Yom Kippur ritual: a goat thrown off a high cliff in the desert, meant to atone for the sins of the people. A red ribbon, hung in the Temple, miraculously turning white when the goat met its end. It paints a picture of a remote Temple offering, a sacrifice reaching out into the desolate spaces.
Some scholars see Azazel as some kind of desert deity. A god, or perhaps a powerful spirit, dwelling in the wild, untamed places beyond civilization. So, the scapegoat, in this view, becomes a sacrifice to the forces of… well, maybe not exactly evil, but certainly forces outside the established order. Think of it as paying tribute to the wilderness, acknowledging its power.
The phrase "Lekh le Azazel" – "Go to Azazel!" – exists even today in modern Hebrew. It means, well, "Go to hell!" It's a way of saying, "Get lost! Go far away, to a place of unpleasantness."
But here's where things get even more interesting. Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer (51) offers a startling perspective. God, Himself, identifies the scapegoat as an atonement... for Him. "This he-goat shall be an atonement for Me, because I have diminished the size of the moon."
Wait, what?
This refers to the myth of "The Quarrel of the Sun and the Moon," where God, to resolve a dispute, diminishes the moon's light. (You can find a more detailed account of this story on page 112 of the Tree of Souls). The idea of God needing atonement is… unsettling. It's a very human portrayal of the Divine, reminiscent of Jung's perspective in "Answer to Job."
And it's not the only place we find this kind of thing. Rabbinic literature is full of instances where God is portrayed in remarkably human terms: studying Torah, mourning, even putting on tallit (prayer shawl) and tefillin (phylacteries).
The Talmud (B. Hullin 60a) further expands on this idea. It describes a goat offered in the Temple on every Rosh Hodesh, the first of the month. This sin offering atoned for God's "shrinking the moon," a decision He supposedly regretted (Numbers 28:15). So, on every Rosh Hodesh, when the moon is at its smallest, a sacrifice was brought to make amends for that divine choice.
So, the scapegoat. Was it a sacrifice to a forgotten desert god? An appeasement of wild, untamed forces? Or was it something far more profound: an acknowledgement of imperfection, even within the Divine? Perhaps it's a little of all of these.
This ritual, with its echoes of ancient beliefs and its surprisingly human portrayal of God, invites us to consider the complexities of atonement, sacrifice, and the enduring power of myth. It challenges us to look beyond the surface, to explore the hidden depths of our traditions, and to grapple with the questions they raise.