When Moses consecrated Aaron and his sons to the priesthood, a week-long ritual bound them to the altar — daily offerings, daily bread, daily blood. Targum Pseudo-Jonathan (redacted by the 8th century CE, though preserving far older traditions) preserves the instruction that has puzzled and fascinated Jewish readers for centuries: any flesh of the consecration offering and any of the bread that remained until morning had to be burned. Not eaten. Not saved. Consumed by fire because it was kodesh — sacred.
Why burn what could feed someone? The sages heard in this command a theology of holy time. Sanctity, in Jewish thought, is not a quality a thing carries forever. It is a window. The meat of consecration was holy for its hour — the hour God had appointed it. Past that hour, it was not merely old food; it was sacred food out of place. To eat it would be to treat the sacred casually, to drag yesterday's altar into today's kitchen.
This is why the fire answers. Fire consumed the offering on the altar when its moment was right; fire consumed the remainder when its moment had passed. The flame itself became the boundary keeper of holiness (Exodus 29:34).
The Maggid learns this: even sacred things have seasons. A prayer, a moment of clarity, a teaching given in the right hour — these too have their window. Hold them too long, and they curdle into superstition or pride. Let them burn when their hour passes, and they ascend as smoke to the place where all sacred things belong.