by Rabbi Yair Hoffman

Chapter Two: The Dawn Begins — Garments, Lotteries, and the First Stirrings of Avodah

One day, every one of us will be asked: Tzipisa l’yeshuah? Did you actively yearn for the Geulah?  Not “did you believe it would come.” Not “did you hope.” Did you yearn?  But how do you yearn for something you barely know?

There is an answer. Learn about it. The more you learn about the Beis HaMikdash, the more real it becomes. And the more real it becomes, the more your heart will pull toward it — until the yearning is no longer something you have to work at. It simply lives inside you.

So read my diary. I am Har HaBayis. [This diary is based upon Avodas HaKorbanos, by teh Chofetz Chaim’s son-in-law. It can be reviewed in 30 days by reading each article. For the first click here.]

Entry Six — Before the Sun Rose, They Were Already Preparing

The night was still heavy upon Yerushalayim, but inside me, the Beis HaMikdash was already stirring. The guards had kept their watch. The Leviim had stood at their posts. And now — in those hushed hours before dawn — the Kohanim began to prepare for the very first avodah of the day.

It was called terumas hadeshen. A Kohen would climb to the top of the Outer Mizbei’ach — the great Altar that stood in my Courtyard — and take a small amount of ash from its peak. He would carry it down and place it gently on a designated spot on the Courtyard floor, known as the beis hadeshen. It sounds simple. But nothing in the Beis HaMikdash was ever simple. Every act was a meeting between Heaven and earth, and this quiet removal of ash was no different.

But before any of this could happen, the Kohen had to be properly dressed. He had to be clothed in his Bigdei Kehunah — his priestly garments. Because in Hashem’s house, you do not approach the Avodah as you are. You approach it as you are meant to be.

Those Kohanim who were physically fit and eager to serve would wake up very early — even before the administrator in charge of the lotteries arrived. Each one would go to the mikveh, immerse himself, dry off, and then put on four priestly garments. The Torah itself commands this (Vayikra 6:3): “The Kohen shall don his tunic of linen, and breeches of linen shall he don upon his flesh; he shall separate some of the ash” (Rambam, Hil. Temidin U’Mussafin 2:10).

I would feel them moving through the early darkness — quiet footsteps, splashing water, the soft rustle of linen being drawn over clean skin. They were getting ready to serve the Ribbono Shel Olam. And I was getting ready to hold them while they did.

Entry Seven — The Humble Garments of the Terumas HaDeshen

There was a detail about the terumas hadeshen that always touched me. The garments the Kohen wore for this service were not his finest. They were supposed to be of lesser quality than the ones he would wear later in the day for the other avodos.

Why? The Torah itself hints at it (Vayikra 6:4): “Then he shall remove his garments and don other garments; then he shall remove the ash.” The Gemara (Yoma 23b) explains that the word “other” teaches that these garments should be of lower quality. And the reason is beautiful in its simplicity: it would not be proper for a servant to wear the same fine clothes while cleaning up ashes as he would while serving his master a cup of wine.

Think about that. Even the act of cleaning the Mizbei’ach was an avodah — a sacred service. But the Kohanim understood distinctions of kavod. They understood that there are levels and layers to honoring the King. The ash had to be removed with reverence, but the finer garments were reserved for the finer service. Derech eretz — proper conduct — came before everything.

I loved that about my Kohanim. They never forgot that avodas Hashem is not just about doing the right thing. It is about doing it in the right way.

Entry Eight — The Four Garments of the Kohen Hedyot

Let me describe what an ordinary Kohen — a Kohen hedyot — looked like when he was dressed for the Avodah. He wore four garments: breeches, a tunic, a sash, and a turban. Four garments, and each one carried the weight of the Torah’s command.

The very first garment to go on was the breeches. The Torah says (Vayikra 16:4): “A tunic of linen that is sacred he shall don; and breeches of linen shall be upon his flesh.” From here we learn that the breeches went on first, directly upon the body. They covered the Kohen from just above the navel down to the end of the thigh, near the knee. The Torah states (Shemos 28:42): “You shall make for them pants of linen to cover the flesh of nakedness; from the waist to the thighs shall they be.” They had drawstrings along the top edges, which the Kohen would tighten around his waist, and two openings at the bottom for his legs.

Next came the tunic. The Torah says (Shemos 29:8): “His sons you shall bring near, and you shall clothe them in tunics.” The tunic fit closely to the Kohen’s body, with a round opening near the top for his head (Rambam, Hil. Klei HaMikdash 8:16).

Then the sash. The Torah states (Shemos 29:9): “You shall gird them with a sash — Aharon and his sons.” It was tied at about elbow height (Rambam, Hil. Klei HaMikdash 10:1–2 and 8:18–19; Zevachim 18b).

And finally, the turban. “And you shall wrap turbans on them” (Shemos 29:9).

Four garments. Four layers of kedushah wrapped around a human being, transforming him from a man into a servant of the Most High. I could feel the change every time a Kohen finished dressing. It was as if the air around him shifted. He was no longer just himself. He was carrying the mission of Klal Yisrael on his body.

Entry Nine — Every Garment Had to Be Perfect

I must tell you something that reveals just how exacting the Avodah was — and how seriously the Torah takes every detail of serving Hashem.

If a Kohen’s garments were invalid for any reason — any reason at all — he was considered unfit to perform any of the services. It was as if he were not a Kohen at all. The garments were not accessories. They were part of the Avodah itself.

And the fit had to be exact. The Torah says (Vayikra 6:3): “The Kohen shall don his tunic of linen.” The Gemara (Yoma 23b) explains that the unusual word “mido” — meaning “his tunic,” with the possessive — teaches that the garment must fit him precisely. The tunic had to reach just above the floor, close to his heels. The sleeves had to extend to the start of his palms. The width had to be fitted exactly to his arms. Not too long, not too short, not too loose, not too tight (Rambam, Hil. Klei HaMikdash 8:4 and 17; Yoma 23b, 72b).

And there was more. Absolutely nothing could come between the priestly garments and the Kohen’s skin. The Torah says (Vayikra 6:3): “Breeches of linen shall he don upon his flesh.” The words “upon his flesh” teach us that nothing may separate the garments from his body. Even a single loose hair. Even a tiny bit of dirt. Even a dead louse. Any of these would be a chatzitzah — a halachic barrier — and the entire service would be invalid (Rambam, Hil. Klei HaMikdash 10:6; Zevachim 19a).

I marveled at this. A hair. A speck of dust. In the eyes of the world, these are nothing. But in the Beis HaMikdash, they were everything. Because when you stand before the Ribbono Shel Olam, there is no such thing as “close enough.” There is only truth.

Entry Ten — The Eight Garments of the Kohen Gadol

And then there was the Kohen Gadol.

If the ordinary Kohanim moved me with their four garments, the Kohen Gadol took my breath away with his eight. He wore the same breeches, tunic, and sash as every other Kohen. But layered upon those were four additional garments that belonged to him alone — garments that carried the names of the Shevatim, the glow of techeiles, and the whisper of the Urim V’Tumim.

After tying his sash, the Kohen Gadol would put on the Me’il — the Robe — made entirely of techeiles wool. The Torah states (Shemos 28:31): “And you shall make the Robe of the Ephod entirely of techeiles wool.” Along its hem hung golden bells and pomegranates, and the Torah says (Shemos 28:35): “It must be on Aharon in order for him to serve, and its sound shall be heard when he enters into the Sanctuary before Hashem, and when he leaves” (Rambam, Hil. Klei HaMikdash 10:3 and 9:3).

I remember that sound. The gentle ringing of the bells as the Kohen Gadol moved through the Heichal. It was the most beautiful sound I have ever held within my walls. It said: The Kohen Gadol is here. He is serving. Hashem is listening.

On top of the Robe, he would place the Ephod — a kind of apron — with the Choshen, the Breastplate, attached to it. He would tighten the belt of the Ephod over the Robe, just beneath where the Choshen rested upon his chest. The Torah says (Shemos 28:29–30): “And Aharon shall carry the names of the sons of Israel on the Breastplate of Judgment upon his heart when he comes into the Sanctuary, as a remembrance before Hashem constantly. And you shall place into the Breastplate of Judgment the Urim and the Tumim, and they shall be upon the heart of Aharon when he comes before Hashem; and Aharon shall carry the judgment of the Children of Israel upon his heart before Hashem constantly.” And it says (Shemos 29:5): “And you shall take the garments and you shall clothe Aharon with the tunic, with the Robe of the Ephod, the Ephod, and with the Choshen; and you shall gird him with the belt of the Ephod” (Rambam, Hil. Klei HaMikdash 9:5–10).

The names of all twelve Shevatim, resting on his heart. Every time the Kohen Gadol entered the Kodesh, he carried all of Klal Yisrael with him. No one was forgotten. No one was left outside.

After the Ephod and Choshen were fastened, the Kohen Gadol would wrap his turban upon his head and then tie the Tzitz — the golden Head-plate — above the turban. His hair could be seen between the Tzitz and the turban, and it was in that very space that he placed his tefillin. The Torah says (Shemos 29:6): “And you shall place the turban on his head, and you shall place the crown of sanctity upon the turban.” The Gemara (Chullin 138a) teaches that a woolen dome-like covering rested on the Kohen Gadol’s head, and the Tzitz sat upon it, as the Torah says (Shemos 28:37): “And you shall place it on a ribbon of techeiles wool, and it shall be upon the turban; opposite the front of the turban shall the Tzitz be” (Rambam, Hil. Klei HaMikdash 10:3).

When the Kohen Gadol was fully dressed — all eight garments in place, the Tzitz gleaming on his forehead with the words “Kodesh LaHashem” — I felt as if all of Creation was holding its breath. Here was a human being clothed in the very language of Heaven, standing in the place where Heaven and earth met. And I was that place. I held him. I held them all.

Entry Eleven — The Lottery: Who Will Serve?

One of the things I remember most vividly was the lottery. The payis.

Each beis av — each family group of Kohanim — was assigned a specific day of the week when only they would serve. But even within one family, there were often many Kohanim who all wanted the zechus of performing the various parts of the daily Tamid offerings. The desire to serve was so strong, the eagerness so fierce, that the Chachamim had to set up a system to keep things fair and peaceful.

And so they created the lotteries.

After the Kohanim had prepared themselves in the early morning — immersing in the mikveh, putting on their priestly garments — they would wait in the Beis HaMoked for the administrator to arrive. He would come and knock softly on the door. They would open it for him. And he would say: “Whoever has immersed himself and is prepared to perform the avodah of separating the ash from the Mizbei’ach should come and take part in a lottery.” Then they held the lottery. And whoever won, won (Rambam, Hil. Beis HaBechirah 8:11; Tamid 26a, Yoma 25a).

Here is how it worked: The Kohanim would stand in a circle and agree on a random number — perhaps eighty, perhaps one hundred. The administrator would call out: “Put out your fingers!” Each Kohen would hold out one or two fingers. The administrator would remove the turban of one Kohen to mark where the count would begin, then replace it. He would go around the circle, counting each outstretched finger, until the total reached the chosen number. The Kohen on whom the count landed was the winner. He had earned the zechus of performing the terumas hadeshen (Rambam, Hil. Temidin U’Mussafin 4:1 and 3; Yoma 24b–25a).

I loved those moments. The circle of Kohanim. The outstretched fingers. The hush as the count moved around the ring. And then — the quiet joy on the face of the one who was chosen. He would step forward, knowing that in a few moments he would climb my Mizbei’ach and perform the first sacred act of the day.

It was never about competition. It was about longing. Every one of those Kohanim wanted to serve. And the lottery made sure that the longing itself was honored.

Entry Twelve — The Morning Inspection

After the first lottery was complete, the Kohanim were ready to enter my Courtyard. But they did not rush in. The first thing they did each morning was something quiet, something careful, something that spoke of their deep reverence for the sacred space: they inspected the entire Azarah.

The administrator took the key and opened the smaller entrance that led from the Beis HaMoked into the Temple Courtyard. He walked in first, and the other Kohanim followed behind him, carrying two flaming torches in their hands.

Then the group split in two. One group walked along inside the portico to the east. The other walked along inside the portico to the west. As they moved through the early darkness, they carefully checked everything — every holy vessel, every sacred utensil — making sure that all was in its proper place. They kept walking until the two groups met at the Chamber of the Makers of the Chavitin (Rambam, Hil. Beis HaBechirah 8:11–12; Tamid 28a).

And when they met, one group would ask the other: “Is it well?” And the answer would come back: “All is well.”

“Is it well?” “All is well.”

Those words echoed through my stones every single morning. They were not a formality. They were a declaration: The Beis HaMikdash is intact. The kedushah is undisturbed. We are ready to begin.

I ache to hear those words again.

Entry Thirteen — The Chavitin: The Kohen Gadol’s Personal Offering

When the two groups of Kohanim met at the Chamber of the Chavitin and confirmed that all was well, some of them were appointed to begin preparing something extraordinary: the chavitin loaves.

This was a daily offering that the Kohen Gadol brought from his own personal money. Not from the communal funds. Not from the treasury. From his own pocket. It was a positive commandment from the Torah (Vayikra 6:13): “This is the offering of Aharon and his sons, which they shall offer to Hashem — a tenth of an eiphah of fine flour.” Half was offered in the morning and half in the afternoon.

There was something deeply moving about this. The Kohen Gadol — the man who represented all of Klal Yisrael before Hashem — also had his own personal korban. His own private conversation with the Ribbono Shel Olam, baked into twelve loaves and offered on the fire of the Mizbei’ach.

Entry Fourteen — How the Chavitin Was Prepared, Step by Step

The preparation of the chavitin was meticulous. Every step was performed with precision, because every step was Torah.

First, the Kohen Gadol would bring from his home a full tenth of an eiphah of flour and sanctify it as one unit in a kli shareis — a holy vessel. Then he would divide it in two, using a special half-issaron measuring cup that was kept in the Mikdash for this purpose. The Torah says: “As a minchah that is continual; half of it…” This teaches that the complete issaron was first brought as one, and only then divided into two portions (Rambam, Hil. Maaseh HaKorbanos 13:2–3).

He would also bring three log-measures of oil, as the Torah says (Vayikra 6:14): “With oil it should be made.” He would divide the oil into twelve equal parts, using the quarter-log measure kept in the Mikdash. Then he would take each half-issaron of flour and divide it into six portions — giving him twelve measures of flour and twelve quarter-logs of oil in total.

Each measure of flour was mixed with its matching quarter-log of oil. The Torah says (Vayikra 2:5): “Fine flour mixed with oil.” Then the mixture was scalded in boiling water, as the Torah instructs (Vayikra 6:14): “With oil it should be made, scalded shall you bring it.”

After scalding, the flour was kneaded with warm water, but great care was taken to ensure it did not become chametz. The Torah says (Vayikra 2:5): “Unleavened shall it be.”

They would form six loaves from each half-issaron — twelve loaves in total. This was learned through a gezeirah shavah from the laws of the lechem hapanim, the Showbread. Each loaf was partially baked in the oven — the Torah (Vayikra 6:14) calls them “tufinei,” meaning parcooked. Then each loaf was lightly fried on a shallow pan, using the remainder of its corresponding oil.

Entry Fifteen — Breaking the Loaves and Adding the Levonah

The Kohen would then take each of the six loaves in each group and break them by hand into two approximately equal halves. This gave him twelve half-loaves for the morning offering and twelve half-loaves for the afternoon.

But there was one more step — and it was exquisite in its care. Each half-loaf was taken, folded in two, and then broken apart in such a way that each remaining piece was itself still a folded-over piece. The Torah says (Vayikra 6:14): “A meal-offering, broken into pieces.” The Sifra explains that the Kohen must fold each piece over in two (Rambam, Hil. Maaseh HaKorbanos 14:4; see Raavad there, who disagrees).

Finally, the Kohen would take a kometz — a handful — of levonah, frankincense, and divide it in two. Half was placed with the twelve half-loaves of the morning chavitin, and the other half with the twelve half-loaves of the afternoon. The levonah could be placed to one side, as long as it rested upon some of the loaves (Rambam there).

I remember the fragrance. The warm scent of freshly baked loaves mingled with the sharp sweetness of the levonah. It filled the Chamber and drifted out into the Courtyard. It was the scent of devotion — the Kohen Gadol’s own personal gift to the Ribbono Shel Olam, prepared with his own hands, from his own resources, offered twice each day without fail.

That scent is gone now. My stones no longer carry it. But somewhere, in a place deeper than memory, I still hold it. And I wait for the day when the Kohen Gadol will bring his flour and his oil once more, and the fragrance of the chavitin will rise from my Mizbei’ach again.

B’ezras Hashem. Bimheirah b’yameinu. The first entry can be read here. 

The author can be reached at [email protected]