Torah Ideals

Parshas Vayeishev reveals insights into our unending war for spiritual integrity and survival.

This week’s parsha concludes the arba parshios — the four special readings that help us prepare ourselves to enter Nisan, the month of redemption.  If you haven’t seen it yet, please take a look and my adaptation of a shiur by Rabbi Nachman Bulman zt”l, which brings into focus what we hope to accomplish during this season.

The parsha itself revisits the construction of the mishkan, already described in Parshas Terumah.  Please see my discussion there.

Gut Shabbos.

And you shall make Me a dwelling (mikdash), and I will dwell (v’shochanti) among them (Sh’mos 25:8).

The construction of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle in the desert – which foreshadows the Beis HaMikdash, the Temple in Jerusalem – offers a compelling perspective on the nature of the universe.  But a complete understanding requires an explanation why the Almighty commanded the construction of a mikdash, which lay four hundred eighty years in the future, rather than a mishkan, which is what the Jewish people were about to build.

The word mishkanliterally means “that which creates a dwelling.”  In the desert, with no land, no permanence, and no boundaries, the tabernacle provided the focal point around which the Jewish nation could coalesce.  Of course, the spirit of HaShem is everywhere.  But the House of God that would reside in the midst of the people would bind them together in a way that the conceptual knowledge that they were a holy people could not.  Indeed, a careful reading of the verse reveals HaShem’s true intention.  Build Me a tabernacle, commanded the Almighty, and I will dwell not in it but in and among them, the people.

Consequently, we understand that the Mishkan was never intended to be permanent.  Its purpose was to sustain the people until they could enter the land.  At that point, they would no longer require a mishkan, for the land itself would bind them together.  From then on they would require a mikdash — literally, that which creates sanctity.  Once in the land, the purpose of a House of God would be to remind the people of their divine mission and inspire them to strive for ever higher levels of spiritual achievement.

To that end, the people would gather three times a year for the pilgrim festivals — Pesach, Shavuos, and Sukkos.  And herein lies the secret of the Mikdash, as explained by the Chassidic classic Arvei Nachal.

Just as the universe is created with three physical dimensions, similarly is it created with three spiritual aspects:  space, time, and life.  As a microcosm of the physical universe, the human body provides the most familiar model for the pattern of spiritual existence.

Within the body, the heart pumps blood throughout the system.  Through arteries and capillaries, the blood reaches every corner of the body, carrying with it oxygenated blood that literally breathes life into every cell.  Returning to the heart, the blood is pumped through the lungs to become oxygenated once again, so that the body’s internal cycle of life can continue.

The same pattern manifests itself in the nature of time.  According to the kabbalists, time is not linear but circular.  In the course of each year, every soul visits every day and every moment in the 365 days that describe the solar year.  Just as the flow of blood deposits life-giving oxygen to the body’s cells, similarly does each soul deposit kedusha, sanctity, to the individual moments that together form the body of time.  And just as the body’s cycle begins and ends with the heart, similarly does the annual cycle begin and end with Yom Kippur — the holiest day, and the heart, of the year.  The extent to which the Jew renews his relationship with the Almighty on Yom Kippur will affect not only his own fortunes for the coming year, but the fortunes of all mankind.  Symbiotically, our involvement in Torah and mitzvos draws the innate kedusha from the temporal fabric of the universe and allows us to return to the next Yom Kippur on a spiritual level higher than we were on the year before.

Finally we come to physical space.  Once established in the land, the Jewish people  spread out to settle their country, striving to strike the perfect balance between material prosperity and spiritual purpose.  Their involvement in Torah and mitzvos throughout every corner of the Land of Israel would draw out the spiritual essence of the land, enabling them to achieve greater levels in preparation for each successive festival, when they would come together at the Beis HaMikdash — the heart of the world.  Inspired and elevated by each festival, the Jews would return to their homes, elevated in their spirituality so that they could elevate the land on which they toiled, thus creating a virtuous cycle that brought them ever closer and closer to their Creator.

After the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, the great sage Rabban Yochanon ben Zakkai decreed that every shul, every place of Jewish prayer, should be treated as a mikdash ma’at, and Temple in miniature.  Every time the Jewish community comes together to pray, on weekdays and on Shabbos, on festivals and on the High Holy Days, we have the opportunity to renew the cycle of spiritual elevation.  Prayer is not for God; it is for us.  It is not a burden; it is a privilege and an opportunity.  It is not an inconvenience; it is as fundamental to our existence as our life’s blood, as our heart, and as our soul.

You shall not ascend my altar by steps, so that you will not reveal your nakedness upon it.  And these are the statutes that you [Moses] shall place before them [the Jewish people]

Exodus 20:23-21:1

During the early days of the Second Temple era, the sages divided the Torah into portions, or parshios, to be read on successive Sabbaths.  The juxtaposition of any two of these parshios always alludes to some principle in Jewish thought.  In the case of this week’s Torah portion, however, the connection with the end of last week’s parsha seems particularly elusive.

After the drama of the Almighty’s revelation at Sinai and the giving of the Torah, the narrative switches to a rather dry and technical description of the altar in the Tabernacle.  Not by stairs should the kohain go up, lest the gaping of his robes expose his private regions to the stones upon which he walks; rather, he should ascend by a ramp, so that his shorter, more even steps will not result in any impropriety.

Immediately afterward, the Torah introduces the mishpatim, the statutes that govern civil law by establishing the legal parameters of business dealings, private property, loans, and damages.  Superficially, no two subjects within Torah could be more disconnected from one another.

The revered Chassidic Master, Reb Elimelech of Lizensk, offers a tantalizing explanation.  As we go through life, we should see ourselves as kohanim, the priests of the Almighty, engaged in a perpetual quest to ascend spiritually, approaching ever nearer to a more perfect service upon the conceptual altar of the Creator.  Every attainment of a new spiritual level is called by the kabbalists a madrega — a “step” onward and upward.  The Jew is not meant to remain static, but to pursue ever more challenging goals in pursuit of spiritual perfection.

The danger, however, is that we may try to take too much upon ourselves, that we attempt to move forward by unrealistic leaps, that we may seek inspiration in the ethereal at the expense of more fundamental forms of heavenly service.  By reaching for the stars, we may find ourselves without firm footing underfoot, rendering ourselves vulnerable to the indictments of the divine attribute of Justice.  By artificially propelling ourselves to a level that we cannot realistically sustain, we may find ourselves judged with a strictness that is beyond our capacity to endure.

The ramp up to the altar, therefore, serves to symbolize the measured, determined consistency with which we should approach our commitment to spiritual growth.  HaShem may bless us at times with great leaps forward and moments of dazzling inspiration, but spiritual development is often like physcial development — painfully slow and paradoxically mundane.

This, teaches Reb Elimelech, is the connection between the details of the altar and the words that introduce this week’s portion, “And these are the statutes…”  If we look for spiritual excitement only in mystical secrets and ethereal mysteries, we will inevitably miss the most essential opportunities for spiritual growth that our daily routines provide us.  The concern for others, for their money and their time and their property, the respect for boundaries both personal and legal — these are the sensitivities that most effectively and meaningfully transform us into spiritual beings.  If we think we can overlook them in our quest for personal revelation and divine intimacy, we will have no foundation upon which to stand.  If we carefully cultivate them, we will awaken within ourselves a spiritual perspicacity that will enable us to recognize the presence of the Almighty in every aspect of our lives.

The first five Commandments, comprised by the first of the two tablets, describe mitzvos bein adam l’Makom – commandments between man and G-d. The second five, comprised by the second tablet, describe mitzvos bein adam l’chaveiro — commandments between man and his fellow.

These two lists are not independent but profoundly interrelated. I explain it here in the context of Pirkei Avos.