Torah Ideals

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.

Then Moshe and the Children of Israel will sing …

As if with one voice, the commentaries wonder at the future tense employed here by the Torah.  The meaning of the verse is clear:  then, after the splitting of the sea and the destruction of Pharaoh’s chariots, the Jews sang their praises of the Master of the World who had provided their miraculous salvation.

If so, why the future tense?

All the commentaries begin with Rashi:  Then, when [the nation] saw the miracle, it felt inspired to sing.  But what has Rashi added?  Is it not obvious that their song of praise was inspired by the events through which they had been saved?

Perhaps we can find a clue in the structure of our daily prayers.  The weekday Amidah, the standing prayer, is divided into three distinct sections.  The first three blessings are expressions of praise, through which we demonstrate our recognition that we are standing before the Almighty, the One who hears supplications and has the power to answer them.  The final three blessings are expressions of gratitude, wherein we thank HaShem for listening to and considering our entreaties.

The body of the Amidah, the thirteen central blessings, are expressions of request, wherein we ask for the Almighty to bestow upon us the basic necessities of life, so that we are able to serve Him by studying His Torah and upholding His commandments.  By recognizing that G-d is the source of all blessing — of intelligence, health, sustanance, justice, and all things physical and spiritual — we remind ourselves of our own responsibility to direct our lives in fulfillment of the higher purpose for which we were created, and we focus our attention on self-evaluation to determine whether or not we are living up to our individual potentials.

Of this central group of petitions, the final blessing poses something of a curiosity.  Shema koleinu – Listen to our voices, we cry out, and accept our prayers with favor and mercy.  What is the value of asking HaShem to listen to our prayers?  If He is already listening, then this request is superfluous; if He is not listening, then it is pointless.  Moreover, why is it positioned at the end of our list of requests?  Presumably we should ask G-d to listen before we begin to ask, not after we have finished asking?

I believe I heard the following explanation from Rav Dovid Gottleib:  If I ask my friend to lend me ten dollars, and he lends me ten dollars, naturally I respond by saying, “Thank you.”  However, if my friend tells me he doesn’t have the money, but he will get it for me, I also respond by saying, “Thank you.”

In the first case, I am expressing my appreciation for having gotten what I want.  But in the second case, even though I still don’t have the ten dollars, I nevertheless express my appreciation.  Indeed, in this second case my thanks describe a higher level of gratitude, not merely for having gotten what I want, but for my friend’s interest, concern, and effort, which ultimately mean more to me than mere money.

Similarly, in the blessing of Shema koleinu, we are not asking the Almighty for what we have already requested; rather, we are asking Him to embue us with the perception of His involvement in our lives.  More than the things we have requested, we want to feel that HaShem cares about us, that He is responsive to our needs and our desires, that even when He withholds from us what we want it is because He recognizes that the fulfillment of these requrests is not in our own spiritual best interest.  Indeed, at no time are we closer to G-d than when He is in the process of granting our petitions, for it is then that He is most actively involved in our lives.  The moment our requests are answered, we once again feel a sense of independence, which is a manifestation of the illusion that we can survive for even a moment without the grace of G-d.

If we apply this principle to the splitting of the sea, we can understand that the Jews had two different ways that could have praised HaShem for their salvation.  They might have expressed their gratitude after they had been saved, seeing then that they were truly secure from the threat of the Egyptian army.  However, a higher expression of gratitude would have been to sing the praises of HaShem as they were passing through the sea, for it would  have been at that moment, with the walls of water towering above them and Pharaoh’s chariots bearing down upon them, that HaShem was closest to them.  At that moment, their trust in the inevitabilityof their salvation inspired a song like no other, describing their gratitude for the greatest gift any human soul could desire — true spiritual intimacy with the Divine.

Nevertheless, to have stopped in the midst of their flight to safety to begin singing would have shown needless dependence upon HaShem’s miraculous intervention.  Rather, they waited until their survival was assured.  But the Torah testifies to the feelings that motivated their song.  Then, when they were still fleeing from the Egyptians between the walls of water, the Children of Israel would sing.  Even if their mouths would not form the words until later, their hearts were already inspired to sing as the greatest possible expression of gratitude and closeness to their Creator.

During the last days of prophetic vision, some 25 hundred years ago, the sages divided the Torah into parshios – portions, and decreed that successive parshios should be read publicly as part of the Sabbath morning prayer service, so that the Jewish people would hear the reading of the entire Torah from year to year.  The divisions of these parshios followed either historical, philosophical, or narrative patterns, so that each was, to some extent, self-contained with a particular thematic focus.

It is curious, therefore, that the sages saw fit to place the first seven of the of the Plagues upon Egypt into last week’s parsha, while leaving the final three for this week’s Torah portion.  The commentaries discuss at length the arrangement of the plagues into three sets of three, with the final Plague upon the Firstborn in a class by itself.  Consequently, if it were necessary to divide the plagues at all, it would better have been placed the point of division after the sixth plague – which completed the second set of three – than after the seventh.

Nevertheless, a careful reading of the narrative reveals that the seventh plague does stand out from all the rest by virtue of Pharaoh’s unprecedented reaction.  After each of the previous plagues, Pharaoh had either stubbornly refused to yield or else promised to send the Jews out, only to revoke his permission once the plague had abated.  But after the plague of fiery hail, Pharaoh makes an astonishing admission:  This time I have sinned; God is righteous, and I and my people are wicked.

*****

In its discussion concerning the laws of marriage, the Talmud proposes an unlikely scenario, in which a man said to a woman, “You are betrothed to me on condition that I am a tzaddik – a righteous man.”  The Talmud concludes that the betrothal is binding and the woman is married, even if the man is a person of dubious reputation.  Why?  Because it is possible, the sages explain, that at the moment he spoke he may indeed have repented the sins of a lifetime and became a truly righteous man.

If so, perhaps Pharaoh’s sincere confession in the face of the extraordinary suspension of nature, whereby the incompatible forces of fire and ice were forced into partnership for the express purpose of punishing the Egyptians, opened a window of opportunity for him and his nation.

From the very beginning, it had been the Almighty’s plan that Pharaoh would not let the Jews go, so that God would have cause “to multiply My miracles upon the land of Egypt.”  After each of the first five plagues, Pharaoh cooperated by hardening his own heart.  In contrast, after each of the last plagues before Pharaoh’s capitulation, it was God who hardened Pharaoh’s heart:  because Pharaoh had discarded every opportunity to submit to the Divine Will, he forfeited the freedom to turn from the course he had chosen for himself through his earlier decisions.

After the seventh plague, however, we find both expressions:  first Pharaoh hardened his own heart; subsequently, God informs Moshe that He has hardened Pharaoh’s heart.  How can both be true at the same time?

*****

The power of tshuva – repentance – is unimaginable.  In an instant, any individual can rewrite his past, erase a lifetime of misdeeds, and transform himself into the most righteous of men.  Even Pharaoh, the paradigm of wanton evil, possessed the human potential to return to the path of justice and truth.  Having endowed every human being with the capacity for human renewal and redemption, God Himself cannot stand in the way of the truly repentant.

We might suggest, therefore, that when Pharaoh acknowledged both his own wickedness the justice of the Almighty, God had no power to further harden Pharaoh’s heart.  In that instant, Pharaoh had positioned himself at the threshold of true righteousness, and no force in the universe could stand in his way if he chose to take the final step forward.

No force, that is, except himself.  Pharaoh saw that the rain, the hail, and the thunder had ceased, and he continued to sin; and he made his heart stubborn…

The moment was lost and, having forfeited his chance, Pharaoh’s fate was assured.  Instead of seizing the moment and stepping forward into a new future, he stepped backward and toppled into oblivion of his past.

And so last week’s parsha ends:  by flirting with repentance, Pharaoh held in his hand the opportunity to end the siege of plagues and halt the systematic destruction of his country.  But he failed to follow through, and so the plagues resume as this week’s parsha continues on.

How often do we find ourselves looking through a window of opportunity, offered the divine gift of sudden clarity into the condition of our souls and direction of our travels upon this earth?  How often are our eyes granted the vision to look upon our lives with true objectivity, to recognize in sharp relief the contrast between what we could achieve and how far we have fallen short of our potential?

And what do we do with these opportunities?  Do we rise to the challenge and resolutely chart a new course into the future, or do we take notice only for an instant and then, like Pharaoh, return reflexively to the habits of the past?  Every such moment is ours for the taking or ours to discard.  The way we choose will determine our future, in this world and in the World to Come.