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S.A.L.T. PARASHAT TERUMA
By
Rav David Silverberg
Motzaei
Shabbat
The Torah in Parashat Teruma (26:15) requires that the
kerashim, the planks that form the structure of
the Mishkan, should be made from “atzei
shittim omedim” – “upright acacia wood.”
The planks must be arranged in an upright position, and not on their
side.
The Gemara in Masekhet Sukka (45b) infers from this requirement a
halakha that extends far beyond the narrow context of the Mishkan: “A
person does not properly fulfill any of the mitzvot unless he does so in the way
in which they grow, as it is written, ‘upright acacia wood.’” Whenever Halakha requires
using a form of vegetation in fulfilling a
mitzva, the object in question should be held or placed in an upright
position. Thus, for example, on
Sukkot, when we must hold the four species, they should be held in their upright
position, the position in which they grew from the ground or tree, and not
upside-down or on their side.
The simple explanation of this
halakha is that it relates to the requirement to perform mitzvot in a
respectable manner. Holding a plant
upside-down or sideways gives the mitzva
act an unbecoming appearance, and for this reason Halakha requires holding or arranging such items
in a proper, upright position.
Rav Yehuda
Amital zt”l, however, suggested
that this provision reflects a deeper message concerning mitzva
performance, and religious life generally.
Namely, our performance of mitzvot should be done in a natural
manner. Certainly, the Torah calls
upon us to restrain our base instincts and to exercise discipline, rather than
blindly follow our impulses. At the
same, however, it demands that we perform mitzvot “ke-derekh gedilatan” – “the way a plant grows” – as a
natural, normal person, according to who we are.
Rav Amital understood this lesson as a warning against trying to imitate
certain Torah personalities. He
noted the Gemara’s famous comment in Masekhet Berakhot (35b) that many Torah
students tried to follow Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s model of exclusive devotion
to Torah learning without pursuing a livelihood, but they were unsuccessful. The Chassidic masters, Rav Amital
remarked, explained this to mean that these students were unsuccessful because
they attempted to follow a model that was beyond their capabilities. We are each granted a certain set of
skills and characteristics, and we must achieve to the best of our unique
abilities. If we try to transform
our essence and become somebody else, we will not succeed.
As Rav Amital said:
Obviously,
one cannot deviate even slightly from the 613 mitzvot and from the Shulchan
Arukh, but concerning anything beyond that, a person need not imitate others
or force himself to do things with which he cannot identify; he should be
himself.
The basic
obligations of Halakha are shared by all members of Am Yisrael.
But beyond the basic requirements, each individual must chart his course
in Torah and mitzvot “ke-derekh gedilatan,” according to his natural tendencies, talents, skills and capabilities.
When we aspire to be somebody else, rather than actualizing our unique
potential, then our
avodat Hashem becomes artificial and unnatural. For example, as Rav Amital cited, Rav
Menachem Mendel of Vitebsk explained the common phenomenon of wandering minds
during prayer to our failed attempt to reach beyond our capabilities. When a person speaks normally to his
friend, his mind does not wander, and remains focused on the conversation at
hand, because the conversation is perfectly natural. But in prayer, Rav Menachem Mendel
said, we often try to do something unnatural.
Rather than just speaking naturally to God, we try to enter a lofty
spiritual state, or have a special kind of spiritual experience, for which we
are not suited.
There is a careful balance that we must maintain between ambition and the
realistic acceptance of our limitations.
God wants us to serve Him
“ke-derekh
gedilatan,” naturally, without
trying to become somebody else.
Sunday
Parashat Teruma marks a transition from the civil laws of Parashat
Mishpatim to the commands regarding the
Mishkan that occupy much of the second half of Sefer Shemot. The laws in Parashat Mishpatim are
directed toward individuals, instructing people how to conduct their personal
affairs, how to treat others, and what their responsibilities are in different
situations. With the opening of
Parashat Teruma, we move away from the level of personal responsibility to that
of our obligations as a nation.
There is no single individual who assumes personal responsibility to collect
materials and build the Mishkan.
This responsibility is assigned to the nation as a whole; each individual
bears a personal obligation in this regard only due to his being a member of
Am Yisrael. Fundamentally, it is
Am Yisrael, not any particular individual, who bears the responsibility
of constructing and maintaining a Mishkan and performing its rituals.
After
Matan Torah, which is recorded in Parashat Yitro, the Torah proceeds to elaborate on
these two dimensions of the responsibilities that come with the Torah. In Parashat Mishpatim, it instructs
how the values and precepts of the Torah govern the personal life of every
individual. Starting in Parashat
Teruma, the Torah shows us that we accepted God’s laws not just as individuals,
but as a nation, and we must therefore work together to accomplish certain
religious goals. This notion of
national – as opposed to personal – responsibility is exemplified by the
Mishkan, and later by
the Beit Ha-mikdash, the center of religious life for all members of the nation, to which all
members of the nation must contribute for it to be maintained and serve its
purpose.
The Gemara in Masekhet Megila (12a) writes that – according to one view –
the Jews were deserving of annihilation during the time of Mordekhai and Ester
because they participated in the feast that Achashverosh hosted for the people
of Shushan. Many later scholars
raised the question of why the Jews’ participation in this affair was deemed
sinful. After all, the Sages
famously comment (there in Masekhet Megila) that Achashverosh ensured to provide
kosher food and drinks for the Jewish citizens of Shushan. Why did their involvement evoke God’s
ire to the point that He was prepared to destroy the entire nation? The answer, as noted by several
writers, likely
relates to Chazal’s understanding of the nature of Achashverosh’s feast. The Persian king determined –
incorrectly – that the predicted time of the Jewish people’s redemption and
return from exile had come and gone, and that they were thus permanently
destined to live in exile. He
celebrated the end of the hopes of Jewish redemption, and, according to the
Gemara, he wore the clothing of the kohen gadol and used the utensils of
the Beit Ha-mikdash to triumphantly
announce the permanent downfall of the Jewish people, the termination of Jewish
sovereignty and nationhood.
The Jews, who chose to remain in Persia rather than accept the benevolent
Persian kingdom’s invitation allowing them to return to Eretz Yisrael and
rebuild their Temple and their homeland, actively took part in this celebration. Their participation signaled their
acceptance of Achashverosh’s conclusion that the Temple would never be rebuilt.
Yet, as evidenced by the Gemara’s comment
concerning the kashrut of the food, they remained faithfully committed to
the Torah’s laws. They accepted the
eternal relevance of the laws governing private, personal life, but thought that
they could do without the laws that apply to Am Yisrael as a nation. The Jews of Shushan felt content
observing the personal mitzvot, but despaired from the collective
obligations of the Jewish people, as symbolized by the Beit Ha-mikdash
and the establishment of Jewish sovereignty in Eretz Yisrael. They remained committed to Parashat
Mishpatim, but were indifferent to Parashat Teruma.
This likely explains the Gemara’s otherwise peculiar comment (Megilla
16a) that when Haman approached Mordekhai to parade him through Shushan as the
king ordered, he found Mordekhai teaching schoolchildren laws relating to the
mincha offering in the Mikdash. During this period of fasting, prayer
and repentance in response to Haman’s edict, the Jews of Shushan recommitted
themselves to the laws of the Mikdash, to the collective responsibilities of
Am Yisrael as a single nation. They
studied the laws of the Temple rituals as part of their renewed devotion to this
aspect of Torah life – the aspect of Jewish nationhood, as expressed through the
collective mitzvot that are assigned to the nation as a
whole. They now realized that the
Jewish people’s survival depends on both levels of Torah commitment – our
individual obligations, and the obligations charged upon us collectively as a
people.
(Based on
Rav Binyamin
Yudin’s “The Mishkan: A Different Kind of
Group Home”).
Monday
The Torah in Parashat Teruma describes the aron, the ark in which the stone tablets were
stored. The ark was made from wood
and plated with gold in its interior and exterior (25:10-11). The Gemara in Masekhet Yoma (72)
famously comments that the ark reflects a quality that is demanded of a Torah
scholar, namely, that a scholar must be “tokho ke-varo” – identical in his interior and exterior. A scholar’s external persona of
piety, morality and religious devotion must be an accurate reflection of his
true self. The Gemara warns scholars
against feigning piety, using the cloak and stature of Torah scholarship as a
disguise that conceals an immoral character.
A number of darshanim raised the question of why the Torah did not
command fashioning the ark from pure gold.
The menorah, for example, was made entirely of gold, and it would
seem that if the aron serves as
a symbol of Torah scholarship, then it, too, should be made from only gold. Would that not be a better way to
symbolize consistency? If the
aron reflects the importance of being equally pious in appearance and
essence, then why was it not made entirely from gold?
Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his
Yalkut Yehuda, explains,
quite simply, that the Torah does not expect or demand scholars to be “pure
gold.” Even the greatest spiritual
giants have an element of “wood” within them.
We are, after all, human beings, who are prone to spiritual failure and
imperfection. The Torah expects
students and adherents of Torah to be “plated with gold,” to feel genuine
commitment internally, and conduct ourselves at a high religious standard
outwardly. But at the same time, it
recognizes that we cannot and will not be “pure gold.” We will, inevitably, make mistakes
and fail to meet expectations, and our physical and material needs will
necessarily divert our attention from our spiritual goals. This constant tension between the
“wood” and the “gold” is endemic to the condition of a religiously devoted
person. And the Torah acknowledges
this tension, and does not expect or demand that we be made entirely of “gold,”
that we become spiritually perfect and pristine.
Rav Ginsburg notes in this context a comment of Rabboteinu Ba’alei
Ha-tosafot, who write that the ark could not be made entirely of gold because it would
then be too difficult to carry.
Symbolically, Rav Ginsburg suggests, this concern reflects the inherent problem
of a person who is “pure gold,” who achieves spiritual perfection. Such an individual becomes too
“heavy,” too difficult for the rest of us to bear. The Gemara in Masekhet Shabbat (33)
tells the famous story of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai who emerged from twelve years
of isolation with his son, during which time they studied Torah and subsisted on
miraculously-provided carob and water.
After they finally left the cave, they saw people working and tilling the
land, and wherever they looked a fire erupted.
A heavenly voice cried out, “Have you left to destroy My earth? Return to your cave!” The Gemara warns that people like
Rabbi Shimon, who achieve complete spiritual perfection and have successfully
withdrawn from basic human needs, threaten the Jewish people. They cast the rest of us in a
negative light; they impose upon us a burden, a standard, that we cannot be
expected to bear.
Like the
aron,
Torah scholars should not be “pure gold.”
They must be super humans, but not superhuman. This how they serve their role of
guiding, teaching and inspiring, without imposing upon us unreasonably high
standards and demands.
Tuesday
We read in Parashat Teruma of the various furnishings of the
Mishkan,
the most prominent of which being the
aron (ark). The Torah (25:16) writes that the ark
contained the “eidut” (“testimony”)
which God gave Moshe, referring to the stone tablets upon which the Ten
Commandments were inscribed. The
Gemara comments in Masekhet Menachot (99) that the ark also stored the “shivrei
luchot,” the chards of the original tablets that Moshe broke upon witnessing
Benei Yisrael worshipping the
golden calf. These pieces of stone
were not discarded, and were rather stored alongside the second, permanent pair
of tablets in the aron.
The Gemara arrives at this conclusion from a verse in Parashat Eikev
(Devarim 10:2) where God instructs Moshe, “I shall inscribe on the tablets the
things that were on the first tablets that you broke, and you shall place them
in the ark.” The juxtaposition
between the phrase “asher shibarta” (“that you broke”) and “ve-samtam ba-aron” (“and you shall place them in the ark”) indicates that the remnants of the
broken tablets were to be stored in the
aron.
The Gemara further notes the symbolic significance of this command, to
preserve the “shivrei luchot” alongside the
second set of tablets. Namely, it
indicates that we must continue affording respect and honor to elderly Torah
scholars who have forgotten their Torah knowledge. Despite the fact that they can no
longer teach or write, or even study, Torah, and their vast knowledge is lost,
they must nevertheless be treated with reverence and high esteem. The Torah requires placing the “shivrei
luchot” alongside the second
luchot to indicate that even though they are no longer “functional” in the sense
of testifying to our nation’s covenant with God, they nevertheless retain a
certain status of distinction. The
fact that they had once served as testament to the covenant requires according
them respect even after they have been shattered.
And the Gemara notes that if this principle holds true for special
stones, then it certainly applies to special people. Even after their capabilities
decline, they retain their previous stature and must be treated accordingly.
Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his Yalkut Yehuda,
suggests applying this principle to Am Yisrael
as a whole. Over the course of the
millennia, the Jewish people have, in many respects, “declined.” In many areas of religious life, we
have fallen far short of expectations and of the standards achieved in previous
generations. Still,
Am Yisrael in its current condition is, at very least, “shivrei luchot.” We have not lost our
kedusha,
even if we have lost a degree of spiritual stature. As such, we must treat ourselves, and
our fellow Jews, with respect. We
must not despair in the face of the spiritual decline that we have witnessed; we
must still recognize the greatness of
Am Yisrael,
notwithstanding the nation’s many shortcomings.
The Sages in several contexts tell that Moshe was sternly criticized by
God for doubting
Benei Yisrael’s faith during the period of Egyptian bondage, when
they worshipped idols and were mired in the impurity of Egypt (see Yechezkel,
chapter 20). Likewise, God “fired”
Eliyahu for despairing from
Am Yisrael during the
reign of Achav and Izevel, who institutionalized the worship of the
ba’al idol in the Northern Kingdom of Israel. Even these great prophets, it
appears, briefly overlooked the concept of “shivrei luchot,” the special
quality and stature that Am Yisrael possesses even in periods of spiritual
decline. We must remember that our
nation is no less than the broken tablets – and is, in fact, far greater, as
unlike the tablets, our people have the ability to be “repaired” and pieced back
together into the original magnificent “luchot” that we were when we stood at Mount Sinai.
The original stone tables were permanently shattered, but
Am Yisrael’s “shattering” is temporary, and we
will, eventually, be “reassembled” into a glorious nation fully devoted to God
and His Torah, as we once were.
Wednesday
In introducing the command to construct a Mishkan, God tells
Moshe that he must build “in accordance with everything that I show you – the
structure of the Mishkan and the structure of all its furnishings,” and
He then adds, “and so shall you do” (“ve-khein ta’asu” – 25:9). Rashi writes that this concluding
phrase – “ve-khein ta’asu” –
emphasizes that these commands, concerning the manner in which the
Mishkan is built, apply “le-dorot,”
for all time.
The Ramban, along with many other later writers, address the question of
how Rashi could claim that the commands presented here concerning the Mishkan
and its furnishings apply for all time.
There were many differences between the furnishings in the
In fact, as the Chatam Sofer discusses in a well-known responsum written
to his father-in-law, Rabbi Akiva Eiger (printed in his work of responsa, Y.D.
236), the two Temples differed from one another in several respects, and both
differed from the Mishkan built in Moshe’s time. Furthermore, all three structures
differ from the
The Chatam Sofer famously answers that Rashi refers not to the
specifications of the Mishkan, but rather to
the first clause of this verse: “in accordance with all that I show you.” Meaning, the eternal command is to
build a Mikdash in accordance with God’s instruction as conveyed through
a prophet. Just as the Mishkan
was built on the basis of God’s commands to Moshe, similarly, each time a
The Chatam Sofer does not explain the reason for this distinction between
building a Mikdash and other
mitzvot. We might speculate,
however, that the distinction lies in the
Thursday
The Midrash (Shemot Rabba 34:1) comments:
At the time
when the Almighty said to Moshe, “Make for Me a Mishkan,” he began to wonder, asking, “The Glory
of the Almighty fills the upper and lower worlds, and He says to me, ‘Make for
Me a Mishkan’?”…
The Almighty said, “I do not think the same as You think. Rather, twenty planks in the north,
twenty in the south and eight in the west, and, moreover, I will descend and
constrict My presence within one square ama.”
At first glance, the Midrash seeks to emphasize that the notion of a
Mishkan, of the divine presence residing in a finite area, is
incomprehensible. This is something
that Moshe himself could not understand, and God responded by simply dismissing
the question as one which cannot be asked.
We might, however, suggest an additional reading of the Midrash’s
comment. Moshe perhaps did not
question the prospect of God residing in a particular location, but rather the
prospect of God focusing His attention, as it were, on a small group of people. People who have had private meetings
or conversations with famous or world renowned figures can relate to Moshe’s
reaction to the concept of a
Mishkan. When we speak with such a person, we
naturally feel a degree of amazement over the fact that somebody of such
widespread influence and importance is devoting his time and attention
to us,
ordinary people. We are struck that
a person who wields such influence and is known and recognized throughout the
world is, at this moment, looking only at us, and focusing exclusively on us. This can be a humbling experience,
giving us a sense of how unworthy we are to receive the attention of an
important or powerful figure.
Moshe wondered, God controls the “upper and lower worlds”; He governs the
entire universe, including all its creatures and forces. And yet, He has chosen to focus His
attention, so-to-speak, on one small nation.
The Mishkan represents the unique relationship God seeks to
establish with Am Yisrael.
Moshe marveled at such a notion, of a special relationship between God and our
nation, but God then responds, “I do not think the same as You think.” The fact that His glory “fills the
upper and lower worlds” does not preclude the possibility of His “residing”
among a small group of human beings.
Although He indeed seems far too great to have a relationship with us, He wishes
to “constrict His presence,” to lower Himself, so-to-speak, in order to connect
with Am Yisrael.
Following the Almighty’s example, we should never feel too important to
give our time or attention to people whom we consider less prominent than
ourselves. God rules over the
universe, but yet desired a close relationship with us mortals. Certainly, then, we are not too
important to show care and concern for, and maintain a friendship with, any
person. We, like God must be
prepared to “constrict” ourselves, to focus our attention on whoever might need
it, and never feel that they are unworthy of it.
Friday
Earlier this week, we noted the Gemara’s famous comment in Masekhet Yoma
(72) regarding the structure of the aron, the ark in the
Mishkan that contained the stone
tablets that Moshe brought from Sinai.
The Gemara asserts that the gold plating on the interior and exterior of
the wooden ark symbolizes the quality of “tokho ke-varo” that must
characterize the life of a Torah scholar, whom the ark represents. The term “tokho ke-varo”
literally means, “his interior is like his exterior,” and is generally
understood as a reference to consistency in religious life.
A Torah student must ensure to be as
religiously devoted inside, in his private affairs, as he is outwardly, in his
appearance and in his public persona.
The insistence on “tokho
ke-varo” is commonly taken as demanding sincerity and honesty and Torah life,
warning against creating a phony façade of religiosity that is inconsistent with
one’s true character.
There may, however, be a different explanation of the term “tokho ke-varo.” Namely, the Gemara exhorts
students of Torah to allow the “exterior” to penetrate into their “interior.” Studying Torah is an encounter with
the divine wisdom and, in a sense, with God Himself. The Sages bid us to transform our
inner beings into an accurate reflection of the material that we encounter. They admonish us to not only learn
Torah, but to absorb, internalize, and live Torah.
We can perhaps appreciate this understanding of “tokho
ke-varo” more clearly
by reexamining the question we discussed earlier this week as to why God did not
command making the aron entirely from gold. If, indeed, the structure of the ark
is to represent the ideal of consistency between one’s “interior” and
“exterior,” then why was it not made only from gold, which would express this
ideal in the most vivid fashion? The
answer, perhaps, is that the middle layer of wood, which sat in between the two
layers of gold, represents the natural “blockade” within us that deters us from
feeling impacted by what we experience.
We often feel a natural reluctance to change, to accept new ideas that
challenge our predisposed assumptions or tendencies. The “gold” we experience must
penetrate a thick layer of “wood” to reach our souls and impact upon our lives
and our beings. The Gemara exhorts
us to allow this process to happen, to absorb the “gold,” the messages the Torah
teaches us, and bring it through the thick layer of “wood” so it can influence
our lives in a meaningful and significant way.
In Masekhet Berakhot (28a), we read that Rabban Gamliel, during his
tenure as head of the academy in Yavneh, followed a restrictive admissions
policy, accepting to the yeshiva only students who were “tokho ke-varo.” This policy was changed after Rabban
Gamliel was ousted from his position and replaced by Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya,
who lowered the standard of admissions, resulting in a large influx of new
students. If the term “tokho
ke-varo” referred to sincerity and avoiding gross religious hypocrisy, as is
commonly understood, it seems difficult to imagine Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya
admitting students who do not possess this basic quality. This account might therefore support
the theory that “tokho ke-varo” describes students who are influenced and
affected by the material they learn, who ensure that the content is not just
studied, but internalized and absorbed.
Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya did not demand this standard as a prerequisite
for admission, because he felt that some students need to first spend time
immersed in full-time advanced study before the intellectual experience can have
an affect and mold their characters.
While “tokho ke-varo” is undoubtedly the ideal, students need not possess
this quality before beginning their learning careers. They can and should be admitted and
welcomed, and given the opportunity to be affected and inspired by Torah
knowledge.
(Based on a
devar Torah by Rabbi Aryeh Stechler)
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