Surf A Little Torah
Yeshivat Har Etzion

by Rav David Silverberg

The first of the kelei ha-Mishkan - the sacred articles of the Tabernacle - described in Parashat Teruma is the aron, the ark. The aron features several unique characteristics, among them a special prohibition related to its "badim," or transport poles. All the large keilim in the Mishkan, such as the table, the altars and the menorah, had poles used for transport. The poles of the aron, however, were unique in that they remained in place attached to the aron at all times and were never to be removed (25:15; Yoma 72a).

Different explanations have been given as to the reason underlying this prohibition. In our S.A.L.T. series last year, we briefly noted the approach taken by the Chizkuni and Rabbenu Yosef Bekhor Shor, that this measure is intended to preserve the honor of the ark, the most sacred of the kelei ha-Mishkan. When it came time for transporting the Mishkan, the levi'im would find the ark ready for travel; they would not have to spend time handling the ark to affix the poles, which would constitute an infringement on the ark's honor.

More recently, Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his Yalkut Yehuda, suggested a different explanation. God forbade the removal of the poles in order to allow for the swift, hasty relocation of the ark in situations of danger. Should, for example, a fire break out in the Tabernacle, or if enemy troops storm the Sanctuary and look to seize its accessories, the aron, as the holiest object in the Mishkan, must be the first to be saved. No precious minutes could be wasted to affix its poles. Therefore, the Torah requires the permanent attachment of the poles to the ark to allow for its immediate relocation should this become necessary.

Based on this approach and the common association drawn between the ark and Torah, Rav Ginsburg views this prohibition as the precedent for the famous, historic decision of Rabban Yochanan Ben Zakai before the destruction of the Second Temple. As the Gemara describes, Rabban Yochanan foresaw the fall of Jerusalem and petitioned the general Vespasian to spare the city of Yavneh, and allow the rabbis to establish the city as the new center of Torah learning. Vespasian agreed, and sure enough the rabbis and scholars left and relocated the Torah centers in Yavneh. Rav Ginsburg suggests that Rabban Yochanan acted on the basis of this idea, that the aron must be saved first whenever the Temple faces the threat of danger. Symbolically, this means that Torah study, represented by the ark, must assume top priority when the Jewish people are threatened. Without stable institutions of Jewish learning, the nation cannot survive. Therefore, as Rabban Yochanan beheld the fall of Jerusalem on the horizon, he concerned himself first and foremost with the safety of the "aron," with the successful transport of advanced Torah study to a new, safe location.

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Yesterday we discussed the "badei ha-aron," the poles used for transporting the ark in the Tabernacle. Today we will examine the ark itself. The Torah in Parashat Teruma (25:11) describes that the ark is made from wood but overlaid with gold inside and out. As we mentioned yesterday, the ark has always been symbolically seen as representative of Torah study and Torah scholars. From this description of the aron, Chazal (in Masekhet Yoma 72b) derive the principle that "any Torah scholar whose inside is not like his outside ['tokho ke-varo'] is not a Torah scholar." The gold that appeared both on the aron's exterior and on its interior symbolizes the consistency demanded of a Torah scholar. A scholar who does not act in accordance with the stature he represents is not worthy of this title of "talmid chakham" (Torah scholar).

In approaching this Talmudic passage and understanding what precisely "tokho ke-varo" means, we must consider a different Gemara, a famous story related in Masekhet Berakhot 28b. The Gemara there tells that the rabbis demoted Rabban Gamliel from his post as nasi (head of the yeshiva) and appointed Rabbi Elazar Ben Azarya in his stead. The new leadership relaxed the strict acceptance standards that Rabban Gamliel had instituted. Rabban Gamliel had hired a guard at the door to allow admission only to those who were "tokho ke-varo" - whose interior corresponded to their exterior. That day, the rabbis dismissed the guard and welcomed anyone who came to learn. The Gemara records that hundreds of benches were added to the Bet Midrash to accommodate the sudden influx of students.

What does it mean that Rabban Gamliel granted admission only to those with this quality of "tokho ke-varo"?

The answer perhaps emerges from these extra "benches" added to the Bet Midrash that day. Several commentators have noted the peculiarity in this expression. Why does the Gemara not simply say that several hundred students joined the yeshiva? What is the specific significance of these benches? One answer cited by Rav Shemuel Alter, in his "Likutei Batar Likutei" (Mahadura Tanina, Parashat Ki-Tisa), explains that the Gemara here alludes to the basic difference between the old students, who earned entry by Rabban Gamliel's standards, and the new students who could join only once the rules of admission were relaxed. The former cared little about the comfort of their seats, or whether or not they even had seats at all. They were interested in coming to hear the lectures and gave no thought to the physical conditions of the Bet Midrash. The new students, by contrast, had to be given comfortable seats. Their participation in the study sessions depended on their physical comfort in the yeshiva.

This explanation may give us a clue as to the true meaning of "tokho ke-varo." It is one thing to show interest in serious learning and growth in Torah. But it is something else for this interest to come from "tokho" - from the innermost recesses of one's being, from his deepest and most genuine feelings and longings. The test of whether "tokho ke-varo" - one's outward commitment to learning corresponds to his inner yearnings - is when conditions become less favorable, when significant sacrifices are required for Torah.

A serious Torah student cannot earn the title of "talmid chakham" unless he has this intense, inner drive for knowledge. One can certainly - and in fact should - study Torah even if he lacks this quality of "tokho ke-varo." Even Rabban Gamliel did not discourage such a person from studying; he merely felt inclined to maintain the rigorous standard of his yeshiva and admit only the most highly motivated and devoted students. But true Torah scholarship, which affords one the stature of a "talmid chakham," requires a sincere passion for knowledge and the willingness to sacrifice his comfort and ease for the pursuit of Torah.

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A famous passage in Midrash Rabba (33) explains God's command that Benei Yisrael construct a Tabernacle through an analogy to a king who had only one daughter. When the daughter married, the king said to his new son-in-law, "She is my only daughter, and it pains me to see her go. I cannot tell you not to take her; what I will ask is that wherever you go, you designate a place for me to come visit and be with you." Similarly, the Midrash comments, after God (the "king") gave the Torah (the "daughter") to Am Yisrael (the "son-in-law"), He requested that they erect for Him a designated location - the Mishkan - that He may be near His beloved Torah.

This analogy requires some explanation. After all, unlike a human being, who cannot possibly be present at two locations at the same time, the Almighty is omnipresent, His glory fills the entire universe. We readily understand why the king asks for a private guest room in his son-in-law's home, but how does this relate at all to the notion of a Mishkan? Why does God need His own "room" to be near His Torah?

Rav Chayim Knoller, in his Peri Chayim (published in Poland, 19), answers by taking a closer look at the king's request in the analogy presented by the Midrash. The king not only misses his daughter, but he is concerned about her. He wants to ensure that her new husband will treat her with the love and respect she deserves. If a husband knows that his father-in-law might visit any time, he is more likely to treat his wife at the standard her father expects. The spare room designated for the king thus serves as a means to help ensure the best possible treatment of the wife by her husband.

This, Rav Knoller suggests, explains the association between this analogy and the Mishkan. The Torah, God's own possession, as it were, that He lovingly gave to Benei Yisrael, demands the highest level of reverence and respect. With the Mishkan in place, God's Shekhina, or representative presence, dwells among Benei Yisrael. This awareness, that God "lives with us," will hopefully have a profound effect on how we look upon and treat His Torah. We will afford it the primacy it deserves and interpret its laws with a level of responsibility befitting its divine origin, rather than abusing our control over it. Rav Knoller adds that the Sanhedrin, the supreme body of halakhic authority, met in the vicinity of the Bet Ha-mikdash, further underscoring this idea. The chief interpreters of the law sit with the Almighty looking over their backs, as it were, helping to ensure competent and responsible decision-making.

Chazal famously remark that in the absence of the Temple, God's presence resides, on one level or another, in the Batei Kenesset and Batei Midrash. We are told this in order that we treat His Torah and His worship with the respect they deserve. Studying Torah in a Bet Midrash differs from study in other locations because in a Bet Midrash we can, hopefully, feel - to some degree - God's representative presence. (However, I don't think this applies to a "virtual" Bet Midrash.) In a Bet Kenesset, we have a deeper awareness of the Almighty's presence, which will hopefully impact upon our outlook on tefila. Even after the Temple's destruction, we, the "son-in-law," still have the "daughter," and we know that the "King" has a place among us where he looks to see if we treat His "daughter" with the respect and dignity she demands.

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Parashat Teruma outlines the details for the construction of the Mishkan and its accessories. The Mishkan structure itself was made of standing wooden planks, supported by horizontal bars running across them. The Torah describes that there was a "beriach ha-tikhon" - a central bar, situated halfway up the planks which ran from one end of the Mishkan to the other (see 26:28).

Innocuous as the brief mention of this central bar may appear, at least one source alludes to a much deeper significance for us to uncover. The Peirush Raboteinu Ba'alei Ha-tosefot, a compendium of commentaries from the Tosafists on Chumash, towards the beginning of Parashat Teruma, cites a Midrash that reveals the surprising origins of this bar. It was the same piece of wood that Yaakov Avinu used as a walking stick when he crossed the Jordan River to flee from his brother Esav, as he describes in Bereishit 32:11. Somehow, this walking stick became the central bar that held the Mishkan together.

Leaving aside the practical problem as to how Yaakov Avinu could have possibly walked with a stick so long, we will focus instead on the message this Midrash seeks to convey. Wherein lies the connection between the beriach ha-tikhon and Yaakov Avinu's walking stick?

Let us return to the verse in which Yaakov makes reference to this stick. Yaakov has just heard that his brother, Esav, makes his way towards him with four hundred armed men. Yaakov turns to God in fear and begs for His assistance. As part of this prayer, he confesses, "I am unworthy of all the kindness that You have so steadfastly shown Your servant: with my staff alone I crossed this Jordan, and now I have become two camps." Yaakov invokes his staff as symbolic of his poverty as he escaped Canaan. Indeed, the Midrash famously relates that Esav's son, Elifaz, caught up to Yaakov and took all his possessions. This "makel" thus represents the most extreme form of poverty, perhaps the rough Biblical equivalent of the modern expression, "with the shirt on his back." It signifies the experience of having absolutely nothing.

This might help us understand the Midrash cited by the Tosafists. The Mishkan (and later the Bet Ha-mikdash) was a lavish, glorious edifice, made from gold and silver and adorned with the most beautiful colors and dyes. In a certain sense, the Mishkan serves as the archetype of the beautification of mitzvot, of honoring religious buildings and articles by maintaining the highest aesthetic quality, a tendency that has played a critical role in Jewish life to this very day. We carry a long-standing tradition of spectacular synagogues, exquisite and costly menorahs, kiddush cups and candlesticks, elaborate curtains for the ark and Torah coverings, and so on. This Midrash, perhaps, seeks to redirect our focus to the "central bar," that which runs through the Mishkan "from one end to another," the centerpiece that holds the Mishkan in place: Yaakov's staff. The luxury and adornment play a crucial role in the Mishkan, but they are not its essence, this is not at all what the Mishkan is all about. At the core of the Mishkan, of spirituality as viewed by the Torah and Chazal, stands the tzadik himself, with no extraneous elements or symbols of beauty. Building magnificent physical structures for religious institutions shows honor for the ideals and values that institution represents; but the institution will last only if it has Yaakov Avinu as its central beam, if there is a recognition among all those involved of those ideals and values they work to promote.

The beriach ha-tikhon, then, comes to put the gold and silver of the Mishkan into its proper perspective. As important a function as they serve, they cannot form the central bar, the foundation and essence of the Tabernacle.

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As we did yesterday, today we will discuss a passage from the commentary, Raboteinu Ba'alei Ha-tosefot on Parashat Teruma. At the very beginning of the parasha, God orders Moshe to collect from Benei Yisrael numerous materials for the construction of the Mishkan and its accessories, among them three precious metals - gold, silver and copper. The Raboteinu Ba'alei Ha-tosefot comment - presumably based on an earlier, Midrashic source - that the three precious metals contributed by Benei Yisrael correspond to three degrees of charitable donations. Charity given when one is healthy and strong resembles a golden utensil; that which one gives during illness is symbolized by silver; finally, charity donated after one's death - namely, that he bequeathed in his will - is represented by copper.

Why does the level of one's charity depend on his physical status at the time of the donation, and how do these levels parallel gold, silver and copper?

An insightful explanation to this Midrash appears in the work, "Ha-midrash Ve-hama'aseh" by Rav Yechezkel Lifshitz. He bases his approach on the familiar notion of the dual purpose served by charity. Most obviously, charitable donations assist those in need and helps them secure a livelihood. But moreover, charity serves the giver, and it accustoms him to showing compassion and concern for others and thus builds his personality. (In fact, many commentators have suggested that for this very reason God formulates His command to collect materials for the Mishkan with the term, "ve-yikchu" - they shall take, rather than "ve-yitenu" - they shall give, to express this idea that giving essentially amounts to taking.) Rav Lifshitz suggests that the Midrash compares these two aspects of charity to the two functions served by metals. On the most basic level, metals serve a utilitarian purpose, as they are manufactured into all types of functional tools and utensils. This parallels the obvious, practical function of charity, to provide the needs of the poor. But in addition, precious are used for decoration and beautification; one purchases a gold watch, for example, not only to know the time, but also as an ornament. This secondary function, of aesthetic enhancement, is invoked by the Midrash as a symbol of the second purpose served by tzedaka - the beautification of one's soul and enhancement of his personality.

The precise nature of one's charity, however, depends on the circumstances surrounding its donation. If one gives charity while he enjoys good health, during his youth, when he still has the time and capacity to enjoy his wealth and spend his money on himself, reaps both benefits of tzedaka. In fact, what he receives from giving - the spiritual enhancement - far outweighs, in such an instance, the practical benefit enjoyed by the needy recipient. The Midrash therefore compares such a donation to a gold utensil, whose practical function takes a back seat to its decorative value. The next level, the Midrash teaches, is charity given during a period of illness. One who suffers from illness naturally focuses less on his material possessions and loses interest in luxury. Such a contribution therefore parallels the silver utensil - silver candlesticks, for example - which are purchased primarily for their practical function, but at the same time bear a distinctive aesthetic quality, as well. Similarly, the gravely ill donor has helped mainly the recipient, though he undoubtedly gains spiritually, as well, though to a much lesser degree than does the healthy donor.

Finally, the Midrash describes the copper utensil, the one who keeps his wealth to himself until after his passing. Such a donation serves only the practical, utilitarian purpose of supporting the beneficiary. As the funds are given only after the donor's death, it obviously cannot contribute at all to his character development. He is therefore likened to a copper utensil, which serves only a functional purpose and features no aesthetic quality whatsoever.

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The Seder Eliyahu Rabba (17) provides an explanation for the juxtaposition between the end of Parashat Mishpatim, when Benei Yisrael proclaim their commitment to God's commandments ("na'aseh ve-nishma" - 24:7), and the beginning of Parashat Teruma - the commandment to construct a Mishkan: "Once Benei Yisrael joyfully accepted divine kingship and declared, 'All that the Lord has spoken we will do and we will hear,' the Almighty immediately said to Moshe, 'Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts'." Meaning, God's command that Benei Yisrael supply materials for the construction of the Mishkan was somehow prompted by their proclamation, "We will do and we will hear." Wherein lies the relationship between this declaration and the Mishkan?

Perhaps the simplest approach would be that the Almighty wanted Benei Yisrael to put their words into practice. Making promises and verbally expressing one's unbridled commitment is one thing; to make genuine sacrifices towards that end is something entirely different. The command to build a Mishkan may have served as a test of Benei Yisrael's sincerity, determining whether they were in fact prepared to act upon the firm conviction expressed by their proclamation of "na'aseh ve-nishma."

Rav Yitzchak Stollman, however, in his "Minchat Yitzchak," offers a deeper insight into this Midrash. He begins by taking a closer look at this declaration of "na'aseh ve-nishma." How could Benei Yisrael promise to perform something before learning what it entails? What right does anybody have to honestly commit himself to something he knows nothing about? On what basis did they assume with such confidence that observance of God's commands is within their reach, that they are indeed capable of living up to the strict demands that they have yet to hear? The answer, Rav Stollman claims, lies in the famous passage in Masekhet Yoma (39a), "Ha-ba le-taher mesayin lo" - "One who comes to be purified - he is assisted." The Almighty expects us to take the first step, to genuinely devote ourselves to fulfilling His commands; at that point, He steps in, as it were, to help us see our efforts through to fruition. We are guaranteed divine assistance in our worship and observance, so long as we exert ourselves honestly and vigorously towards that end. This is the secret behind "na'aseh ve-nishma." Benei Yisrael had reached the level of trust where they firmly believed that God will enable them to fulfill all His commands. They understood that once they make the commitment of "na'aseh" - to obey and observe, then the Almighty will ensure that this will indeed occur.

Let us now return to the passage in Seder Eliyahu Rabba with which we began. After Benei Yisrael's expression of commitment, God tells Moshe to instruct, "ve-yikchu li teruma," normally translated as, "they shall bring Me gifts." The Midrash (Shemot Rabba 33:1), however, suggests reading this clause as, "They shall take Me as a gift." The Midrash writes, "The Almighty said to Israel: I sold to you the Torah; I, as it were, was sold with it'." Rav Stollman understands this Midrash as referring to God's pledge, as it were, to assist Benei Yisrael in their observance of the Torah. It is with this Midrash in mind that we must understand the Seder Eliyahu Rabba. After Benei Yisrael proclaim "na'aseh ve-nishma," once they avow their faith in God's "role" in helping to ensure their compliance with His statutes, He, in turn, affirms, "ve-yikchu li teruma" - that we have received the Almighty Himself, His assistance, together with the Torah. By making a sincere commitment to obey God's laws, we not only receive the Torah, but, in a certain sense, we receive God Himself, who guarantees our success in this endeavor.

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Parashat Teruma begins with God's command that Benei Yisrael "bring for Me a teruma." The word "teruma" is generally translated as a "gift" or "contribution." The Gemara in Masekhet Sanhedrin (39a), however, tells a peculiar story of a certain apostate who understood this term differently. This heretic approached Rabbi Avin and claimed, "Your God is a kohen, for it says, 'They shall bring for Me a teruma'." The apostate associated the word "teruma" in this context with the familiar halakhic term "teruma," which refers to the requirement to allocate a small portion of one's agricultural produce for a kohen. If God demands that Benei Yisrael bring Him a "teruma," then presumably, He is a kohen! If so, this man argued, "When He buried Moshe, in what did He immerse Himself?" The heretic refers here to one interpretation of Devarim 24:6, according to which the Almighty personally buried Moshe Rabbenu after his death. (See Rashi there who cites the dissenting view of Rabbi Yishmael, that Moshe somehow buried himself.) Since a kohen must retain a state of tahara (ritual purity), how did God, the "kohen," purify Himself after having contracted tum'a (ritual impurity) through His contact, so-to-speak, with Moshe's remains? Rabbi Avin replied that the Almighty purified Himself through immersion in fire.

It is safe to assume that this heretic lodged some sort of rational argument in an attempt to mock the Jewish faith. If he engaged Rabbi Avin in nothing more than sheer nonsense, why would the Talmud see fit to record this dialogue? Undoubtedly, a deeper, theological concept underlies this seemingly comical debate.

Rabbi Yitzchak Stollman suggests an insightful explanation in his "Minchat Yitzchak." The Torah requires that Benei Yisrael give the kohanim teruma and other gifts as a means of supporting them. The kohanim received no land of their own to till; they were to devote themselves entirely to the Mikdash service and be supported by the donations given by the rest of the people. By describing the Almighty as a kohen, this anonymous heretic advanced the theological notion that God depends upon mankind for His sustenance. He issues commands and demands "gifts" because without us He cannot survive. This religious philosophy effectively takes the power out of God's hands and transfers it to us, to mankind. Unable to bear the humbling reality of a supreme Force with rto whom we are powerless, this sect argued for divine dependence on mankind, God's need for our support and contributions.

Given this quality the heretic attributed to God, he could not understand how God could continue to exist after the burial of Moshe, His chief supporter, His main benefactor. Rabbi Avin cleverly replied that God "purified" Himself by immersing in fire. Such a God, whose existence depends on mankind, cannot, in effect, exist. Once we deny the Almighty's limitless power and independent strength, we deny His existence altogether. To believe in God means to believe that He is all-powerful and that we are His subjects. He does not depend on us; quite to the contrary, we are entirely and completely dependent on His kindness.

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