Tag Archives: Ark

Terumah, Exodus 24:1-27:19

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Link to Parsha: http://www.hebcal.com/sedrot/terumah

A Representation of the Mishkan

Mishkan

Parshah In-Depth

By The Lubavitcher Rebbe

The Ark containing the “Tablets of the Law” was the most secluded of the Mishkan’s vessels, hidden away in its innermost chamber, the “Holy of Holies.” This expresses the ideal that the Torah scholar (who serves as an “Ark” for the Torah) must remove himself from all worldly endeavors. At the same time, the Ark was also the most “portable” of the Tabernacle’s vessels. The Torah decrees that, “The carrying poles shall be in the rings of the Ark; they shall never be removed” (Exodus 25:15) — a law which applies exclusively to the Ark. If there is a soul somewhere in the ends of earth thirsting for the word of G-d, the Torah scholar must be prepared to leave his sanctum to transport the Torah to that place. Even as he sits in his “Holy of Holies,” he must be always at the ready to venture out, constantly aware of his responsibilities toward the world outside.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe. "Parshah In-Depth: From Our Sages." Chabad. (Viewed on February 1, 2014). http://www.chabad.org/parshah/in-depth/default_cdo/aid/36471/jewish/In-Depth.htm

Dvar Tzedek

By Evan Wolkenstein 

In Parashat Terumah, the Israelites receive the blueprints for a majestic tent—the mishkan—that will eventually house the magnificent Ark of the Covenant. As we read the vivid description, we can picture its grandeur. During the Israelites’ journeys through the desert, the mishkan serves as a portable temple, with the home of God’s indwelling, the Ark, at its center. The Israelite tribes camp around it, placing it at the heart of the nation.

While the detailed beauty of the Ark sounds stunning, the medieval commentator Abravanel wonders about its design. The first of the Divine Laws prohibits graven images of any kind, replications of any being, heavenly or earthly. But upon the cover of the ark perch two cherubim, winged human forms. It would seem that by including these forms, God is breaking God’s own Law.

There is a possible resolution to this seeming contradiction in the very details of space and shape that make this parashah and its focus on design so fascinating. “From above the cover,” says God, “from between the two cherubim that are on top of the Ark of the Covenant,” God will meet with humanity. The voice of God emerges not from the mouth of any graven image, but from the empty space between two faces.

From the place of human encounter emerges the Divine Voice. Certainly, in every act of true listening, of honest speaking, and thus in every act of compassion, in every heartfelt encounter, in every ethical interaction we can hear God’s voice. In other words, if idolatry is to hear the voice of God emerging from a block of gold, then the opposite of idolatry is to see God’s face in every human being, to hear God’s voice emerging from the relationship of any two beings, face to face, eye to eye, ish el achiv—from one person to another.

Yet the presence of the sacred in human interactions does not occur automatically in the encounter. There is a crucial foundation upon which this relationship takes place, a vital basis where our relationships must be rooted.

Taking a closer look at who or what resides in the mishkan, we find that God is not, in fact, the tent’s primary resident. Rather, at the center of this sacred structure is the Law—the two stone tablets chiseled during Revelation at Sinai, when the human and heavenly worlds met. Though the tablets contain only ten laws, they are the symbol of the covenantal relationship that guides Israel’s every behavior. The five laws on the right-hand tablet guide us in the realm ofben adam l’Makom—between humans and the Omnipresent—and the five laws on the left-hand tablet guide us in the realm of ben adam l’chavero—between humans and their brethren. In that sense, the core of the mishkan is a monument to Divine ethical vigilance. The Ark, then, is not a platform for God crowned by two idols, but a complex model for Divine relationship. God dwells among us when we build relationships that are founded on morality and focused on the encounter.

The mishkan, likewise, is a model. The Ark sits at its core, representing righteous relationship, and the mishkan places this relationship in the context of a building, an institution. For the nascent nation of Israel, the mishkan was not only the site of religious service, but also the seat of legislation, of conflict resolution and even of the military. It is not enough to strive for correct relationships one-on-one or even within our own homes—the mishkan challenges us to build our most important institutions in this same model.

To actualize its lesson, we must demand of our own governments an equivalent commitment to both the human encounter and the ethical foundations upon which it must rest. The parashah’s attention to detail speaks to the kind of vigilance our own society must have, ensuring that this ethical-relational commitment is present in our governing structures at all levels, in every aspect. We must use this as our model for the way elections are carried out, the way checks and balances are calculated, the commitment to truthful reports in all public communications and the way domestic and international policies are developed and implemented. All systems should exemplify this commitment, ensuring the safety, freedom and dignity of all people.

We invoke the mishkan by studying it, by building our world in its image. By choosing to adopt its particular architectural style and the values that it embodies, we make ourselves in the image of the Master Architect.

Wolkenstein, Evan. "Dvar Tzedek: Parashat Terumah 5774." American Jewish World Service. (Viewed on February 1, 2014). http://ajws.org/what_we_do/education/publications/dvar_tzedek/5774/terumah.html

Noach, Genesis 6:9-11:32

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Link to Parsha: http://www.hebcal.com/sedrot/noach

Leave The Ark

By Dani Passow

Following the tragic and near-utter destruction of humankind during the deluge, Noach, the patriarch of the lone family to survive the flood, offers a sacrifice to God. The Torah records that God finds the smell of the sacrifice pleasing, but follows with a perplexing line: “God smelled the pleasing aroma, and God said in His heart: ‘I will not continue to curse the earth because of man, since the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; nor will I again smite every living being, as I have done.’” Why would God respond to Noach’s sacrifice by stating that man’s heart is evil? Wouldn’t this statement about the innate nature of humankind have been more appropriate as a response to the corruption that precipitated the flood?

To better understand God’s reaction to the sacrifice, we need to explore Noach’s prior behavior. When God first tells Noach to build the ark, the design instructions include the command, “You shall make a window (tzohar) for the ark.” The existence of the tzohar begs Noach to bear witness to the suffering taking place outside of the ark. But Noach doesn’t seem to hear this message. Instead of being aware of the events unfolding outside of the ark, he goes out of his way to remain oblivious. We read that as the storm settles, “Noach removed the covering of the ark;” however, at no point was Noach instructed to place a cover over the ark. It seems that rather than stare the suffering of others in the face, Noach hides from it and uses the ark as a cocoon to shelter himself from the horrors being suffered by the rest of humanity.

Noach’s act of closing himself off from the world is understandable. After the waters have subsided, Noach is so afraid of seeing the devastation that lies beyond the threshold of his wooden bubble that he needs to be commanded by God to leave the ark. Perhaps from the small view he sees when uncovering the ark, Noach is traumatized into paralysis, physically unable to leave his protected world and encounter the destruction outside. Having anticipated this anguish, Noach may have felt the need to remain isolated during the flood, and thus covered the tzohar in order to have the strength to carry out his God-given mission of securing the continued existence of life on earth.

But such action is only a compromise; ideally Noach would have let the tzohar remain uncovered and witnessed the true extent of the suffering. Had he done so, he likely would have been so devastated by what he saw that bringing a sacrifice in gratitude for his own salvation would have seemed inappropriate. Indeed, God’s statement to Noach upon receiving the sacrifice indicates that Noach has distanced himself too greatly from the rest of humanity. How, in the face of so much death and destruction, God implies, do you, Noach, have the gall to bring a sacrifice? The moment of global mourning, Gods seems to be saying, should trump a personal religious expression of thanksgiving.

In our everyday lives, what Noach-like compromises do we make? In what ways do we walk around in our own personal arks choosing to protect the emotional and material well-being of ourselves and our families at the expense of engaging with the suffering and needs of others? What efforts can we make to ensure that nurturing our own spirituality doesn’t overshadow our obligation to be aware of the dire need in the world—the dark reality that 1.4 billion people live on less than $1.25 a day and that 925 million people are undernourished? Living in a globalized world where technology affords us the ability to see the real-time distress of so many around us, have we internalized God’s message of the tzohar and used these tools to pay attention to the plight of those facing challenges around the globe? When, like Noach, we worry that we will be traumatized by trying to address the suffering of others and therefore seek to fortify ourselves for the work ahead of us, do we go too far and retreat too deeply into the mode of self-care, or are we able to strike the proper balance?

We learn from Noach that we are challenged by God to expect to be traumatized in our efforts to heal the world. Truly paying attention to suffering is risky. It may sap our emotional energy, require us to make radical lifestyle changes, and even raise deeply troubling theological questions about justice. It is therefore normal to wish to shelter ourselves from time to time so as not to be overwhelmed; but God is constantly calling, “Leave the Ark!

Passow, Dani. "Noach." Dvar Tzedek. American Jewish World Service. (Viewed on October 6, 2013). http://ajws.org/what_we_do/education/publications/dvar_tzedek/5774/noach.html

The Tower of Babel

By Erin Brouse

Following the account of the flood and God’s destruction of the world, the narrative of the Tower of Babel is found in this week’s parsha.  In the story, everyone is said to have spoken the same language.  As people migrated from the east, they settled in the land of Shinar.  The people there sought to make bricks and build a city and a tower with its top in the sky, to make a name for themselves, so that they not be scattered over the world.  God came down to look at the city and tower, and remarked that as one people with one language, nothing that they sought would be out of their reach.  He punished them by confounding their speech so that they could not understand each other and scattered them over the face of the earth.

The development of “otherness,” of consciousness, of difference, is a central theme in this parsha, following the theme developed in parsha B’reishit.  In the garden, we first learn that God created human beings in his image, “man and woman he created them,” an androgynous whole.   God then decides that Adam needs a partner so he is not alone, and Eve is created from his flesh.  Through relationship with another, partnership, Adam becomes whole: he becomes conscious of himself.  Similarly, consciousness of the world, of good and evil, comes after Adam and Eve eat from the Tree of Knowledge.  They become aware of the world around them.  Their relationship with each other and with God is forever changed as a result.  In Noach, with the story of the Tower of Babel, linguistic difference, the confounding of language, represents the birth of nations.  We move beyond self-consciousness, beyond the awareness of otherness in our intimate relationships, to the consciousness and identification that accompanies a language group.   We become “other” in the largest sense.

What is most interesting about this punishment from God is that it is linguistic homogeneity that is here rejected.  God punishes the people of Babel for their efforts to remain a homogeneous group, for their imperialistic desire to prevent difference.  Difference was God’s ultimate aim, and the hubris that motivated the construction of the Tower and the ambition to “make a name for themselves” was contrary to God’s plan.   Diversity, “otherness,” was required to provide humankind with the conditions it needed to prosper and thrive.   Just as the otherness Eve provided Adam to fulfill our intimate needs as individuals, otherness on a larger scale allows us to feel the bonds of community. The development of community relies on the existence of other communities to which we distinguish ourselves.  We become part of this group, and not that group.

Just as our communities are made-up of individuals, different from each other but united by common language, so too the communities of the world are linked by a common humanity.  Their existence is what allows the other to thrive.   Without them, we cannot feel the important human connection that community brings, and we are deprived of the opportunity to think beyond ourselves and our parochial interests.  We need otherness to realise ourselves.