Parshat Terumah

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It’s All In The Perspective

This Friday is the anniversary of Moshe Rabbeinu’s death. It is also the anniversary of his birth. This was a confusing point for Haman, who knew about Moshe’s death but not his birth. Haman was overjoyed when the lots he cast determined that Adar, the month of Moshe’s death, would be the month to effect his plot against the Jews. He was less than overjoyed with the way that turned out for him.

This perspective shift really expresses the whole essence of Adar. Adar is the month of Pisces, the month of the two fish, where everything can be seen in two ways. For example, the Torah tells us that Nissan is the first month of the year, which makes Adar the last month, and therefore, from one perspective, the month that is therefore the farthest away from the beginning. On the other hand, time is cyclical and so the month at the very end is also the month closest to the beginning.

Adar is also the month of the leap year. When we need to add an extra month, we add an extra Adar. The purpose of a leap year is to bring into sync our two systems of counting our years: counting by the moon and counting by the sun. Counting by the moon creates a shorter year, an indication of how the light of the moon was diminished through the creation process (see Rashi Bereisheit 1:6). At one point, the light of the moon, which symbolizes Klal Yisrael, was a perfect reflection of the light of the sun, which symbolizes Hashem. The creation process created separation between us, although Yishayahu (30:26) tells us that in the World to Come the light of the moon will once again be like the light of the sun. Looked at from this perspective, the ability to create leap years is part of the ability to effect tikkun, to fix part of what is missing.

In fact, the Sfat Emet tells us that the month of Adar is a month of tikkun and teshuva. Just as there are two “first” months in our year, Tishrei and Nissan, there are two months of teshuva that help us prepare for them. Both Elul and Adar are months of teshuva. But there is a fundamental difference between them. Elul is a month of teshuva through yirah, awe. Adar is the month of teshuva through ahava, love.

Which brings us to this week’s parsha. It’s no accident that we read the parshiot of Terumah and Tetzaveh in Adar. Rav Schorr tells us that even though the instruction to build the Mishkan is written in the Torah two parshiot before we sinned at chet ha’egel, the Mishkan is actually result of and response to that sin. Until chet ha’egel, our bodies were on such a high level that we were each capable of creating an individual dwelling place for the shechina. Each of us was an individual Mishkan. And then we lost it, which was certainly, from one perspective, an unmitigated disaster and a complete tragedy.

On the other hand, Rav Schorr tells us that within this section of the Torah lies incredible strength and encouragement for any of us who have ever sinned. That is because the story of the Mishkan is not the story of a perfect nation, creating a place for Hashem to dwell here based on their own spiritual strength. It is a very different story. It is the story of an imperfect people who reached out to Hashem with a perfect love, and how Hashem responded to that desire and helped us create something amazing.

We did not have the strength to build the Mishkan on our own. In fact, when Hashem first gives Moshe the instructions for the Mishkan, Moshe’s first response is doubt (see Shmot Rabbah 31:8). “Hashem,” he asks, “are Bnei Yisrael actually able to do this?” Hashem answers that not only as a nation are we able to create space for Hashem in this world, but that each and every one of us is capable of accomplishing it on our own. And then the Midrash goes on. Hashem helped make it a reality. Each morning, together with their daily portion of mahn, the Jews in the desert received the precious materials they needed, which they then donated to the Mishkan. They did not have when they needed on their own, but their place of lacking became an opportunity for Hashem to give.

Something similar occurred when the nesiim, the leaders of the tribes, made a serious miscalculation with their donation. They delayed in making their contribution, thinking that they would fill in whatever shortfall there was after everyone else gave. There was, however, not much of a shortfall. And yet, they desperately wanted to make a contribution. Hashem responded to their desire, and rained down the shoham stones, which adorned the Kohen Gadol, together with their daily portion of mahn.

Even Moshe was not able to create the Mishkan on his own. Even after Hashem showed Moshe an image of the Menorah in fire, Moshe was not able to figure out how to make it, and so Hashem simply instructed him to throw the gold into the fire, where Hashem formed it for him (See Rashi, Shemot 25:31). The Sfat Emet points out that surely Hashem was aware that Moshe would not be able to make the Menorah. What was the reason for showing him the image in the flames if it was clear Moshe would not be able to replicate it? The answer is that in the spiritual realm, the most important thing is our ratzon, our Will. Moshe’s effort and desire to make the menorah is what really pulled it, fully formed, out of the flames.

The Ba’al Hanetivot, commenting on Shir HaShirim 3:10, says that the essence of the Mishkan was the burning love of the Jewish people, which animated all the physical parts of the Mishkan and joined them into one expression of love. The Mishkan was a physical expression of a national teshuva from ahava, of a national return to Hashem from love. It starts with the desire of each and every one of us to give.

Teshuva is the ultimate “v’nahaphoch hu,” the ultimate perspective change. Our places of lack, the places where we’ve let ourselves down, the places where we are missing in our relationship with Hashem or our relationship with ourselves, and the places where we just don’t have the ability to do what needs to be done—these can all be viewed from another perspective. Every place of lack is a place where the door is open for Hashem to give.

It may be that the Mishkan was the second plan, the back-up plan, after Bnei Yisrael sinned. But Adar is the month to remember that the back-up plan is just as much Hashem’s plan as the first plan was. We are always in Hashem’s hands. All we have to do is find the ratzon, the desire, and Hashem can change the perspective in an instant.

Parshat Mishpatim

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Light That Can't Be Extinguished

The first word of our parsha, is the connecting word ואלה, “and these.” It seems to clearly connect our parsha with the end of last week’s parsha. However, last week’s parsha ended with the spiritual high of Matan Torah, and this week’s parsha doesn’t seem connected at all. Parshat Mishpatim opens with the detailed case of the eved ivri, a Jew who is sold into slavery by Beit Din in order to pay back the value of items he had stolen. He is given his freedom in the shmita (7th) year, or if he chooses to stay after the shmita year, he attains his freedom in the Yovel (50th) year.

Despite the seeming disconnect, Ramban assures us that there is a very deep connection between the mishpatim given in this parsha and the Ten Commandments of last week’s parsha.  More specifically, there is a connection  between the halachot of the eved ivri and the first command, “I am Hashem your G-d who took you out of Egypt.” The midrash expresses the connection as follows: the dibbrot are the Torah of the morning while the mishpatim are the Torah of the evening. (See Shemot Rabbah 30:11).”

The giving of the Torah on Har Sinai was called morning because it was a time of intense clarity which was so strong, it changed our reality. Hashem does not use a language of command when He tells us, “I am Hashem, Your G-d, who took you out of Egypt.” There was no need. We heard the words directly from Hashem and we lived them. They were, in fact, the final component of our Yetziat Mitzrayim. The GRA explains that Yetziat Mitzrayim is mentioned fifty times in the Torah, because we left Mitzrayim fifty times. Each day from the time we physically left Mitzrayim we left another level of tumah behind us. When we stood at Har Sinai we had reached the highest level of taharah. As Hashem spoke to us, we experienced the reality that Hashem is the only power in the world. The result of that clarity was immediate freedom from being in service to anything or anyone else in the world.

In that state of purity there was no need for the mishpatim.  Our bodies naturally did the mitzvot. Not only was there no robbery, our possessions were affected by our kedusha to such an extent that they did no harm to others.  However, we did not stay on Har Sinai forever. When the revelation was over and evening fell, there was a need for the light of the Torah to be clothed in such a way that it could apply in the darkness. And that is exactly what the mishpatim are. They contain the same light as the light of the Ten Commandments, but the light is compressed and clothed in a different form, so that we can continue to access it from a different place. We described this phenomenon last week. At Matan Torah the light of the Torah that exists in shamayim as black fire on white fire was compressed and clothed into the words of the Torah, so that we could understand it in our world.

The mitzvah of eved ivri is a mirroring of the first of the Ten Commandments, “I am Hashem, Your G-d.” It is what the revelation of “Anochi” looks like from a place of darkness. Think for a moment about the mindset of a thief. A thief is willing to steal because he assumes that no one is watching. That “no one” includes Hashem. He has therefore, with his actions, denied that Hashem is in control and denies Hashem as his master. Middah knegged middah, Hashem punishes him by giving him another master.

However, an eved ivri does not remain a slave forever. The kedusha of the first of the ten commandments, the recognition that it is Hashem, and only Hashem, who is our master, remains imprinted in our hearts. “I am Hashem Your G-d” cannot be uprooted. This is why the eved ivri is meant to go free in the seventh year. The Maharal explains that the purpose of the slavery is to repair the damage the thief did through his averot. However, averot only damage us to a certain point. There is always a point at our center that remains connected to “I am Hashem.” The six years of slavery correspond to the six directions of the external world. They correspond to the aspect of ourselves we are able to corrupt with our sins. However, the six directions are connected by a single, internal point. (You can imagine this as the point around which a cube is drawn) That point, which corresponds to our internal aspect of self, and our inner connection to Hashem, cannot be destroyed. It cannot be enslaved. When a person reaches that level, the seventh level, he reaches his freedom. Even if he is so attached to his illusions and delusions that he refuses to go free in the seventh year, the kedusha of “I am Hashem Your G-d” continues to accompany him, all the way to the very deepest level of tumah, the 50th level, and from there, in the Yovel year, it brings him out.  

Our parsha, which begins with the mishpatim, has an interesting structure. The end of the parsha returns to Har Sinai. It’s almost as if our parsha follows the order of a day: “it was evening and it was morning, one day.” We experience the darkness, the evening, first. But the evening always leads to the morning.  They are both part of the same day. The mishpatim and the aseret hadibrot are the same light, just clothed differently. The avodah changes, but the connection remains the same. As Rashi tells us at the beginning of this parsha, “Just as the first are from Sinai, so are these from Sinai.” And as David Hamelech tells us, “If I ascend to the heavens, there You are, and if I make my bed in the grave, behold, You are there (Tehillim 139:8).” Hashem remains with us, connected to us as our G-d, wherever we are, even in the greatest darkness. We never lose our connection to Him.

Parshat Beshalach

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Parshat Beshalach

Borrowed Love

There we were, at the edge of the sea. The Egyptians had drowned, and the spoils were being washed onto the shore. There was so much bounty we didn’t have time to collect it all. Rashi (Shemot 15:22) tells us Moshe had to force us to leave. You might think we were a nation enthralled with spoils. But Brachot (9b) gives an entirely different picture. There, the Gemara explains that just one week earlier in Mitzrayim we had to be forced to ask for and take wealth from the Egyptians. We were worried it would be too heavy to carry on the journey ahead. The Midrash (Shir HaShirim Rabbah 1:11), picking up on this discrepancy, describes the wealth we got in Mitzrayim as silver, and the wealth we got at the sea as gold.

What was really going on? Rav Schorr explains that the wealth we are talking about here is not only monetary. Everything that happens, happens on many levels simultaneously. The Ari z”l teaches that the spoils of Egypt refer to the sparks of kedusha that were in Mitzrayim. We took those sparks out with us when we went. By comparing these spoils to silver, the Midrash is teaching us about something important about our path from galut to geulah. This path took a very specific form, a form which is valuable to recognize, because it repeats often in our lives.

Our path from galut to geulah began with Pesach. Rashi (Shemot 12:11) tells us the name Pesach indicates jumping over or skipping. Shir HaShirim 2:8 describes the way Hashem came to rescue us in Mitzrayim as “skipping over the mountains, jumping over the hills.” We had to jump hastily out of Mitzrayim because we weren’t ready. Hashem picked us up from the 49th level of tumah, and “jumped” us up to the 49th level of kedusha. What this meant was that we were living in a borrowed kedusha. We experienced a tremendous revelation of Hashem as we were leaving Mitzrayim, but it wasn’t a revelation that we had fully earned. Even so, it served an extremely valuable purpose.

Rav Dov Ber of Mezeritch explains the phenomenon as follows. Imagine traveling in the darkness, with only a vague idea of the right way to go. You’re hungry, and also tired. You know there’s an oasis ahead, with everything you need, but you don’t know exactly how to get there. Suddenly, a bright flash of lightning pierces the sky and you see, for a moment, exactly where you need to go.  With that flash of light, your entire state of mind changes. Where before you were trudging along, you are now invigorated. True, it is dark again, but you saw what you needed with your own eyes, just ahead. You are instilled with the desire to continue moving forward.

This is one of the ways Hashem guides us along the path of spirituality. When we decide to reach for new heights, Hashem helps us get there. He gives us a boost at the beginning, like that flash of light, which raises us up, out of our current perspective, and allows us to experience and see more than we could before. That added boost is an expression of love from Hashem. It creates within us a corresponding feeling of love. Rav Schorr explains that this love is borrowed love. It’s love that reflects a level of closeness to Hashem that we didn’t quite earn yet. But its function is to instill in us the will and the desire to continue to push forward, and to turn that borrowed love into something permanent, by raising ourselves up to a real level of greater closeness to Hashem.

This was our path as a nation as we left Mitzrayim. Hashem Himself was revealed on our last night there and we were raised up to the highest level of kedusha. This was not a sustainable level for us, because we hadn’t earned it. But it left in us a strong desire to own that level, and make it truly ours, which is something that did indeed happen after seven days of spiritual work in the desert when we crossed the Yam Suf, and then after 49 days of personal spiritual growth, at Har Sinai, when we received the Torah.

The spoils we got in Mitzrayim reflected our spiritual level at the time. They were “borrowed” from the Egyptians. And they felt like a burden, something we couldn’t carry for long, because they didn’t really reflect our true spiritual level and weren’t really a part of us. The midrash compares them to kesef, silver. The word kesef in Hebrew means not just silver, but also desire (see Bereisheit 31:30, and the same phrase in Yedid Nefesh). These spiritual spoils were not really ours, but they left an imprint on us, a desire to keep working on ourselves. When we reached the sea we experienced another revelation of Hashem, one we had earned. The spoils from that revelation were like gold.

Rav Bunim of Peshischa points out that often, in the midst of a process of spiritual growth, we can feel this same pattern but not recognize it. What we do recognize is that in the beginning everything was so easy. We were on such a high. And then, things got harder and it wasn’t as easy to soar. We think, why can’t it be like it was in the beginning? As an answer, Rav Bunim quotes us the pasuk in Kohelet (7:10), “Do not say, ‘How was it that the former days were better than these?’ For not out of wisdom have you asked concerning this.” If it was easier in the beginning, that’s because it wasn’t coming from our own wisdom, or our own strength. It’s supposed to be harder now. That’s part of the process of making it our own.

Our experience of Shabbat can also be another expression of this same pattern. The Tur (Orach Chaim, Shabbat 292) tells us that the three tefillot of Shabbat reflect the three most important Shabbatot in history. On Erev Shabbat we experience some of the kedusha of the first Shabbat of Bereisheit, on Shabbat morning we experience a reflection of the Shabbat of Matan Torah, and on Shabbat afternoon we experience a bit of the kedusha of the Shabbat of Olam Habah.  At the same time, the Mechilta (Beshalach, Parsha 4) tells us that these three time periods of Shabbat reflect the Shalosh Regalim: erev Shabbat has an aspect of Pesach, Shabbat day has an aspect of Shavout, and seudah shlishit has an aspect of Sukkot.

What does this tell us about our entrance into Shabbat each week? There are two aspects to Shabbat. It is both the culmination of all our work from the week before, and also the kedusha that accompanies us at the start of our new week. But on the Shabbat of creation, man had only just been created. There was no work the week before. The Shabbat of Creation was a gift, and it imprinted each erev Shabbat with its kedusha. Rashi tells us (Shemot 20:9) that we enter Shabbat “as if our work is done.”

The nature of Shabbat is that even if we haven’t prepared, Shabbat comes full force. If you are awake to it, there is a moment of instant spiritual uplift. Erev Shabbat is like Pesach. Hashem jumps us up to His world. The Gemara tells us that Shabbat is a gift Hashem gives us that is in His storehouse (see Shabbat 10b). Rav Schorr tells us that Hashem never took it from there. Instead, every Shabbat He lifts us up to enjoy the gift there. That’s how we start Shabbat, with the gift of the kedusha of the Shabbat of Creation and the jumping kedusha of Pesach. We can choose to continue to grasp hold of the kedusha of Shabbat and experience the special quality of Torah learning of Shabbat day that echoes the kedusha of Matan Torah and of Shavout.  And we can open ourselves up to the closeness to Hashem that echoes the Shabbat of Olam Habah and Sukkot that is expressed through the songs of seudah shlishit. If we recognize the pattern, we can appreciate and use the extra love from Hashem that comes at the beginning and helps us through process.