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Emor

5/13/2022

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Emor opens with a description of the laws of holiness for the Kohanim (priests), specifically as regards the death of close relatives or proximity to corpses. Under ordinary circumstances, contact with the dead is prohibited for a Kohen, although Chazal (our blessed sages) teach us that there are cases in which a priest may attend to the preparation and burial of a relative, even up to and including the Kohen Gadol (High Priest), who may be the officiant of last resort. The Talmud teaches that a Kohen is required to become unclean to properly attend to the burial of his deceased wife. Rabbis Moshe Feinstein and S. R. Hirsch suggest that these laws are intended to encourage the Kohanim to teach their children from an early age regarding the importance of keeping themselves and their actions in balance as is required by their elevated status; they are priests by gift of birth, but the special benefits they enjoy require moderation with the care and discretion they must practice over the course of their lifetimes. A series of laws which echo the same theme follow, outlining the differences between the Kohanim of old and everybody else.


Then, at Emor’s conclusion, we encounter a curious piece of narrative. The son of a mixed marriage—an unnamed Egyptian father and a Jewish mother from the tribe of Dan—gets into an argument with an anonymous Israelite, during which the son blasphemously pronounces the Name of G-d. He is removed from the camp and stoned to death by those who heard the curse. We do not know the subject of the argument, nor why it got so out of hand that capital punishment was indicated. But we can speculate. Some say that the son was critical or dismissive of the Tabernacle ritual. Others suggest that the argument was personal, and that a hot-headed young man took what should have been a rational debate and allowed it, being unschooled in self-control, to escalate one step too far. Rashi infers from the text that the issue concerned the tribal identity of the son, who had been denied residence among Dan since, while Jewish due to his mother, he had no tribal lineage since his father was not Jewish. Several Midrashim even suggest that the man’s father was none other than the Egyptian officer killed by Moses, given a parallel anomaly in the language with which each is described. Despite the Israelite son’s unique status as a tribeless Jew, G-d reminds us that the same laws apply to a resident stranger, proselyte, or native. The well-known litany of legal tit-for-tat (life for a life…eye for an eye…tooth for a tooth…etc.) follows; in other words, you do the crime, you do the time, regardless of who you are.

Why does Emor bookend the parsha with these two pieces of text? The common thread between the two is that the responsibility for moral and ethical education begins at home, in a broad sense. At Emor’s opening, the Kohanim learn that their elevated status does not preclude them from the responsibilities they must undertake, even to their own detriment or defilement. At the Parsha’s closing, we learn that not even having a child who is a product of a mixed marriage, a broken home, a single parent, or having a tribal identity problem absolves their parents and society from offering proper instruction in spiritual and societal values. Sadly, it’s when there is an ethical imbalance in a home, community, or society, that spiritual impurity or moral degradation are most likely to occur. We have become too used to simply accepting it as reality. It does not, however, need to be so. If the same rules apply both to the most privileged in society and to its most disadvantaged, why isn’t it yet in our nature to take responsibility for each other? Why do we habitually segregate ourselves, physically and idealistically, when we can all help each other achieve the sense of hegemony the Torah describes and G-d desires? The text even makes the connection through parallelism in its language. Emor’s opening, in discussing the Kohanim who represent and sanctify G-d, invokes the prohibition against blaspheming His Name. The parsha’s conclusion, in describing the man who is killed for blasphemy, connects to the sanctification of the Divine. Where can we get the inspiration to make the connection ourselves and change the world? The Masoretic mnemonic for the 124 verses in Emor spells the Hebrew word “Uziel.” It's translation?

“My strength is G-d’s.”
Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen
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Parshat Acharei Mot

4/30/2022

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Other than the dramatic reenactment of the original Temple service of atonement we recall during the Avoda service on Yom Kippur, few of us can derive any deep meaning from its details as presented in this week’s parsha. Frankly, as many commentators have noted, the original rituals of sacrifices, ritual sprinkling of blood, the symbolic transfer of sins to the scapegoat, and confession as practiced in antiquity have given way to a focus on fasting and prayer as a modern means of atonement. The disconnect between ritual atonement and the true renouncement of misdeeds was noted by even the earliest commentators; it’s human nature to seek the easiest or most institutionalized way out of a tough ethical or spiritual conundrum.

But as with any piece of Torah, it pays to read between the lines. Two verses, buried among the details of the Yom Kippur ritual, give us a unique perspective on the nature of sin, and our relationship with the Divine in the act of reconciliation. Case  #1:

Thus [the High Priest] shall atone on the Sanctuary for the abominations of the Children of Israel, from their sins among all their misdeeds; and so shall they do for the Tent of Meeting which dwells within them among their impurity. (Lev. 16:16)

Does that last phrase jump out at you? The Tent of Meeting which dwells among their impurity. The Ohel Moed, Tent of Meeting, is the epitome of holiness. The Torah says that its holiness is omnipresent even among sinners. Rashi goes a step further, saying that the Schina, G-d’s presence, dwells within even one who suffers from spiritual contamination.

Then, case #2 in 17:7:

They shall no longer offer sacrifices to the demons they follow; it is an eternal decree for all their generations.

The context here is ostensibly to discourage Israel from following the Egyptian practice of offering ad hoc sacrifices to ward off the demons who could imperil a harvest.

In two otherwise unremarkable verses, the Torah teaches us both that G-d resides within us regardless of our standing, and that we always have the natural capacity to make a misstep. I find it even more remarkable that such a timelessly accurate depiction of the yin and yang of human nature is buried within the details of an atonement ritual which for today’s audience, only has literary and ritual resonance. I find it comforting, if not frighteningly predictive, that G-d and the Torah know that humans are, well, human. The spark of the Divine which inhabits us, even at our worst, is always there to be tapped. Our tendency to stray is not an inevitability; it’s rather a constant opportunity to aim higher in an effort to overcome our nature.

It's poignant that we read this just a week into counting the Omer; as we count the days between our deliverance from the impurity of slavery to the holy revelation of the Torah on Shavuot. Let’s resolve to accept the best and the worst which are inevitable parts of our being, and strive to embrace the good, so we will always merit G-d’s blessing.

Shabbat Shalom, and a good month of Iyyar!

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen
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April 23rd, 2022

4/23/2022

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Passover is a very confusing time from a scriptural standpoint; the Torah and Haftarah readings for the week jump around from place to place and theme to theme, largely because the weeklong observance lacks the sacrificial structure of that of its sister holiday, Sukkot, which makes the latter’s choice of Torah readings obvious and straightforward. By all accounts, the Haftarah for the last day of Passover (in the Diaspora, anyway) is remarkable. The vision from Isaiah 10-12 presages the ultimate redemption; the eradication of all adversity and evil and the dawn of a new era, guided and inspired by one descended from the house of David. 

While never being named in this text, the concept of Mashiach, or Messiah (from the Hebrew word for “anointed”), has been adopted, adapted, appropriated, re-appropriated, and sometimes misappropriated in some way by almost every faith and belief system. Perhaps it is our desperate clinging to the hope that humanity will transcend its current troubled existence and progress to the next level that inspires us to represent, as absolute truth, that which is actually presented as poetry, allusion, and allegory. Will Mashiach be a person, an attitude, a paradigm shift, a transcendental movement, or a complete do-over of physical existence? No one knows for sure. The one universal, however, is that the association with the end of Pesach reunites those all too familiar friends: reality and hope. 

Think of it this way. On a number of occasions, we have discussed how the Exodus saga is a poetic reenactment of Creation. A universe is formed where there was nothing, to an undefined and uncertain fate. Leaving Egypt, an unruly group of slaves coalesces into a nation with far more control over their destiny, but with no fewer challenges to their being able to reach their full potential. Every Passover, we relive the story through ritual and symbolism, equating our past with our present and finding, often to our dismay, that the more things change, the more they remain the same. Most of all, we hear the echoes and see the parallels which renew our imperative to remain empathetic to, and motivated to change, the modern iterations of slavery. 

It therefore makes sense that just as the last taste of the Seder was the Afikoman, the dessert which leaves you wanting more, that the final shot fired at Passover should be a look forward to the future and what will, G-d willing, be our final redemption. The Isaiah imagery is powerful; the oppressor subdued through strength and violence followed by the Redeemer emerging as first a shoot, then a twig, from the stump of history. The famous litany of contradictory metaphors which will all ultimately find coexistent hegemony follows—wolf/lamb, leopard/kid, babe/viper, holy/evil—“…for the land will be filled with knowledge of G-d as the water covers the sea (Isaiah 11:9).” Lest we get caught in a loop of despair over the repeating cycles of historical chaos and trauma, we are given the antidote: hope. After all, didn’t Elijah, the prophet who will herald the beginning of the next era, come to visit all of us last weekend at our Sederim to remind us that it was possible? 

Every week, we conclude Shabbos with Havdalah, the ceremony which brings the Sabbath to a close, setting us on our way to a new week, empowered and emboldened by our 25 hours of Divinely inspired rest.  The words which open the Havdalah are among the ones which close this final Haftarah of Pesach. When the final redemption occurs, the words which we say now as we look forward to our week will be the ones we will declare in retrospect: “Behold, G-d of my salvation, I am confident and unafraid, for G-d is my strength and might, and has been my deliverance.”
Chag Sameach and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen
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Passover Message

4/18/2022

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One of the most charming moments of our Passover Seder is when the youngest child asks the Ma Nishtana, the Four Questions. For some, it’s the joy of seeing and hearing a child, grandchild, or great-grandchild ask them for the first time. For others, it’s the inherent humor of having the honor pass to a child who is well into adulthood, since they happen to be the youngest at the table. Either way, it’s an iconic ritual which centers on an ancient Jewish ritual: the asking of rhetorical questions. 

If you think about it, the Four Questions seem to appear in the wrong place. If a child’s curiosity is going be aroused, it should be an immediate response to a sensory stimulation. Most of the rituals about which the child asks haven’t happened yet in the Seder, other than maybe the introductory one (Why is this night different…). Our learned rabbis (Chazal) give us many possible explanations. The Mishna teaches that if the youngster does not have the intellect to formulate their own questions, that it is the responsibility of the child’s parents to teach them the Ma Nishtana so that four basic questions (plus the introductory one) will fulfill the commandment. Rambam interprets the text as meaning that a child should be encouraged to ask random questions according to their capacity, but that the parents should ensure that the requirements of the Mishna are met. Another source, however, suggests that a child who can formulate his own questions exempts all from the Mishnaic requirement. Then there is the practice cited in Talmud P’sachim: the table with all the food is removed, then gradually returned dish by dish, in order to spark the child’s curiosity. 

Seems like an awfully complicated set of formalities just to get some ritual questions asked, especially since the answers don’t change much from year to year. Or do they? We can tick off the questions and their answers as they relate to the Seder from memory, but this somewhat arcane practice serves to teach us something even more important: asking a rhetorical question is a means to an end. There’s always something more to learn, and even more importantly, a way we can and should be inspired to action. 

Look around our world. There’s so much surrounding us about which we ask “why?” even though we know the answer. In Ukraine, Yemen, Sudan, and so many other places around the world, for those suffering from COVID or its derivative effects social, political, and economic, this Pesach our challenge should be to change and expand the narrative. The real question is, “What have I done?” When we eat the Bread of Affliction, let’s remember to do something for those who are hungry. Then do it. When we eat bitter herbs, lets vow to help those whose life has recently turned bitter, through no fault of their own. As we dip our food twice as in the days of the Haggadah, let’s promise to turn our fundamentally wasteful eating style into one which can benefit all.  Finally, when we recline as we observe the Seder, we can resolve to do our part to offer a place of rest and respite to those migrants worldwide who are fleeing oppression and war. 

If we can allow the familiar words of a misplaced set of rhetorical questions to not just entertain us at the Seder but to truly motivate us to global action, then we will truly have made Passover be a night which is different than all others. May we so be inspired.

Chag Kasher V’sameach!
Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen
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Parshat of the Week -- Tazria- Parshat Hachesh

4/1/2022

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Let’s face it. For someone who is facing any type of adversity, being able to parse their future in terms of time is a gift. Being someone who lives in fear of when or if the next bomb will land on their home, if they will be subjugated or oppressed, or if they will become the next target of their government’s discrimination is a fact of life for untold millions around the world. The Ukranians, Rohingya, Uighurs, Tigrays, and so many more souls worldwide cannot look to tomorrow as a solace. They have a day-to-day existence which sensitizes them to trying to survive today rather than planning for the future.

We read the Maftir for Shabbat Hachodesh this week. Near the beginning of the month of Nisan, we prepare to celebrate our deliverance from slavery during Pesach, and the establishment of our Jewish calendar. In light of the traumas which being currently experienced by our fellow b’nai enosh, children of humanity, today, let’s not be haughty and selfish about the blessings we have achieved bayamim hahem bazman hazeh, in those days at this time. Sure, we can and should celebrate the establishment of our calendar, recognize and appreciate the groundwork of our Passover observance. The biblical story, however, is not meant to be a historical anachronism. It should be a present and future imperative. If a nation of slaves, used to constantly doing their masters’ bidding, can tell time and give thanks on their own, should it not follow that they should seek out any others who are imperiled and pay it forward?
Freedom comes with a price. The cost is the necessity to pay it forward to any one and everyone who is not free. Our shul website has a list of multidenominational organizations to which you can easily donate to help Ukranian refugees. Look below for the link to donate. In addition, my beloved colleague Rabbi Ari Goldstein is going soon on a mission to Poland to provide supplies for refugees. A box to collect pain medication for children and adults, as well as vitamin C and D for children is already being filled in our shul lobby.
The blessing of Shabbat Hachodesh is that we can tell time on our terms, guided by Hashem. Let’s make the most of the gift.
Support for Ukraine - Congregation Kneseth Israel in Annapolis, Maryland
Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen
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Parshat of the Week -- Shemini - Parshat Parah

3/24/2022

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Your child: “Why do I have to do my chores? Why can’t I stay out later? Why do I have to finish eating my vegetables?”

You: “Because I said so!” (Inner monologue: “OMG, I’ve become my parents!!)”

Not everything that our wisdom, experience, or instinct as parents has relevance or traction with our children. Not everything that we know to be a danger or an imperative will have any meaning to them until they experience the circumstances which led us to the advisory or prohibition. Do you think that the imperatives given to us by Avinu Shebashamayim, our Heavenly Parent,  would be any different?

By all accounts, the laws of the red heifer, read this week with their inherent contradictions, are a logical mystery. It’s seemingly a random Mitzva; the fact that the functionary of a ritual designed to restore holiness to an unclean individual should become ritually impure makes no sense. But maybe that’s the point.

Who knows why a day is 24 hours long? Or why all the planets, (except for maybe Venus?) rotate counterclockwise? Why G-d chose green for plants which clean the air with chlorophyll, or why a platypus, as a mammal, lays eggs?

Sometimes, it’s best to not ask questions, but just accept. I don’t know why our cosmic design does what it does, but I know that I’m thankful for it. I’m grateful for the fact that days happen, and that our planet rotates. I’m not impartial to green, want to preserve the forests which regenerate our oxygen, and am greatly amused by mammals which could play ping-pong with their snouts. Do I know who is responsible? Of course.

Our daily morning service begins with a series of 15 blessings which, directly or by extension, express thanksgiving for all aspects of the good granted to us by G-d which we need for our daily existence. As many of you know, the Hebrew numerical value of 15 is equal to the value (gematria) of the name of the Divine. Every day, we tie our very existence to G-d’s name and influence.

Can I explain or understand it? No. Am I grateful for it? Of course. Will I give thanks for every single daily miracle? Should it, or does it, diminish my faith? Of course not. I may not know why G-d divined what They did, but I am eternally grateful, and will say a blessing for each and every commandment.

Whether it’s obscure laws about a red cow, the fact that the sun rises and sets, that I have rules about what I can eat or not, or the fact that my kid is brilliant, I know who to blame.

It’s because G-d said so.


Shabbat Shalom!

​
Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen
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Parshat of the Week -- Tzav

3/18/2022

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People often ask how the relatively simple instructions for keeping kosher as listed in the Torah grew up to become the often confusing, all-encompassing system of regulations we know today. While the Torah lays out the basics—forbidden animals, the prohibition against consuming blood, the suggestion of separating milk and meat—it does not go into tremendous detail about keeping separate dishes or how things can be “contaminated” by contact. Two of those principles, as later incorporated by the rabbis into the laws of Kashrut, are found in this week’s parsha. At the end of chapter 6 (as well as numerous other places), the notion of the transfer or holy/unholy status through contact is mentioned. Rashi, among others, qualifies the situation as applying to vessels and substances where the flavor of the food can be transferred from one to the other. In this case, the very next verse mentions an earthenware vessel which has contained contaminated food and must be destroyed, since it is impossible to remove the essence of a foodstuff from something as porous as a clay pot. The same is not the case with a nonporous metal pot (the Torah mentions copper, but does not predict non-stick cookware!). Hence our modern tradition that non-kosher pottery cannot be koshered, nor its dairy/meat status reversed. A metal (or glass) vessel, which does not absorb flavor, can be ritually returned to neutral status through hagala, the purging of the item, generally by purifying it in the manner in which it is used (i.e. boiling a pot, heating a pan, etc.). The laws are complicated, but the concept—that the essence of the contamination can be removed unless it has sunk in—has directed the evolution of many of our laws of kashrut.

I believe, however, that there is another level to this set of standards. This week, we celebrated Purim. Last week, on Shabbat Zachor, the Maftir aliya recalled the commandment to eradicate Amalek due to their inherent and incessant cruelty, having attacked Israel by targeting the weakest individuals first. The Haftarah which followed refers to the people’s failure to have done so, leading to the ascendency of Agag, the ancestor of Haman (who is dispatched by the prophet Samuel). The Torah reading for Purim itself similarly refers to the perennial conflict between G-d and Amalek, or good and evil, as being “from generation to generation.” If the Torah’s commandment to wipe out the insidious cruelty had been fulfilled the first time, or the subsequent one, the entire story of Purim would not have happened. We could be eating fried hamentashen on Chanukah!

The nature of modern evil is like that of the impure vessels. Caught early by a world which does not absorb its “flavor,” it should be possible to eradicate it via perfunctory means. Once it has had an opportunity to sink in, however, often the only way its essence will be removed is through destruction of one sort or another. As we look at current events, we realize that there are still many Amaleks in our world, and their actions and influence have imparted an unacceptable amount of impurity to our previously holy vessels. We should let this dual lesson guide and inspire us. It’s certainly preferable to not have the world and its innocents fall victim to insidious or misguided influences. If it does, however, it’s better to take on G-d’s battle to restore our world’s equanimity than to have to deal with its shattered dishes.


Shabbat Shalom!Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen
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Parshat of the Week -- Vayikra

3/10/2022

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This week, we begin reading Vayikra, the book of Leviticus, also known (as suggested by its Latinized Greek name) as Torat Kohanim, the set of instructions for the priests. Indeed, the bulk of the third book of the Bible is fundamentally a user’s manual for the just-completed Mishkan (Tabernacle). The many different types of sacrifices and rituals, along with the fairly graphic details of their proper and timely execution, are enumerated. That makes Vayikra be a fairly tough study for a modern audience for whom the gory details are repugnant, or for whom a more spiritual form of worship is considered more appropriate. The modern practice (ok, “modern” in this case goes back more than a millennium) is to analyze the ancient sacrificial rituals by mining their specifics for homiletical clues as to their purpose. There is much to learn in taking this approach. When an offering is called for, what is offered, who is responsible, the dispensation of the result, and even the egalitarian nature of the requirements can offer tremendously meaningful insights into the meaning of Jewish worship as commanded by the Torah.

While we interpret Torat Kohanim through a modern lens or idealize(?) it as the classic form of ancient worship as was performed in the Holy Temple, we tend to lose sight of the pedigree of the sacrificial system. Animal sacrifice, albeit without the legal and ritual structure, was commonplace in the ancient world; Every generation of patriarchs had practiced it, as did most ancient cultures (with the notion that the human offerings were “feeding” one or more of the multiplicity of gods they worshiped). If G-d was aiming to create a new paradigm of prayer, wouldn’t it have made sense to devise some uniquely Jewish way of achieving closeness with the Divine other than just taking a common and misguided practice and complicating it with lots of rules, regulations, and symbolism? ChaZaL (our blessed sages) teach us that G-d’s initial intention was precisely that; to create a more spiritual system of worship which avoided the vernacular of animal sacrifice. Abravanel (Spain, 1437-1508) suggests that the episode of the Golden Calf taught G-d that Israel wasn’t ready for such an abstract form of worship. They required the structure of ritual to guide them to a spiritual connection with the Holy One. Beginning with the familiar, even though not part of the original plan, was an apt way to begin. Midrash Rabba even comments that it's “better that they bring their offerings to My table than bring them before idols.”

In a way, it seems like the Diaspora transition we have made to a completely liturgical and ritual form of worship may have been in the cards all along; we just weren’t ready for it the first time. Judaism has certainly evolved into a religion with a deeply symbolic, abstract, and personal tradition of approaching G-d. We cannot lose sight, however, of the fact that while we have unique, individual, and often complicated relationships with the Divine, it is still our shared traditions, so deeply rooted despite centuries of evolution, that give these relationships meaning.  What we do, when we do it, what we say while we’re doing it, and, of course, what we don’t do, are still the ways we create, maintain, refresh, and build our spiritual dialog with G-d. Think of it this way: one must do the difficult, physical work of climbing the mountain in order to reach the summit. Only then can one look at the spectacular view, and breathlessly appreciate its beauty, while simultaneously feeling the satisfaction of having had the fortitude to have completed the task.


Shabbat Shalom!Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen
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Parshat of the Week -- Pehudei

3/3/2022

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Over the course of the last few parshas, we have discussed many of the allusions and poetic/symbolic/homiletical references contained in the text. The rundown of the construction process of the Mishkan (tabernacle) is repeated three times; the first commanding the planning and preparation, and second an account of the actual construction, and now the third, where its completion is documented. Among the themes we’ve been following as we study the bottom half of the Book of Shemot (Exodus) this year have been (1) characterizing the creation of the Mishkan by Israel as an echo of G-d’s creation of the Universe, and (2) the unique nature of such a holy thing as G-d’s spiritual dwelling place on earth having been built by willing and inspired human hands which had previously known only the toil of slavery. As we complete Shemot, two subtleties in the parsha reflect these themes.

Exodus 39:32 reads, “All the work of the Tabernacle, the Tent of Meeting, was completed; the Children of Israel had done everything that G-d had commanded Moshe to do.” Sound familiar? Compare this verse to Genesis 2:1-2, where the completion of the original Creation is described: “The heaven and the earth were completed, and all their host. And G-d completed on the seventh day all His work which He had done.” The structure and thematic/linguistic structure of these two verses are virtually identical. There is an initial reference to the process being completed, Genesis’ “All their host” is parallel to Exodus’ “The Children of Israel,” and the one who did the work is identified—G-d in Genesis, and Israel via Moses in Exodus. Just as G-d created the universe and populated it with humans to represent, reflect, and reinforce His teachings, we have now come full circle, having created, through our efforts, a uniquely holy place where we can sense and experience the Divine spirit in our midst.

The fact that it was human generosity, willingness, talent, and effort which built the Mishkan (and continue to support its modern iterations), is of the greatest importance, represented in ways other than a simple reading of the text. Rabbeinu Bachya (1263-1340) calculated that from the beginning of the Mishkan process back in Parshat Truma until the end of Shemot, there are 248 instances of verbs which are derivatives of “to make” referring to various aspects of the project. That number is, of course, a significant one in Jewish numerology. 248 is the number of positive commandments in the Torah, and traditionally regarded as the number of organs/limbs in the body (OK; anatomy wasn’t the rabbis’ strong suit, but recognizing the connection between our physical and spiritual selves certainly was!). This magic number is also the number of words in the Shema, and the gematria (numerological value) of Avraham. The significance of 248 being reflected in the Mishkan is as meaningful as the Tabernacle being a recreation of Creation. It is an echo of all that is positive about our faith, like the Mitzvot. It is the holy result of our physical efforts when dedicated to a higher purpose, like the parts of our bodies. It is a symbol of our belief in the one G-d as declared in the Shema, and the current and future embodiment of the covenant with Avraham.

As we prepare to leave the book of Shemot, we see that Israel has completed this phase of their re-creation as a sovereign people in service of the Holy One. The closing parsha of Exodus connects the people to their past, gives meaning to their present, and positions them for the next chapter of their growth and evolution as a timeless and faithful nation.
Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen
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Parshat of the Week -- Vaykhel

2/24/2022

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A cherished former colleague of mine was notorious for multiple phone calls or emails. After the initial contact on a specific issue would come the next one dealing with whatever issue had been omitted in the original. Then the third, and the fourth, all preceded by “Why do in one conversation what you can do in 4?” It seems like this series of parshiyot are doing the same thing. We’ve had two parshas which have laid out the specs and procedures for the building of the Mishkan (Tabernacle). This week in Vayakhel we read the account of the actual preparation and construction. Next week, we’ll read the summation of it all having been done. So why does the Torah repeat its account of the construction process, not counting the internal summaries of the goings-on which also pepper our readings? 

It's because, as significant as Israel building a dwelling place for the spirit of G-d is, the order of operations is equally as important. 

The Talmud tells us that, when the first set of instructions (for the capital campaign and the design of the Ark of the Covenant and other holy accoutrements) were received, Betzalel (the artisan who would oversee the project) asked Moshe, “How can you build what will go on the inside before you have built the place where it will reside?” Moses agreed. Here in Vayakhel, the order is changed. In the report of how construction proceeded, the enclosure is built first, the holy objects which are crucial to its operation second, and the finishing touches on their surroundings third. The last bit, the fashioning of the Kohanim’s garb and the final assembly of the Mishkan, will be read next week. So why the repetition, and why the change of order?

The repetition of the steps of the construction process makes sense. The building of the Mishkan was a one of a kind, never to be repeated event. Never before or since has a nation, giving of their own largesse, talent, and labor, partnered with G-d to build a spiritual dwelling place for the Divine Spirit according to Heavenly specifications. Each and every Israelite has a stake in the Mishkan, and the combined efforts of the entire nation will be reflected in the final product. The Rabbis consider the Mishkan unique in this regard; the Temples in Jerusalem were constructed using non-Jewish labor. That, we are taught, is why they could possibly and tragically have been destroyed, while the Mishkan quietly faded from use and history without having been destroyed, violated, or trashed. I don’t know about you, but if I have an important project to complete, I’ll notate and repeat the various steps necessary for its completion to ensure that they are done correctly and in a timely fashion. Israel, similarly, needed to make certain that they had all the necessary materials on hand, a construction plan, an organized work force, and an efficient schedule. Once the groundwork was laid, the project could proceed. The revised order of operations reflects both a practical and spiritual twist. In construction, the plans and permits must be produced and approved, and the site and its infrastructure must be prepared before the edifice can be started. Here, too, the overall vessel which will contain the holiness must be prepared before the instruments of holiness, most notably the Ark and the Tablets, can be properly contained within. Only then can the whole package be buttoned up and completed. Israel learns, as do we, that Torah without an appropriate home is a spiritual orphan. We must be prepared to accept it, incorporate it with all due respect, then complete the project by securing and finalizing its place in our midst. This lesson, so important to our ancestors, has a resonance for us as well. In our secular lives, as well as in our spiritual endeavors, we can have the tendency to focus on the endgame without savoring the process. Doing so is akin to removing a hot dish from the oven, and then realizing that you have no free space in the kitchen to set it down. The changes to the process in Vayakhel teach us that our partnership with G-d requires that the process proceed in its proper order. That way we avoid being burned.
Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen
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