לֹא עָלֶיךָ הַמְּלָאכָה לִגְמֹר, וְלֹא אַתָּה בֶן חוֹרִין לִבָּטֵל מִמֶּנָּה.
It is not up to you to finish the work – yet neither are you free to give up. (Pirke Avot 2.26)
Our parashat hashavua might seem to be a boring, overly detailed account of every little detail that went into the actual construction of the mishkan, the holy space our ancestors set to building this week. But Torah has a way of smacking us in the face with messages we can’t necessarily see at first glance. You have to dig for them.
There’s something off-putting about a plethora of details; it’s overwhelming. And “overwhelming” is precisely the response that so many of us have been experiencing to the flood of evil coming from the Federal government since even before the inauguration of the current occupier of the U.S. presidential office. It’s the kind of flood that causes us to lose our balance and our sense of direction, and we are tempted to withdraw. There’s only so much anxiety over the fate of the world that jangled nerves can take.
In the opening of our reading in this third year of the Triennial Torah Reading Cycle, we see:
וַיַּ֥עַשׂ אֶת־הַקְּרָשִׁ֖ים לַמִּשְׁכָּ֑ן עֲצֵ֥י שִׁטִּ֖ים עֹמְדִֽים׃
They made the planks for the Tabernacle of acacia wood, upright. (Ex. 36.20)
We go on to read about these planks for several verses. Exactly how long and tall they were, exactly where they were to be placed, exactly how many. And then comes the description of how they are to be put into place, with
וְאַרְבָּעִים֙ אַדְנֵי־כֶ֔סֶף עָשָׂ֕ה תַּ֖חַת עֶשְׂרִ֣ים הַקְּרָשִׁ֑ים
forty silver sockets under the twenty planks (Ex. 36.24)
There are twenty planks on each long side of the enclosure, measuring out the length of the mishkan, and each is supported by these silver sockets, which in Hebrew are אַדְנֵי־כֶ֔סֶף – adney kesef. “Silver sockets” in English isn’t saying much, but when we stop to consider the Hebrew and its spelling we are confronted with a hint a mile wide and many cubits deep. These sockets are each spelled with the same letters as those that spell out the most holy and awesome and unpronounceable Name of HaShem. Alef, dalet, nun, and yud.
It’s as if each of these little sockets is, can we say this, like a piece of G!d. As our ancestors regularly said when they were able to utter something impossible, “if it wasn’t written, I could never have said this,” but here is אדני over and over again in this passage.
Insistently it keeps presenting itself to our eyes: lots of little echoes of the big holy. It’s trying to tell us something. Even as no one Israelite was responsible for building the mishkan, so no one of us is meant to Save the Day in our own day. Human beings are not SuperBeings; we are, however, created in the Image of Holiness; this passage reminds us that every small action, such as being one of many, many small silver sockets, can and must be suffused with holiness.
Holiness here is very much to be understood in the ancient Israelite sense of wholeness. To be holy is to be fully dedicated to the purpose. It is to act with integrity, with a sense of one’s full devotion, and with groundedness in where we come from – even if we cannot know where we are going.
Shabbat urges us to take seriously the concept of rest in our lives. We are not machines, and we must take time off, and that time must be nurturing. This week, parashat VaYakhel emphasizes that the work is not of a heroic scale – although it is, we can see, a certain kind of heroism to believe in the holiness of the small acts of our lives (otherwise called mitzvot, those acts that make our lives holy).
None of us can do anything alone against what overwhelms us individually; we must see our strength in connecting with each other, and, concomitantly, we must accept that none of us, alone, is enough. The key is not to be perfect; it is to lean to be one’s best, most integrated self, fully – that is, to become holy.
On his deathbed, Rabbi Zusya of Hanipol began to cry uncontrollably and his students and disciples tried hard to comfort him. They asked him, “Rabbi, why do you weep? You are almost as wise as Moses, you are almost as hospitable as Abraham, and surely heaven will judge you favourably.” Zusya answered them: “It is true. When I get to heaven, I won’t worry so much if God asks me, ‘Zusya, why were you not more like Abraham?’ or ‘Zusya, why were you not more like Moses?’ I know I would be able to answer these questions. After all, I was not given the righteousness of Abraham or the faith of Moses but I tried to be both hospitable and thoughtful. But what will I say when God asks me, ‘Zusya, why were you not more like Zusya?’ (From Martin Buber’s Tales of the Hasidim, quoted by Rabbi Sylvia Rothschild)
Some days are overwhelming. The only answer is to resist meaninglessness by insisting on the importance of every little thing. Every socket, every plank, every donation, every smile, every hand outstretched, is vitally, foundational important, for each and every moment we are building a holy place.
Torah for the 21st Century by Rabbi Ariel Stone 