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PARASHAT VAYAKHEL-PEKUDEI
By Rav Motti Novick
At the start of our parasha, Moshe prefaces his detailed list of instructions regarding the building of the mishkan with a reminder about the prohibition of melakha on shabbat (35: 2), a commandment the Jews had already heard as one of the aseret ha-dibrot. It is from here, as Rashi points out, that Chazal learned that the activities involved in the construction of the mishkan are the avot melakhot, the prototypes of forbidden activity on shabbat. Furthermore, the law that an activity is considered melakha only if it is melekhet mach’shevet (“skillful workmanship”) similarly derives from the description of Betzalel’s craftsmanship as such (35: 33).
It is
interesting, however, that Moshe’s reminder about the broad prohibition of
melakha is followed by a reference to one specific activity: “You shall kindle no fire
throughout your habitations on the shabbat day” (35: 3). What is the meaning of this reference,
and why is it necessary after Moshe has already explicated the general
prohibition of melakha? Over
the coming days we will discuss three different interpretations of this verse
found in Chazal and in the commentators.
The first and simplest explanation is that the verse is referring to the melakha of hav’ara, or kindling a fire (e.g., in lighting a match or igniting a gas burner). This is one of the 39 overarching avot melakhot, the only one singled out explicitly by the Torah. Rashi makes reference here to the debate in Shabbat 70a as to the significance of this singling out of hav’ara. According to the opinion of R. Natan, this specific mention teaches a lesson about all 39 avot melakhot individually, namely that the accidental performance of each one generates a separate requirement for atonement through a chatat sacrifice, even if numerous avot are performed in one act of forgetfulness. According to this opinion, there is nothing unique about hav’ara; it merely represents an example which reveals a general principle. According to the opinion of R. Yose, though, hav’ara deserves specific mention because it is very different from the other melakhot; whereas the others generate a requirement for atonement through the strong medium of a chatat sacrifice, hav’ara is considered an “ordinary” lav, or negative prohibition, punishable by lashes but generating no need for sacrificial atonement.
The debate between these two opinions seems to revolve around the status of hav’ara as a melakha. On the one hand, as Chizkuni points out, hav’ara does not seem to be a melakha in the classic sense. It does not involve difficult labor. It is not part of a process of transforming natural substances into objects fit for human consumption, like the melakhot relating to farming or to making clothes. Based on these consideration, the Torah needs to specify hav’ara to teach that it is forbidden at all, and even once forbidden it might be only a lav. Indeed, Tosfot in Pesachim 5b claim that according to the opinion of R. Yose, hav’ara would be entirely permitted on Yom Tov, because only melakhot are forbidden on Yom Tov!
From another perspective, though, hav’ara is the quintessential melakha. On shabbat we recall God’s cessation of activity when He created the world. With regard to God it is impossible to speak of difficult labor; the essential distinction between the six days of Creation and the first shabbat is that the first six days were characterized by creative activity. Thus it makes sense that the true criterion for determining what constitutes a melakha is not the degree of labor involved but the element of creativity. Each melakha represents a transformation or a qualitative advancement from one stage in a creative process to the next. Hav’ara represents an extreme in this regard, for it is not merely a creative act, but truly a creation ex nihilo. When a match is struck, a fire appears out of nowhere. What act, aside perhaps from childbirth, more directly represents a form of imitatio dei, of imitating God the Creator? Thus this debate between amora’im in the interpretation of our verse may really be a more fundamental debate about the essential characteristics that define the concept of melakha.
******
“You shall kindle no fire
throughout your habitations on the shabbat day” (35:
3)
We discussed yesterday the
simplest interpretation of the prohibition to “kindle a fire” on
shabbat. A second
explanation of the prohibition contained in this verse interprets it as
referring not to igniting a flame per se but rather to using a
flame. Specifically, the Torah
emphasizes here that shabbat is not like yom tov, where cooking is
permitted for okhel nefesh, for the purpose of consumption on the day
itself. As the nation had been told
in the prelude to the first Pesach just before the Exodus, “no manner of
work shall be done in [the days of Pesach], save that which every person
must eat, that only may be done by you” (
For the
Ramban, this distinction is rooted in the terminology used by the Torah
in forbidding melakha in each of these contexts. The fourth of the Ten Commandments,
addressing the institution of shabbat, uses a very inclusive phrase: “in [the shabbat] you
shall not do any manner of work [kol melakha]” (20: 9). In the prohibition against
melakha on yom kippur, the same phrase is used twice
(Vayikra
R. Michael
Rosenzweig has explained that these different categories of prohibited
melakha on shabbat and yom tov reflect a fundamental
distinction between these two institutions. The prohibition against melakha
on shabbat is our way of recalling the Divine cessation of creative
activity on the first shabbat.
“For in six days
Hashem made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, and
rested on the seventh day; wherefore Hashem blessed the shabbat
day, and hallowed it” (20: 10). In
some sense, this resembles holidays like Pesach, Sukkot, and the
rabbinic Chanuka, where we model our own activities in a way that brings
to mind the historical events that the day is meant to recall. On yom tov, however, we do not
directly recall the Creation; why, then, is melakha prohibited at
all? The answer lies in the
commandment (Vayikra 23: 2) to celebrate the yamim tovim as “holy
convocations” (mikra’ei kodesh), a designation which includes (see
Rashi ibid.
Based on this distinction, R. Rosenzweig explains a difference between the punitive consequences of performing melakha on each of these days. On yom tov, no distinction is made between different avot melakhot; someone who performs ten different melakhot under one warning is liable to one set of lashes. On shabbat, though, the same activity performed unknowingly by someone who didn’t realize that his actions constituted melakha would generate a need for ten different chatat sacrifices. The explanation is that on yom tov, melakha is prohibited in order to create an atmosphere of mikra kodesh, and there is no inherent significance to any specific form of melakha. On shabbat, which is all about ceasing creative activity, each melakha which is performed represents a separate infringement on the essential character of the day.
******
“You shall kindle no fire
throughout your habitations on the shabbat day” (35:
3)
Aside from the interpretations
of this verse as references to igniting a flame or to cooking with it, the
subjects of our last two discussions, a third understanding (advanced by the
gemara in Sanhedrin 35b) is that the “kindling” prohibited here
refers to the specific context of a beit din meting out the capital
punishment of sereifa, or death by burning (i.e., by pouring burning lead
down the throat of the condemned; see Sanhedrin 52a). In general we follow a principle that an
aseh overrides a lav when the two conflict; since the
administering of punishment by beit din is a mitzvat aseh, it
should in theory override the lav prohibiting melakha on
shabbat such as killing (a form of the melakha of
shochet). The gemara
therefore learns from our verse that this is not the case, and the prohibition
against melakha remains in place even against the aseh of
administering punishment (the specific context of sereifa is understood
to be just an example of a punishment involving
melakha).
Two interesting details in the
Rambam’s codification of this law seem to point toward an understanding
somewhat different from the description we have just presented. First, the Rambam counts our
verse as its own negative commandment (no. 322 in his listing in the Sefer
ha-Mitzvot), prohibiting the administering of punishment by beit din
on shabbat. As the
Minchat Chinukh asks, why should this verse count as its own commandment,
when it merely indicates that capital punishment is already forbidden as a form
of melakha, and that the principle of aseh docheh lo ta’aseh is
not applicable in this case?
Second, the Rambam explicitly includes in this prohibition
(Hilkhot Shabbat 24: 7) all forms of punishment and not just capital
punishment, even forms which involve no melakha at all, such as lashes
and excommunication (the latter according to Avnei Nezer O.C. Siman
46).
The understanding which the
Rambam seems to adopt is that in fact our verse does not serve primarily
as a revelation (gilui milta) that the melakha of capital
punishment is forbidden despite the positive commandment to implement it. Rather, it serves as an independent
source for a prohibition against administering any punishment on shabbat,
unrelated to the prohibition of melakha. Therefore it is counted separately in
the listing of the 613 commandments, and therefore it includes even punishments
involving no melakha. As a
separate prohibition, though, it would seem also to imply that punishments
involving melakha are not permitted under the dispensation of aseh
docheh lo ta’aseh, since after all, what aseh can exist when all
punishments are prohibited on shabbat? There emerges from the Rambam,
then, a two-tiered conclusion: All
punishments are prohibited on shabbat whether or not they involve
melakha, and the punishments which involve melakha are
additionally prohibited as forms of melakha (and therefore carry with
them the more severe punishments associated with
melakha).
In providing the rationale for
this prohibition, the Sefer ha-Chinukh explains that shabbat is
meant to be a day of rest and respite for all, even sinners sentenced to
punishment by the court. It is
perhaps fitting that the Torah mentions this prohibition in the context of the
impermissibility of melakha on shabbat even for the purpose of
constructing the mishkan.
One might have entertained the notion that shabbat is a day of
rest for the “common folk” whose private lives do not have great impact on the
nation as a whole. When it comes to
communal institutions, however, shabbat seems to be something of a burden
on society. Must everyone wait an
additional day (for every week of construction) for the mishkan to be
completed? Must we all wait a day
for justice to be served? The Torah
makes the point here that shabbat is a supreme value, and all components
of society—individual and communal—are beholden to it. The complete cessation of activity on
shabbat in all sectors of life emphasizes the message of this sacred
day. By recalling so completely
God’s rest on the seventh day, we remind ourselves regularly how little we would
have were it not for His work of the prior six days.
******
Most of the specifics of the construction of the mishkan and its
accompanying utensils by Betzalel as recorded in this week’s double sidra
are exact repetitions of the instructions given to Moshe in the sidrot we
have read in the last few weeks. At
least one very interesting detail, however, stands out: “And he made the laver of
brass, and the base thereof of brass, of the mirrors of the serving women
[be-marot ha-tzov’ot] that did service [asher tzav’u] at the door
of the tent of meeting” (38:8).
Rashi quotes a fascinating midrash from the Tanchuma
elaborating the story behind these mirrors.
We read earlier about the
generosity of men and women alike in donating materials and services to
the mishkan (35: 21-29).
According to the midrash, among the objects brought by the women
were their mirrors used for self-adornment (preceding marital relations). Moshe was at first unwilling to accept
these as material to be used in the mishkan because he considered them
the tools of the yetzer hara, as they had been used for the purpose of
inducing sexual desire. God
corrected him, taking an opposite stance and claiming that these mirrors were
more dear to Him than anything else that had been contributed. For it was through these mirrors that
the women succeeded in producing “great armies” of offspring [tzva’ot
rabot, explaining the language of marot ha-tzov’ot] in
This midrash raises a fundamental point about the relationship between two components of the religious individual: the quest toward lofty spiritual goals on the one hand, and the basic needs and desires of a physical being on the other. We can understand the approach initially taken by Moshe as consistent with the attitude of many religions, that these two elements are in total conflict. Physical needs and desires anchor a human being to the mundane world, while the spiritual personality yearns to disengage from that world. The mishkan, representing a spiritual haven and a Divine “embassy” in the mundane world, must not incorporate within it anything that epitomizes the yetzer hara. i.e., the multitude of forces that chain an individual to his physical essence, chief among them the sexual desire. In an extreme form, this conception of the relationship between spirituality and physicality finds expression in Christianity, notably in the vow of celibacy taken by members of the clergy and the more radical withdrawal characterizing the lives of monks and nuns.
The Torah
view on this point, as God corrected Moshe, is that the spiritual and the
physical are not in total conflict.
In order to maximize his spiritual potential, an individual need not
repress and squash his physical desires, but just the opposite—he must utilize
them too toward the goal of serving God.
At the beginning of the Shema we read the commandment to “love Hashem thy God with all
thy heart” (Devarim 6: 5).
As Rashi there quotes from the Sifri, the meaning of all
thy heart” is “with both of your inclinations,” the yetzer
ha-tov and the yetzer hara.
If the “yetzer hara” is understood to mean the urge to sin, then
this statement is absurd; one cannot express love for G-d by sinning. Rather, we must understand this term to
refer to the urge to satisfy physical desires, and the Sifri is making
the point that this drive also can be channeled in a positive direction. The story of the women in
We will elaborate more on this synthesis of the spiritual and the physical tomorrow, but first a word of justification for Moshe’s initial position is in order. It is for good reason, after all, that the yetzer hara is called just that—the “evil inclination.” There is no question that excessive emphasis on physical desires serves as a distraction from serving God and as a potentially serious pitfall with regard to certain transgressions (most notably the prohibitions relating to sexual relations and consumption of non-kosher food). The drive toward accumulation of wealth often carries with it a neglect of mitzvot which are expensive to keep (e.g., acquiring proper tefillin and mezuzot, providing children with adequate Torah education). In light of this, then, are we to see the yetzer hara as an antithesis to the religious ideal unsuited to be represented in the mishkan, or as a force which can itself—in the proper context and with great caution—be incorporated into the religious ideal? Tomorrow we will address this question further and see also that the answer provided by the mar’ot ha-tzov’ot may depend on different understandings of the story taken by the commentators.
******
We began discussing yesterday the identity of the women’s mirrors (marot ha-tzov’ot) used in the construction of the kiyor (38: 8). Rashi in this context quotes a midrash which raises an important question: Do objects which represent physical desire have a place in the mishkan? More fundamentally, does the Torah view physical desire as an obstacle to religious and spiritual aspiration (a description which in practice is often accurate) or as an integral part of this aspiration?
It is instructive in this context to examine the concept of kedusha, generally translated as “holiness.” When the Torah commands us to “be holy” in the first words of parashat Kedoshim (Vayikra 19: 2), Rashi quotes the Sifra explaining this to mean “be separated” from forbidden sexual acts (gilui arayot). Simply understood, this command adds nothing new and merely reiterates the general prohibition against arayot. The Ramban, in his commentary there, explains the Sifra differently by formulating the concept of the naval birshut ha-Torah, the “scoundrel within the domain of [that which is permitted by] the Torah.” Being holy, according to the Ramban, means not only abstention from sin, but also the reining in of physical urges even where they find permitted expression. By Torah law, it is entirely permissible for a person to spend all his time indulging in kosher food and drink and permitted sexual activity. While not committing a single sin, an individual who engages in such activity is the antithesis of the Torah ideal, devoting all his energy to physical satisfaction and living a life devoid of spiritual content. He follows God’s word but wants nothing to do with God.
Is the appropriate path, then, to repress these desires completely? The Rambam, in his Mishneh Torah, reveals much in a one-word title. One of the fourteen books comprising this compendium is entitled Sefer Kedusha, in which the Rambam categorized three areas of law: Laws of Shechita, Laws of Forbidden Foods, and Laws of Forbidden Sexual Acts [issurei biah]. The common denominator of these three otherwise diverse areas of halakha is the theme of placing limitations on physical desire. The essence of kedusha is not abstinence but control; being holy does not mean fasting and celibacy but rather the imposition of meaningful boundaries on worldly pleasures, chief among them eating and sexual relations. To indulge oneself within these boundaries is to be a naval birshut ha-Torah, but to learn from these boundaries the proper attitude of restraint is an exercise in kedusha.
Even if physical desire is not bad, does that make it good? Is it fitting for the women’s mirrors to be incorporated into the mikdash? As R. Hirsch points out, it is somewhat surprising that one of the objects located in the heichal, the inner sanctum of the mikdash, is the shulkhan with its weekly ration of bread. What is food, a symbol of physical needs, doing in the inner chamber of God’s abode? It can only be to indicate that eating food is an activity which can be directed to the service of God. Indeed, with the exception of Yom Kippur, all our holy days are marked by a requirement to eat festive meals. We will soon celebrate Pesach, on which the central mitzvot of the seder night involve eating.
The lesson of the marot ha-tzov’ot is that even the acts most emblematic of the physical essence of human beings, and therefore seemingly the most removed from spirituality, can be spiritual acts when performed in the proper context. It is interesting to note that while this is the message which emerges from the midrash quoted by Rashi, other commentators took a very different view based on the words of the verse itself: “And he made the laver of brass, and the base thereof of brass, of the mirrors of the serving women [be-marot ha-tzov’ot] that did service [asher tzav’u] at the door of the tent of meeting” (38: 8). Onkelos and Ibn Ezra, calling attention to the latter part of the verse, explain that the women who donated these mirrors were in fact renouncing them, giving up physical pleasures and devoting their lives to serving God. If the midrash and the plain meaning of the verse send conflicting messages, then the truth is evidently a complex one, combining both opposing strands. The yetzer hara poses a formidable challenge. On one level, it must be resisted as an obstacle and pitfall in performance of mitzvot; on the other, however, it must be embraced and properly channeled as a component of that performance. How to balance these aspects is perhaps an individual decision, based on personal needs and temperaments. But the awareness of the dangers and the potential of the yetzer hara is a necessary prerequisite to finding the right balance.
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We read in the beginning of Pekudei that the half-shekalim collected from the nation were used in constructing the adanim, the silver foundations of the beams which formed the walls of the mishkan. As Rashi explains in last week’s sidra (on verse 30:16), the collection of contributions toward the mishkan was actually threefold, two parts of which we read now and the third part taking place in Bemidbar. The initial collection consisted of the mandatory half-shekel, used in constructing the adanim, and a voluntary donation from “whosoever is of a willing heart” (35: 5) to donate any material in any quantity. A few months later, an additional collection of a half-shekel from everyone was conducted in order to provide for the communal sacrifices. We can certainly understand why the communal sacrifices required a collection in which every individual had an equal part; since these sacrifices atone for the nation as a whole, it would be inappropriate for some individuals to have more of a financial share in them than others. But why was the collection for the adanim also performed in this manner, in contrast to the voluntary donation which provided for every other part of the mishkan?
It is possible that the Torah is making an important statement here about the freedom an individual has in considering how to worship God. The mishkan, the epicenter of Divine service, may be seen as a symbol of all forms of this service. On one level, everyone contributes exactly the same amount to the adanim, the foundations. Everyone is equally required to fulfill the commandments of the Torah (men and women alike, each group with its obligations), and in this regard no one’s “contribution” is greater than anyone else’s. These mitzvot—prayer, observance of Shabbat, honoring parents, eating matza on Pesach, etc—are the bedrock of avodat Hashem. Beyond that, there is a second level on which there can be a measure of personal freedom. How can I contribute more to the Jewish people, tangibly and spiritually? There can be numerous options: giving extra tzedaka, initiating a chesed program to help disadvantaged children, spending a few hours a day learning Torah, engaging in kiruv work, starting a campaign to improve the atmosphere during tefilla in a local synagogue, and the list goes on and on. At this level a person’s specific donation depends on his personal inclinations and his “willing heart.”
Rav Aharon Lichtenstein has spoken about the concept of “spiritual specialization” (see “By His Light,” ed. Reuven Ziegler, chap. 5). He points out that from a personal standpoint, the instinctive preference would likely be to become a “Renaissance man,” abandoning the idea of specialization in favor of trying to develop all aspects of one’s avodat Hashem equally. Why should someone excel only in, say, learning Torah, or in gemillut chesed, or in communal leadership, when one can do a little of each? On one level, this is unquestionably true; even the scholar steeped in his learning is obligated to perform chesed, and even the greatest ba’al tzedaka is required to learn Torah. These are part of the base-level “half-shekel” obligations. Beyond this, however, the communal interest is clearly best served when different people specialize in different areas. The mishkan could be built because each individual made a personal donation, unique and different from everyone else’s. Just as society needs specialists in medicine, law, construction, etc., and not people who dabble in all areas, so too does a halakhic society require roshei yeshiva, ba’alei tzedaka, ba’alei chesed, communal and organizational leaders, etc., in order to function properly.
On the individual level, too, much can be said for specialization. Someone who aspires to do a little of everything, like someone who tries to master all areas of knowledge, inevitably finds that he is “spreading himself too thin.” In order to fully develop as a religious personality, it is vital to locate one’s strengths and proclivities and to focus the available energies and resources accordingly. It is extremely important, though, that this specialization not come at the expense of the foundation level of obligatory mitzvot. Let no talmid chakham think that his learning late into the night exempts him from davening at the proper time the next morning, and let no ba’al chesed think that his meaningful work on a Friday afternoon allows him to be lax about when shabbat starts. Care must be taken to preserve the integrity of both levels of an individual’s service of G-d—on the one hand an unwavering commitment to shemirat mitzvot, and on the other a desire to develop in a personally chosen direction as a “specialist” in some area of religious endeavor.
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Parashat ha-Chodesh, after mentioning the month of Nisan, moves on to discuss the upcoming Exodus and the holiday of Pesach. The conjunction of these two may be seen as coincidental; the real purpose of God’s address to Moshe and Aharon is to relate to the events that are about to transpire in Egypt, and He prefaces this with the point that the first month of the Jewish year (of which the nation knows nothing yet) was just beginning. On another level, it is possible that the imminent events of the Exodus represent the reason why the month of Nisan is the first month of the year. Beyond this, though, the purpose of bringing up the month of Nisan here may be to make the point that the character of the entire month is molded by the holiday that lies at its center.
In the haggada we quote a midrash addressing the question of when exactly the mitzva of sippur yetziat mitzrayim is meant to be fulfilled. The midrash suggests that perhaps it can be fulfilled anytime from the beginning of the month of Nisan—“yakhol me’rosh chodesh?” Though this suggestion is rejected, the fact that it appears at all is an indication of the character of the month as a whole as the “month of redemption.” While we follow the opinion of the tanna kamma that discussions of the laws pertaining to Pesach should begin thirty days in advance of the holiday (Pesachim 6a, Megilla 29b), R. Shimon ben Gamliel dissents and limits the preparatory period to two weeks—i.e., from the start of Nisan—based on the opening verses of Parshat ha-Chodesh. It may be understood that the Tannaitic debate is not technical (how long does one need to review the relevant laws) but fundamental; should the period devoted to learning the laws of Pesach be determined based on how long it takes to review all of them (at least a month) or rather on the character of the period as an integral part of the recollection of the Exodus?
In fact, the phenomenon
of a month as a whole adopting a certain character based on what transpires
within it is one which permeates our calendar. Perhaps the most celebrated example (no
pun intended) is the month of Adar which we are soon to leave. The holiday of Purim occupies one day in
the center of the month, but as we all know, “mishe’nikhnas Adar marbin
be-simcha”. The entire month is
suffused with a sense of joy. The
megilla itself alludes to this fact: “and the month which was
turned unto them from sorrow to gladness” (
There are other
examples as well. Av is a month
characterized by sadness, and rosh chodesh ushers in a period of mourning
practices leading up to the climax of Tisha B’Av. Elul as a whole is considered a month of
repentance and introspection leading up to Rosh ha-Shana at the start of
Tishrei, whose conglomeration of holidays lends that month a unique character of
its own. In the short history of
the State of Israel, the anniversaries of both the achievement of independence
and the miraculous victory of the Six-Day War in the month of Iyar—the former at
its start and the latter at its close—have imbued that month with a sense of
national identification, memorial, and thanksgiving. Anyone glancing at the streets of
Part of the beauty of
our calendar is the way in which different months highlight different aspects of
our individual and collective identities.
The idea of characterizing a month as a whole allows us to transition
smoothly from one emphasis to another, easing our way into certain emotions and
memories before experiencing the climactic