Surf A Little Torah
Yeshivat Har Etzion

by Rav David Silverberg

Parashat Pekudei tells of the conclusion of the construction of the Mishkan. Towards the end of chapter 39, we read that those in charge brought all the various components before Moshe for his approval. One of the items listed as having been presented to Moshe is the "lechem ha-panim" – the "show bread," which, as we already saw in Parashat Teruma, was to be placed on the shulchan ("table") in the Mishkan each week. This otherwise innocuous piece of data becomes considerably more intriguing in light of Rashi's comments in Masekhet Menachot (45b). The Gemara there notes that the mitzva of "shetei ha-lechem" – the bread offering brought on Shavuot (see Vayikra 23:17) – did not apply during the years of Benei Yisrael's sojourn in the wilderness; it took effect only once they entered the Land of Israel. Rashi attributes this to the simple fact that Benei Yisrael had no bread in the wilderness; they lived exclusively off the miraculous manna that fell from the skies each morning. Clearly, then, the mitzva of "shetei ha-lechem" could not apply.

Tosefot, however, take issue with Rashi's assumption that Benei Yisrael had no bread in the wilderness. After all, as our verse explicitly mentions, Benei Yisrael somehow managed to produce the lechem ha-panim. How, then, could Rashi have claimed that Benei Yisrael had no bread in the wilderness?

One possible solution to this difficulty in Rashi's commentary was suggested by Rav Yaakov Aryeh Meisels, in an exchange of letters he shared with the famous "Imrei Emet" (one of the Rebbes of Ger), published in Rav Meisel's work, "Chedvat Yaakov." There he cites a comment of Rabbenu Efrayim (one of the Tosafists) that the manna resembled a type of dough, and Benei Yisrael used it for the baking of the menachot (flour offerings) and lechem ha-panim. We thus have an explicit source to the effect that Benei Yisrael did not use real bread for the lechem ha-panim, but rather manna. Therefore, the fact that, as mentioned in our parasha, Benei Yisrael baked lechem ha-panim does not contradict Rashi's assumption that they had no bread in the wilderness.

One question, however, remains. Recall that Rashi made this comment to explain why the mitzva of shetei ha-lechem did not apply in the wilderness. In light of this contention of Rabbenu Efrayim, that Benei Yisrael used the manna for the baking of the show-bread and menachot, the obvious question becomes why they could not do the same for the shetei ha-lechem. If manna could take the place of bread in the conditions of the wilderness, as Rabbenu Efrayim indicates, why couldn't it be used for the shetei ha-lechem?

Rav Meisels suggests a possible halakhic distinction between the requirements of menachot and lechem ha-panim on the one hand, and shetei ha-lechem on the other. In introducing the obligation of shetei ha-lechem, the Torah emphasizes that the two loaves must be baked from chametz, leaven, unlike all other flour offerings in the Temple, which could not be leavened. It follows, then, that the mitzva of shetei ha-lechem features a specific requirement that it be made from leavened dough – a requirement that could not be met by using the manna. As we know from the laws of Pesach, only flour processed from the five principal grains (wheat, barley, oats, rye and spelt) can technically qualify as chametz. (This is why potato starch, for example, is permitted – and commonly used - on Pesach.) Therefore, while manna could be used as a substitute for lechem ha-panim and menachot, it did not meet the criteria required for use in baking the shetei ha-lechem offering, which had to be made from chametz.

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Yesterday we saw that the Torah in Parashat Pekudei mentions that as part of their work in the construction of the Mishkan, Benei Yisrael also prepared the lechem ha-panim – the show-bread that was placed on the shulchan in the Mishkan (see 39:36). As we discussed, on this basis Tosefot (Menachot 45b) challenge Rashi's assertion (there in Menachot) that Benei Yisrael had no bread in the wilderness. We then saw one possible answer, by Rav Yaakov Aryeh Meisels, in his "Chedvat Yaakov," who notes that according to Rabbenu Efrayim, while in the wilderness Benei Yisrael used the manna to produce the lechem ha-panim.

The "Imrei Emet," one of the Rebbes of Gur, in correspondence with Rav Meisels, raised several difficulties against this theory of Rabbenu Efrayim. First, we read in Sefer Vayikra (24:5) that God ordered Moshe to prepare the lechem ha-panim, and He says, "You shall take choice flour and bake of it twelve loaves…" God makes it clear that the lechem ha-panim had to be made from "solet," choice flour; presumably, then, manna could not be used. Secondly, Chazal tell us that a special miracle occurred with regard to the lechem ha-panim: it was left out on the shulchan for a week without going spoiled or even losing its freshness. Now as we will recall from Parashat Beshalach, God strictly forbade leaving any manna over from one day to the next. If any manna were left over, it would rot and spoil. How, then, could Rabbenu Efrayim claim that manna was used for the lechem ha-panim and left there for an entire week?

The "Imrei Emet" proceeds to suggest an answer for this second question raised against Rabbenu Efrayim. He writes that his father, the famous "Sefat Emet," posed a question concerning the manna that fell on Friday. Recall that on Erev Shabbat, a double portion of manna fell and Benei Yisrael were specifically instructed to leave over a portion for Shabbat, on which no manna fell. Unlike the manna throughout the week, which would become inedible immediately the following morning, this Friday manna lasted through Shabbat. The Sefat Emet wondered whether or not it would last after Shabbat, as well. Was this manna essentially the same as the manna of the rest of the week, only that it did not spoil before the end of Shabbat, or was it of an entirely different nature, such that it did not turn bad even after Shabbat? The Sefat Emet concluded that the manna of Erev Shabbat would, in fact, turn spoiled after Shabbat, and this is indeed the clear implication of the Ramban, in his comments to Parashat Beshalach.

However, the Imrei Emet suggests, Rabbenu Efrayim may have held otherwise. He perhaps felt that the manna of Erev Shabbat possessed a unique quality, separate and apart from regular manna. This would then resolve the second question raised against his comment concerning the lechem ha-panim. Benei Yisrael could have used manna left over from Shabbat for the baking of the lechem ha-panim, and it would not spoil the following day.

Needless to say, this does not resolve the first question discussed, that the verse in Sefer Vayikra appears to specifically require flour for the baking of the lechem ha-panim.

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Parashat Pekudei begins with the accounting conducted by Moshe Rabbenu of all the precious metals donated towards the construction of the Mishkan. As many Midrashim comment, Moshe prepared such an accounting in order to avoid any accusations of mishandling the contributions and siphoning off some for his own personal use. The Midrash Tanchuma writes as follows: "He [Moshe] heard the cynics of the generation talking about him, as it says, 'It was, when Moshe would go out… and they would look after Moshe' (Shemot 33:8). What would they say? Rabbi Yitzchak interprets this verse as referring to praise… [Benei Yisrael would praise Moshe for the fact that he had communion with the Shekhina.] Rabbi Ami interprets the verse as referring to insults…" According to the second view, many among Benei Yisrael would look at Moshe's strong, healthy build and comment to one another how their money is going towards Moshe's robust diet. Others would then add, "What do you expect? Someone in charge of gold and silver coins for the Mishkan – of course he will be wealthy!" Aware of all this murmuring, Moshe responsibly presented the people with a detailed record of what was used with all the donations.

While the message of this Midrash is relatively clear, its presentation seems awkward. Why does the Midrash digress to present the view of Rabbi Yitzchak, that those who "looked after" Moshe did so admiringly, rather than critically? How does this contribute to the discussion at hand? The Midrash here seeks to explain that Moshe prepared his report to avoid accusation; doesn't this explanation follow the second view, rather than that of Rabbi Yitzchak? If so, then why is Rabbi Yitzchak's view mentioned here at all?

Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his "Yalkut Yehuda," suggests that in fact both views directly relate to the discussion in this passage. What could have potentially prompted Moshe to make this accounting, the Tanchuma informs us, is either those who accused Moshe, or those who spoke in his favor. The respect and admiration of people necessarily charges an individual with a higher standard, it places upon his shoulders a heavier responsibility. Even according to Rabbi Yitzchak, Moshe's accounting was in order. Knowing how admired he was for his prophetic stature, he had to avoid any possible situation where it could appear – no matter how remotely – that he acted improperly, that he cheated his constituency. Such an accusation would cause a terrible chillul Hashem (desecration of God's Name). This Midrash thus follows both views, for even according to Rabbi Yitzchak, that nobody had accused Moshe heretofore, and to the contrary, he received only the warmest compliments and highest respect, this reputation itself warranted a detailed report of his handling of the contributions.

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The final verse of Sefer Shemot describes the appearance of God's Presence in the Mishkan. By day, the Shekhina appeared in the form of clouds, whereas by night the cloud was replaced by fire. The Midrash Ha-gadol on this verse reveals the underlying symbolism behind this system:

According to this Midrash, the cloud-fire cycle symbolizes the survival of Benei Yisrael from the flames of their enemies, their ultimate triumph over oppression, and the constancy of the Shekhina's residence among them. Regardless of how many fires are set to the spiritual "Mishkan" of Benei Yisrael, morning rises again, and the pillar of cloud supplants the pillar of fire.

This analogy may perhaps be extended to apply to the previous two verses, as well. Just before describing the two pillars, the Torah tells of how God's Presence in the Mishkan regulated Benei Yisrael's travel through the wilderness. So long as the clouds remained in place hovering over the Mishkan, Benei Yisrael encamped. When the cloud rose, Benei Yisrael picked up and embarked on the next leg of their journey. They would continue marching until the cloud lowered, at which point they would encamp and remain in place until the cloud rose once again.

This, too, may be seen homiletically as symbolic of Benei Yisrael's experience through exile. There is something more than disconcerting about arriving in a place without knowing the length of stay. Should they unpack their bags? Should they make themselves settled, anticipating a one- or two-year encampment, or should they keep their shoes on and bags packed, prepared to resume travel in a few hours? And during travel, Benei Yisrael never knew how much time was left. Looking at their watches or the odometer would give them no indication of when they could expect reaching their next destination. Their only source of security was the pillar that led the way or hovered over the Mishkan, the Presence of God that they confidently trusted to chart their journey. Their otherwise perpetual uncertainty was eliminated by the ever-present Shekhina which they saw, felt and followed throughout their sojourn.

This picture accurately describes the Jewish people's journey through history, as well. Wherever we arrived, we never knew for how long we would stay. Whenever we were banished, we never knew how long it would take before we would land on safe shores. But all throughout, we found comfort and solace in the invisible yet tangible Presence of God that charts our path. Our security lay in our trust in the Almighty whose mysterious cloud continues to lead us and guide us through the inhospitable "wilderness" of exile. Many times, this pillar of cloud suddenly transformed into a raging fire that appeared ready to consume our entire Mishkan. But that fire has always turned back into a cloud, we arose after the long night of darkness to find the Mishkan standing firm, tall and proud. The "pillar of cloud" has always served as our only source of security and comfort, and it is that same pillar that will continue leading us to our ultimate destination, speedily and in our days.

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Parashat Pekudei opens with a detailed account of how the metals donated for the construction of the Mishkan were used. The Torah tells that the silver came from the machatzit ha-shekel tax levied upon all males over the age of twenty. These 603,550 men contributed an amount described by the Torah as "100 talents and 1,775 shekels" (38:25). The one hundred talents were used to make the one hundred "adanim" – the sockets in which the boards of the Mishkan were held in place; each socket consisted of a talent of silver. As for the remaining shekels of silver, the Torah says, "And of the 1,775 shekels he made hooks for the posts, overlay for their tops and bands around them" (38:28). In other words, this silver was used to make the accessories for the "amudei he-chatzer" – the posts, or pillars, that stood around the outer courtyard of the Mishkan.

The Midrash Tanchuma on this parasha (9) adds some details regarding this accounting of the silver. As we discussed earlier this week (based on an earlier passage in the Midrash Tanchuma), there were those among Benei Yisrael who did not fully trust Moshe honesty with the precious metals donated to the Mishkan, thus necessitating this record. He therefore accounted for the one hundred talents of silver, which went towards the one hundred sockets. Somehow, however, Moshe forgot about the accessories for the amudim; he could not recall what he did with the remaining 1,775 shekels of silver. The Almighty then "illuminated his eyes" (according to Rabbenu Bachye's version of this Midrash, a Heavenly voice issued a declaration) and reminded him of the hooks of the amudim made from the remaining silver.

What does this incident come to teach us? What does it mean that Moshe "forgot" about the amudim?

Rav Shimon Schwab zt"l, in his "Ma'ayan Bet Ha-sho'eiva," suggests a symbolic reading of this Midrash. Moshe's orientation was to a large extent focused on the interior of the Mishkan. God spoke to him from the kodesh ha-kodashim, the innermost sanctum of the Tabernacle. This orientation, this "interior" mindset, led to a small measure of neglect – to whatever extent one can make such an accusation against Moshe Rabbenu – of the outer circle, the commoners. Moshe's intensive involvement in the most sacred chambers of the Mishkan, his constant communion with God, may have caused him to "forget" the pillars in the courtyard, the people he leads and represents that have not found their way inside as he has. God therefore reminded him, so-to-speak, of those outer layers, that his intensive engagement with the Shekhina may not rin his neglect of the commoners among the people.

If this approach is correct, it may help explain how this mysterious suspicion arose in the first place. Why would Benei Yisrael accuse Moshe of stealing their money? In light of Rav Schwab's comments, one may suggest that a barrier of sorts stood in between Moshe and the people; they perhaps saw him as too far inside the Mishkan, not sufficiently aware of and involved in the more "worldly" existence outside, along the periphery. Such a barrier, this kind of perceived detachment, naturally results in suspicion and mistrust. The more distanced the people felt from Moshe, the less they could trust him with their wealth. God therefore urged Moshe to focus not only on the Mishkan's interior, but on its outer perimeter, as well, and try to relate to all members of the nation, even those situated along the periphery.

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We read in Parashat Pekudei of the assembly of the Mishkan after the completion of all its parts. Among the stages described involved the preparation of the aron – the ark: "He [Moshe] took the Pact [the two tablets] and placed it in the ark; he fixed the poles to the ark, placed the cover on top of the ark, and brought the ark inside the Mishkan" (40:20-21). Interestingly, Moshe does not immediately place the kaporet (covering) over the ark after putting the tablets inside. He first affixes the poles to the ark and only then covers it. The question, of course, is why. Intuitively, we would have perhaps expected to cover the ark immediately after placing the tablets inside, before affixing the poles.

Rav Eliezer David Greenwald, in his "Keren Le-David," suggests a homiletic explanation to this sequence by examining the symbolism behind the poles of the ark on the one hand, and the kaporet on the other. As many Midrashim indicate, the ark itself symbolizes Torah, specifically a student or scholar of Torah. (Thus, for example, as we discussed in our series for Parashat Teruma, the gold plating on the interior and exterior of the ark symbolizes the need for consistency on the part of a Torah scholar, that his inner being correspond to his outward behavior.) The badim, or poles, of the ark, which were used for transporting the aron, are often viewed as representative of those who "carry" Torah, meaning, those who support Torah scholars and institutions. In Parashat Teruma, the Torah requires that the poles remain attached to the ark at all times (25:15), an obligation seen by many as alluding to the fact that even those who support Torah must still "attach" themselves directly to Torah, that they themselves must invest some time and effort in learning.

The kaporet, the Keren Le-David suggests (based on earlier sources), symbolizes the humility required of a Torah scholar. Just as the kaporet concealed the tablets inside the ark, so must a student of Torah "conceal" his learning; he mustn't flaunt his scholarship or strive for notoriety or fame on account of his academic achievements. However, the Keren Le-David claims, this obligation of "concealment" comes with an important qualification. Though it constitutes the ideal, it may nevertheless be violated at one's early stages of development as an impetus for further growth and achievement. One's learning still has value even should it be accompanied by an eye towards honor and recognition, if this ambition helps one progress in his studies. This provision is expressed in the famous dictum, "One should always involve himself in Torah even not for its sake; for out of [learning] not for its sake, he will come to [learn] for its sake." Thus, even study without a "kaporet," without the element of humility, has value, as it serves as an important stepping-stone to the next stage, where one studies with the proper intentions and motives.

Combining these two symbolic approaches, to the kaporet and to the poles, we may perhaps explain why the poles were affixed even before the ark was covered. Torah study must be supported and encouraged even if it has yet to reach the optimum level. The attachment of the poles to the uncovered ark represents facilitating Torah learning at even the initial stages, where the student requires incentives of reward or prestige. Torah study is a multi-step process; we must therefore encourage and support even the initial stages, in the hope that they will lead the students to the later stages, when they have developed the proper attitude towards the study and practice of Torah.

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The final pasuk in Parashat Pekudei reads, "For over the Mishkan was a cloud of the Lord by day, and fire would appear on it by night, in the view of all the house of Israel throughout their journeys." As we discussed earlier this week, the cloud and fire on the Mishkan regulated Benei Yisrael's travel: they would encamp so long as the cloud or fire rested on the Mishkan, and would pick up and travel once the cloud or fire lifted (see previous verses). In light of this, the final words of this last verse – "be-khol mas'eihem" ("throughout their journeys"), requires some explanation. The cloud and fire did not appear only "throughout their journeys," as Benei Yisrael traveled; they were there at all times, even during the periods of encampment. Why, then, does this final verse describe the fire and cloud as hovering over the Mishkan only throughout Benei Yisrael's journeys?

Interestingly enough, Rashi appears to interpret the verse as referring specifically to the periods of encampment, and not at all to the periods of travel. He comments on this verse, "In every trip on which they went, the cloud would rest in the place where they would encamp." This is what the verse speaks of – the cloud's resting when Benei Yisrael encamped. Rashi continues by addressing the obvious question of how the verse could describe their encampment as "their journeys": "Their place of encampment is also called ‘masa' [journeying]… because from the place of encampment they continued traveling." According to Rashi, the fact that Benei Yisrael eventually embarked from every point of encampment to continue their journey renders these encampments eligible for the description, "mas'eihem" – "their journeys." Why? If Benei Yisrael temporarily settled in a given area, why would this stopover be called a "journey" due simply to their ultimate departure from that site?

Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg explains that these encampments are referred to as "journeys" because they helped facilitate the next leg of the journey. A stopover for purposes of gathering strength and energy to continue further may indeed be defined as a "trip" insofar as it constitutes a necessary contribution to the trip.

In effect, then, Rashi here teaches that if activity A helps enable activity B, then a person involved in activity A may be said to be currently involved in activity B. Since he engages in that which will ultimately lead to B, we may view him as already involved in activity B.

Rav Ginsburg proceeds to apply this concept to religious life in general. Though human beings obviously cannot be expected to devote all their time to inherently sacred pursuits, and the human condition requires man's involvement in ordinary, mundane activities, we nevertheless have the opportunity to transform even those mundane pursuits into something meaningful and holy. To the extent to which our ordinary activities are seen as a means to avodat Hashem rather than an end unto themselves, they themselves become a form of avodat Hashem. Just as a stopover for fuel is considered a journey insofar as it facilitates the next leg of travel, so do our "stopovers" from Torah and mitzvot become sanctified when they are intended to enable us to serve our Creator. With the proper perspective, even our "encampments" can be transformed into "journeys."

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