25.2.05

Parashat Ki Tisa

One of Purim’s many colorful traditions is to dress in costume; these disguises serve a reminder that one cannot conceal his true identity forever. Such was true of Haman, who conspired with Achashveirosh to vanquish the kingdom of its worthless rebels, the Jews. Haman is eventually unveiled as the foe of an innocent nation and the usurper of the king’s power. The same is true of the Jews, who were beginning to lose faith in Hashem, as was demonstrated by their attendance at Achashveirosh’s feast. By the end of the Megilah, however, the nation does Teshuva and are well on their way to rebuilding the Beis HaMikdash within a few short years.

Lastly, we see this trait within Hashem Himself. His name does not appear once in the entire Megilah, but by the end of the incredible story, it becomes apparent just how large a role He plays within every detail of the unfolding plot. Thus does Hester Panim, the hiding of one’s face, become an underlying theme within the Megilah. It’s no coincidence then that the only mask we ever see mentioned in the Torah, Moshe’s Masveh, should be mentioned in a parasha that invariably coincides with the month of Adar.

Parashat Ki Tisa closes on a rather odd note, detailing the precise function of Moshe’s mask. The Torah never tells us where Moshe got this mask from; as soon as he finishes talking to the nation, he puts it on. Out of nowhere. Then it carefully describes exactly when Moshe would put it on and take it off; the procedure was to take it off upon entering the Ohel Mo’eid, to speak to Hashem, and to not put it back on until after having transmitted Hashem’s message to the people.

A hasty reading of these pasukim suggests that Moshe wore the mask to keep the people from being frightened of him. The first time they saw him, they refused to approach; Aharon first crept out to greet Moshe, then his sons, then the Zikeinim, and then the rest of the nation. But if Moshe decided to wear a mask in order not to startle the nation, why wouldn’t he wear it while relating Hashem’s message to them? A possible answer is that Moshe wanted to scare the people into listening to Hashem while addressing them, but didn’t want them to live in fear of him at all times; therefore, he wore the mask when he did not need to scare the nation into keeping the Mitzvos. However, this answer does not rest well, for Shmiras HaMitzvos is by no means a seasonal obligation, and if Moshe thought wearing the mask would help strike Morei Shamayim into the hearts of the nation, he would have no incentive to ever wear a Masveh in the first place.

The term Masveh itself suggests that the mask was for Moshe’s sake and not for the people’s. If the Hebrew term meant something like “shield” or “mask,” one could presume that the purpose it served was for those shielded from Moshe’s radiant face. But instead, Rashi notes, the Samech-Vav-Hey shoresh means “Habata,” gazing. It was the mask that allowed Moshe to look around because it had two slits for his eyes. This definition almost takes for granted the fact that Moshe had to wear a mask, implying that there was an obvious necessity to shielding Moshe’s face, a necessity much more urgent than calming the Jews. Indeed, Rashi says the Masveh served to protect the Kavod of Moshe’s Karnayim.

But Rashi’s Ha’arah – no pun intended – creates another question. From where did Moshe acquire these Karnayim in the first place that they should possess some certain subjective Kavod that Moshe must protect? We assume that the Karnayim were a gift to Moshe, a physical display of the holiness or splendor he possessed; but instead, we are now forced to claim that they were splendorous on their own right. What then did these Karnayim represent?

“And from where did Moshe receive these Karnei HaHod? Rav Yehuda Bar Nachman says in Reish Lakish’s name that when Moshe wrote the words instructed [by Hashem in pasuk 27], he left over extra [ink], and Hashem passed [that ink] over Moshe’s head, thus giving him Karnei Hahod. Therefore, the pasuk says, “And Moshe did not know his face was glowing…”
Tanchuma Ki Tisa, 37

What a strange pasuk to cite as proof! The Midrash offers more than one explanation for the Karnayim’s source, like when Hashem covered Moshe’s face with His hand (when He placed Moshe in the Nikras HaTzur and passed His Kavod by), the contact left this residual radiance. Since the pasuk says explicitly that Moshe didn’t know his face was glowing, even this opinion must conclude that Moshe was not aware that his contact with Hashem’s hand left any physical change to his face. So why would Reish Lakish use this pasuk to prove his opinion if every other explanation suggests that Moshe remained unaware afterward? Furthermore, at least the alternate opinion cited above explains why the Karnayim were not merely a reflection of Moshe’s own Kavod; they came directly from Hashem’s hand. But if they are the product of Moshe’s leftover ink, then Reish Lakish hasn’t even addressed the most vital aspect of the Midrash’s question!

The Eitz Yoseif answers that Reish Lakish’s proof actually comes from the continuation of the pasuk. The pasuk first states that Moshe decended with the Luchot, and then it mentions that he did not know his face was glowing, “Lo Yadah Ki Karan Or Panav BiDabiro Ito,” when he spoke with Hashem. The ending of the pasuk creates a dissonance in chronology, and therefore Reish Lakish comes to explain the meaning of these last two words. Because of their juxtaposition to Moshe’s glowing features, we attribute these words as the source of his Karnayim.

In order to understand the significance of Moshe’s leftover ink, we must first understand the importance of Moshe’s writing down Hashem’s words on Har Sinai (pasuk 27). If we examine the pesuchos and stumos of the parasha, we actually find that the final paragraph of this week’s sedrah begins with these instructions and ends with the Karnei HaHod, so there must be some connection between the two topics. Hashem commands, “K’sav Licha Es HaDivarim HaEileh,” which Chazal identify as exclusively the words of the Torah SheBiChtav. Hashem says to write them, implying that Torah SheBiAl Peh is not to be written. The pasuk clearly stresses the significance of Torah SheBiChtav. The gemara even states that the Mattan Torah of the Midbar was incomplete because the Bnei Yisrael only accepted Torah SheBiChtav, and Torah SheBiAl Peh was not NiKabeil until the time of Purim. This suggests that Hashem’s Bris did not obligate us to follow the Torah SheBiAl Peh.

It should therefore come as total shock that the “Devarim HaEileh” in the continuation of the pasuk, “…Ki Al Pi HaDivarim HaEileh Karati Iticha Bris ViEs Yisrael,” are labeled as Torah SheBiAl Peh by Chazal! What purpose does Torah SheBiAl Peh serve if the gemara clearly frees the nation from their obligations to the Unwritten Law until after the days of Mordechai and Ester? The Midrash Rabbah in this week’s parasha (47:4) offers an answer. “You shall not replace the words of Torah SheBiAl Peh with the words of Torah SheBiChtav, nor vice versa, for if you do, you will have violated this Bris.” Normally, we consider the treatment of a Mitzvah DiRabbanan as if it were a DiOreisa to be a violation of Ba’al Toseif, but a violation of our Bris with Hashem?!

Perhaps this Bris that the Midrash speaks of concerns a time prior to our Kabalas HaTorah SheBiAl Peh, before Purim. Until the Bnei Yisrael were truly ready to accept the endless Torah SheBiAl Peh (endless, as the pasuk in Koheles (12:12) says: “Asos Seforim Ein Keitz”), their only obligation was not to observe it, but only to recognize its infinite depth. In order to facilitate this recognition, Moshe spent his final forty days on Har Sinai learning the Torah SheBiAl Peh to the best of his ability and understanding (see Ba’al HaTurim to pasuk 28). When he left Har Sinai and returned to the nation, he possessed a large, though partial, understanding of Oral Law, enough for Bnei Yisrael to recognize the Torah’s tremendous depth, even if they weren’t meant to practice Halacha accordingly.

This is why Reish Lakish’s drasha comes from the words BiDabiro Ito. Reish Lakish held that the source of these Karnayim was the splendor and depth of the Torah SheBiAl Peh, and its radiance was the product of Moshe’s understanding (it’s no coincidence that at the time of Kimu ViKiblu in Migilas Ester, we say LaYehudim Hayisa Orah). And because Moshe was forbidden from writing down the Torah SheBiAl Peh, we attribute the source of these Karnayim to the leftover ink.

We also now recognize that the Karnei HaHod did in fact bear their own Kavod. Moshe’s mask did not shield the nation from seeing the light; rather, the mask shielded the light from shining into the aspects of this world where they did not belong, namely anything other than the transmission of Torah from Hashem to the Bnei Yisrael. Moshe wanted the people to see his Karnayim, he wanted them to recognize the Hod and depth within Hashem’s Torah SheBiChtav. At first they were scared that he would try to force Torah SheBiAl Peh on them as well, but those fears soon subsided.

Why the Torah SheBiAl Peh was a necessary element within our reestablished Bris with Hashem is a separate topic, one that deeply connects to the problems with the Bnei Yisrael’s worship of an Eigel Maseicha. Let us explore it very briefly. The Eigel was a solution to our lack of connection to Hashem. In Moshe’s absence, the people panicked and sought a more direct connection to their G-d; the Eigel was not intended as an alternative deity, but rather as an intermediary to Hashem. But what the Eigel lacked, unlike Torah SheBial Peh, was excruciating complexity. Maseicha, it should be noted, is a play on words, for while its simple meaning within the pasuk is “metal,” the word can also mean “mask.” The Eigel, above all, masked the greatness and splendor of Hashem and His Torah, and so the Bris established afterwards needed to address a much different facet of our relationship to HaKadosh Baruch Hu.

We think of Torah SheBiAl Peh – the Mishnayos, Gemara, and myriad of later Peirushim – as an addendum to the Torah SheBiChtav; we think of it as an explanation of what was left vague and interpretable in the Tanach. But we rarely ever consider the values of these books’ drawn out methods of exegesis, the values of their lengthy conversations over oxen and eggs. We rarely consider how close a generation like Rabbi Akiva’s was able to come to Hashem, though they lived over a thousand years after Mattan Torah. Today, now two thousand years later, we should realize and recognize that as hard as we find it to reconnect with the generations of the Mishnayos or of Mattan Torah, there is one advantage we do possess – two thousand years of Amoraim, Ge’onim, Rishonim, and Achronim, all masterfully prepared to teach us how little we truly understand about Hashem and His Torah SheBiChtav.

Good Shabbos, and a Mazel Tov to the thousands of individuals who will be completing the Shisha Sidrei Talmud this upcoming Tuesday.

18.2.05

Parashat Titzaveh

Since the introduction of Moshe Rabbeinu into the storyline of the Torah, is has become difficult to deny his role as the central character of the Chumash; in fact Moshe’s name appears in all but one parasha of the Torah’s middle three books. That one parasha is this week’s, Titzaveh.

But try not to think of Titzaveh as the parasha with the fewest appearances of Moshe’s name; instead, consider that this parasha contains the most mentions of Aharon’s name. In fact, Aharon’s name is mentioned more times in Titzaveh than it is in the other parashiot of the Torah, combined. It’s not much of a surprise; after all, this is the parasha that deals with the Kehuna and the Bigadim, and the daily Avoda of the Kohein.

However, there are two pasukim that simply don’t belong. The Rambam writes that the lighting of the menorah is not an Avoda exclusively designated for the Kohein; even a Zar is fit for the job. Tecnichally, the Zar can’t enter the Mikdash or else he’d be Chaiv Misah, but if we bring the Menorah out to him, or if he lights with a really long candle, or some other imaginative method of circumventing the caveats, there’s nothing wrong with anyone performing this aspect of the Avoda. And yet the parasha that, from beginning to end, describes Kehuna in the greatest of detail and all the Avodos exclusive to it begins with this very Avoda, the lighting of the Menorah.

Perhaps even more astounding, once we consider the peculiar absence of Moshe’s name, is the fact that the first word of the parasha, ViAtta, is directly addressing Moshe! If this truly is Aharon’s parasha, why begin with someone else?! The pasuk continues: “Titzaveh Es Bnei Yisrael ViYikchu Eilechah Shemen Zayis Zach…” command Bnei Yisrael to take to you pure olive oil. In Terumah, Hashem commanded the nation to take “Li,” to Him, and if anything were to change in Hashem’s instructions, one would expect Hashem to tell Moshe to take “LiAharon;” after all, this is Aharon’s parasha. However, Hashem instructs that the people bring this Shemen to Moshe. The next pasuk clearly states “BiOhel Mo’eid MiChutz LaParoches Asher Al HaEidus Ya’aroch Oso Aharon…” Aharon is the one who will set up the oil and the Menorah for use, so why would Hashem ever consider giving the Shemen to Moshe?

“ViAtta Tishufenu Akeiv,” “ViAtta Timshal Bo,” ViAtta Es Brisi Tishmor,” ViAtta Tavo El Avosecha,” “Viatta TiHiyeh Lo LeiLohim.” Though the language is the same as the beginning of our parasha, none of these pasukim describes a command. Instead, the lashon of ViAtta seems to suggest or foretell a natural occurrence, like snakes biting people, or Avraham’s descendants keeping the Torah, or Moshe winning his battle against Paroh. Perhaps the ViAtta in this week’s parasha is no different.

The Midrash Tanchuma on Titzaveh relates a rather well known story, but connects it to a lesser-known source. The Midrash tells of how each of the Nissi’im brough a donation to the Mishkan when it was finally inaugurated, and how Aharon was very disappointed that his Sheivet did not have a representative in this festive, spontaneous, ceremony. Hashem saw Aharon’s dismay and cheered him up; “I saved the best for you,” Hashem consoled him. “You get to light the Menorah.” The Midrash explains: “This is why Hashem commanded Moshe to take the Shemen LaMa’or, as it says...”

The connection makes no sense. Moshe had to take the Shemen anyhow; it was one of the materials listed in last week’s parasha. How would the command in Titzaveh have anything to do with the command in BiHa’alosicha five months later, especially if Aharon had not yet gotten upset. But if we recognize the fact that this was not a command but rather a foretelling or suggestion, we can make a lot of sense out of both this Midrash and these first two pasukim. Hashem says to Moshe, “Look, I know that Aharon’s going to be very upset in a few months when the Nissi’im come with all their gifts, and I know that he’s going to feel left out. So why don’t you go out and find him a nice gift. I understand that you already commanded the nation to donate whatever they have to the building of the Mishkan, but for the sake of your brother, why don’t you go out yourself and get some of Klal Yisrael to chip in for a gift to Aharon. Get him some Shemen for lighting the Menorah. It’s what you naturally should do.”

The Ramban explains, and Rashi alludes, in pasuk 28:5, that aside from the regular collection of materials we discussed last week, there were people designated to take care of Aharon’s and his sons’ Bigdei Kehuna from a separate supply of materials, a supply they collected directly from the nation. It’s not so far fetched, then, to suggest that Moshe himself asked around for a few items in Aharon’s sake. But why then would Hashem instruct Moshe to collect the Shemen; why not just designate more workers for this job? Why does the nation bring the Shemen to Moshe so Moshe can hand it to Aharon on the day of Chanukas HaMishkan?

There is a much more basic question to be asked here: why wasn’t Moshe the Kohein Gadol in the first place? Rashi explains in Shemos that Moshe in fact was originally intended to serve as the Kohein Gadol, but since he humbly refused to take a position above his older brother Aharon as the leader of the nation and Hashem’s messenger to Paroh, Hashem punished him by stripping him of this future role. Hashem explains to Moshe, “Halo Aharon Achicha HaLeivi… Hu Yotzei LiKrasicha.” Hashem informed Aharon that Moshe was chosen to address Paroh on His behalf, and Aharon was happy to hear the news. In fact, he was on his way to greet Moshe and congratulate him. Hashem’s lesson to Moshe was clear. It’s one thing to refuse honor out of humility and respect of others, but it’s a much more noble trait to consult others before accepting honor, and had Moshe thought to consult Aharon and seen his joy, he would’ve been more than happy to assume the position.

It is fair then to assume Aharon possessed this trait, since he was the man who replaced Moshe as the Kohein Gadol. However, it was surely very difficult for Aharon to ask Moshe whether he was happy or dismayed with Hashem’s decision. Moshe would of course respond that Hashem’s choice was the proper choice, but it rested in the backs of both their minds that Moshe truly was supposed to be the Kohein Gadol. And without addressing this feeling of disapproval, there would have been something incomplete about Aharon’s Avoda. Therefore, Hashem suggested that Moshe bring Aharon a gift.

Amazingly, the entire point of “ViAtta Titzaveh” is for Hashem’s talk with Moshe to be a suggestion. Had it been a command, Moshe would have followed Hashem’s instructions and the gift would lack sincerity. Because Moshe was never ordered to collect this extra Shemen for his brother, the gift on the first of Nissan was the act that proved to Aharon how much his younger brother approved of his appointment as Kohein Gadol.

Not only do we see how the Rambam can conclude, against our initial understanding of these pasukim, why the Ha’alas Neirot is not Aharon’s exclusive role, but we now can also understand how a simple bottle of oil cheered Aharon up even after watching each Nassi bring a lavish offering to the Mizbei’ach. Though the Nissi’im each brought identical offerings, they did not consult each other. Each came to the same conclusion (as to what would be an appropriate gift for the Chanukas HaMizbei’ach) on his own, but they never consulted each other; therefore, the sacrifices they offered were nothing more than gifts from individuals. Aharon’s Avoda, on the other hand, was actively supported by Moshe, and the Shemen was donated by the nation; therefore, Aharon’s Avoda was not an individual’s offering, but rather on behalf of all bnei Yisrael. Only after Aharon witnessed the approval of his younger brother was he able to perform Avoda wholeheartedly. Though the Ha’alas Neiros was planned, contrast to the Nissi’im’s spontaneity, Aharon’s Avoda bore more much more meaning to Hashem because of its communal conference.

Parashat Titzaveh may be Aharon’s parasha, but what would Aharon’s Avoda mean without Moshe’s approval? These first two pasukim are the reflection of Hashem’s careful planning, making sure that Aharon will serve his proper purpose come the time when the Shchina rests within the Machaneh, and making sure that Moshe will comfortably serve his proper purpose as Aharon’s and his sons’ instructor during the Shivas Yimei HaMiluim, without having to worry about what thoughts are running through each other’s mind. And now that the brother’s are at ease with each other, Hashem can continue with His instructions.

“ViAtta Hakreiv Es Aharon Achicha…”

10.2.05

Parashat Terumah

The Midrash teaches us that this week’s parasha, Parashat Terumah, did not actually occur immediately after Mattan Torah, but rather after the Cheit HaEigel. After receiving the Torah, Moshe went up to Har Sinai for forty days on three separate occasions, and the last day of that third trip was Yom Kippur, the day we were finally forgiven for the Cheit. The Midrash Tanchuma comments that as soon as we were forgiven, Hashem began instructing Moshe regarding the construction of the Mishkan; therefore, this week’s parasha actually takes place on Yom Kippur.

Strangely enough, this parasha doesn’t seem to have anything to do with Yom Kippur. It was the Machatzis HaShekel that served as a full Kapara for the Cheit HaEigel, not the material donations that went to build the Mishkan. The theme of Kapara doesn’t even appear once this week, though it is mentioned over and over in next week’s parasha, Titzaveh. Why connection then does the Midrash see between Yom Kippur and the Mishkan; what makes the command to build a Mishkan such an urgent matter that Hashem began instructing us immediately?

Hashem’s command to build the Mishkan is itself a strange request. The pasuk says “ViYikchu Li Tirumah,” take a donation for Me, and Rashi explains that while the donation of money and materials for the Mishkan was entirely voluntary and not a mitzvah, that the word “Li” in the pasuk does not mean “to Me” or “for Me” but rather “Lishmi,” or “in My name.” Where does Rashi see this within the words of the pasuk? Why can’t it just mean “to Me” or “for Me” like it does almost everywhere else in the Torah? What inspires Rashi to comment here on such a basic word.

The Mizrachi, troubled by this question, attempts a possible answer. Since Hashem owns everything, the Mizrachi reasons, it would be impossible to give anything to Him. Therefore, the word “Li” makes no sense within the context of the pasuk and must mean something other than its usual meaning. The Levush HaOrah is troubled by this answer; just because Hashem owns everything, people can still possess objects as well. That’s how we donate our property to Hekdash or bring an animal as a Korban. Instead, the Levush HaOrah suggests, Rashi is troubled by the use of the word ViYikchu instead of ViYitnu. Normally one “gives” a contribution, not “takes” it; therefore, the word “Li” cannot mean “to Me.” The Mizrachi, however, poses an argument against the Levush HaOrah’s understanding. Why would Rashi be troubled over the use of the word VaYikchu here and not anywhere else in the Torah when such an expression is used, like “Kicheh Li Eglah Mishuleshes” or “Kach Li MiSham Shenei Gid’ei Izim?”

The strongest question on both the Mizrachi and Levush HaOrah comes from a completely different source. When Hashem says “ViAsu Li Mikdash ViShachanti BiSocham,” Rashi notes that this use of the word “Li” also means “LiShmi.” But if Rashi were troubled that Hashem already owns everything, then Hashem would still need someone to build the Mishkan for Him even if He owns the supplies. And if
Rashi were troubled by the phrase “ViYikchu Li,” then the phrase “ViAsu Li” would pose no difficulty. So why couldn’t this pasuk just mean “to Me” or “for Me” like everywhere else?

Perhaps what troubles Rashi about these opening pasukim stems from another Midrash in this week’s parasha. Hashem commands Moshe to build beams for the Mishkan: “ViAsisa Es HaKirashim LiMishkan.” Why doesn’t the pasuk just say “HaKirashim Mishkan?” The word “Mishkan” means the object inside which the Shchina rests, so technically the beams themselves were the Mishkan, not a component for the Mishkan. The Midrash deduces from this extra Lamed that the word Mishkan is really a play on words; it also means Mashkon, and that these beams would someday serve LiMashkon, as collateral. The Midrash explains that if the Bnei Yisrael were ever, Chas ViShalom, deserving of destruction, Hashem could take the Mishkan from them and hold onto it until the nation would pay back its debt (do teshuva). Throughout history, the Mishkan and Batei Mikdash have been seized and restored seized and restored, all depending on our “debt” to Hakodesh Baruch Hu.

The concept behind collateral is that the lender collects a piece of property from the man in debt and does not return the property until he has been repaid. But if Hashem were to own the Mishkan, then He could never seize it from Klal Yisrael as a form of collateral. Had we donated our gold and silver and wood and hides and gems to Hashem, had we made those materials Hashem’s personal possessions, then the Mishkan wouldn’t be ours and Hashem would have nothing to take from us in place of punishment.

It is now clear why the word “Li” in the begining of the parasha couldn’t possibly mean that we donated, took, or gave anything to Hashem. The Mishkan we build for Hashem, it is crucial to note, is not Hashem’s building. It is ours. Rashi comments on the word Terumah itself that it is a Hafrasha; this means that the materials we donate don’t leave our possession, but rather we simply separate them from the rest of our property. They are Kodesh because we keep them separate, not because we forfeit ownership to Hashem. And because of their separation, a form of donation that when done properly can never be reversed, they retain their holiness even in a time when the nation finds itself steeped in impurity, they retain their value as worthy collateral.

The Rambam includes ViAsu Li Mikdash in his Minyan HaMitzvot; every generation, he writes, bears the obligation of building or maintaining the Beis HaMikdash. But while every generation needs a Mikdash for Hashem, only this generation was commanded to build a Mishkan (or Mashkon). Within this donation described in the first pasuk was the very mechanism by which Hashem could establish this “Mishkan” as a possible collateral for the Bnei Yisrael, as a potential Kapara for any of their future sins. And this first donation is what guarantees us that the Third Beis HaMikdash will eventually be built as soon as we repay our debt. We can always feel secure, no matter how low we sink, that Hashem will never stop collecting our Mitzvos, our payments. What more appropriate day could there be for this command than Yom Kippur.

Good Shabbos.

3.2.05

Parashat Mishpatim

“A palace, Shlomo HaMelech made for him.” (Shir HaShirim 3:9)
Rabbi Azariah, in the name of Rabbi Yehuda Bar Rabbi Simmon, interpreted this verse to refer to the Mishkan. A parable: A king once had a daughter. Before she grew up, he would constantly be seen with her in the marketplace and talk with her in public. In the courtyard, in the alleyway, everywhere. When she matured, the king said [to himself], “it’s not praiseworthy for my daughter that I be talking with her in public; instead, I’ll make her a fancy tent for her to live in and when I need to speak with her, I’ll talk to her there.” So too it is written [of the Jews, who began as children] “Ki Na’ar Yisrael ViAhavto” (Hoshea 11: ). Therefore, in Mitzrayim, we clearly saw Hashem, as it says “ViAvar Hashem LiNgof Es Mitzrayim.” And we saw him at the Yam Suf too, as it says “VaYar Yisrael Es HaYad HaGedolah.” Even the little children saw him and pointed, saying “Ze Keili ViAnveihu.” And at Har Sinai we saw him face to face, as it says “ViHashem MiSinai Ba” (Devarim 33:2). But once Bnei Yisrael stood at Har Sinai and accepted the Torah and said “Kol Asher Dibeir Hashem Na’aseh ViNishma,” then they became a grown nation. Hashem then said “It’s not proper for Yisrael, now that they are a whole nation, that I speak to them in public. Therefore I will have them build me a Mishkan, and then when I need to speak with them, I can speak with them in there privately,” as is written “And when Moshe entered the Ohel Moed to speak with [Hashem]…” (Shemos 34:34).
--Midrash Shir HaShirim Rabbah (3:7)

This lovely midrash builds on one of the many cryptic verses of Shir HaShirim in order to offer an explanation for the building of the Mishkan. The midrash explains that the relationship between Hashem and His people is much like that between an ordinary king and his princess daughter. At first the fledgling nation needed to be fathered, cared for like a young child; but through the arduous fifty day journey to Sinai, and after the experience of Mattan Torah, Bnei Yisrael considered themselves independent, no longer in need of G-d’s careful supervision. Therefore, Hashem arranged for a more grown-up relationship between Him and the nation, one where He would give the nation the privacy and personal life it so desired and would only disrupt them when need be. And even then, He would only speak to them in private.

What an absurd nimshal?! Do we really believe that the relationship between a human king and his daughter is any bit comparable to Hashem’s relationship with us. Would we ever insist that Hashem not talk to us? Were we so thankful after Yitzeas Mitzrayim and Kriyas Yam Suf and Mattan Torah that we desired our personal space and asked Hashem to confine Himself to a little tent located in a separate part of our camp? What could Rabbi Azariya possibly be suggesting through this parable?

There’s something else unsettling about this midrash. In order to parallel the mashal of a maturation process, the nimshal must move in chronological order. Yet according to the Michilta, quoted by Rashi in this week’s parasha, the pasuk Rabbi Azariya quotes to demonstrate the maturity of the nation, “Na’aseh ViNishmah,” was announced by Klal Yisrael on the fifth of Sivan, prior to Mattan Torah. The Midrash’s logic is therefore faulty, for if the nation had already demonstrated it’s maturity and its desire for independence from the day before Mattan Torah, why then would Hashem appear to them the very next day?

It’s worth noting that the phrase “Na’aseh ViNishma” itself poses a critical question. How can the Bnei Yisrael promise to perform the mitzvos before they even hear them? At the bottom of our question on this midrash could possibly lie the answer to the complexities of this paradoxical proposition. But before we tackle this midrash, let’s look at another statement of Rabbi Azariya’s in the name of Rabbi Yehuda Bar Rabbi Simmon. Pay close attention to the minor changes!

“A palace, Shlomo HaMelech made for [Hashem].” (Shir HaShirim 3:9)
Rabbi Azariya, in the name of Rabbi Yehuda Bar Rabbi Simmon, interpreted this verse to refer to the Mishkan. A parable: There once was a king, and he had a daughter whom he loved very much. All the time his daughter was young, he would talk with her publicly. He’d see her in the courtyard and talk with her. When she became older and more mature, the king said [to himself], “it’s not honorable for my daughter that I be talking with her in public; instead, I’ll make her a fancy tent for her to live in and when I need to speak with her, I’ll talk to her from inside there.” So too it is written [of the Jews, who began as children] “Ki Na’ar Yisrael ViAhavto.” Therefore, Hashem spoke with them at the Yam Suf, as it says “Ma Titz’ak Eilai.” And He spoke to us at Har Sinai too, as it says “Panim BiPanim Dibeir Hashem Imachem” (Devarim 5:4). But once Bnei Yisrael stood at Har Sinai and accepted the Torah and became a grown nation, they said “Kol Asher Dibeir Hashem Na’aseh ViNishma,” and Hashem then said “It’s not proper for Yisrael, now that they are a matured nation, that I speak to them in public. Therefore I will have them build me a Mishkan, and then when I need to speak with them, I can speak with them in there privately,” as is written “And when Moshe entered the Ohel Moed to speak with [Hashem].”
-- Midrash BaMidbar Rabbah (12:4)

This midrash seems very similar to the one in Shir HaShirim Rabbah, but it’s not the same; a closer look reveals tremendous disparities between the two. While the daughter was the subject of the first midrash, the king steals the spotlight in this one’s mashal (the difference between ViLaMelech Hayisa Bas and ViLaMelech Haya Bas). Also note that while the first midrash goes through detail of how the king saw his daughter everywhere, this one focuses primarily on his speaking with her. Most notably, the king is now concerned with the Kavod of his daughter, while the first midrash focuses the king’s primary concern around his daughter’s Shevach. The two midrashim then totally split tracks when discussing the nimshal. The first talks of how we are like children and therefore see Hashem everywhere, even in public. The second talks of how we are like children and therefore Hashem speaks directly to us in public. They quote completely different pasukim in order to describe completely different aspects of our relationship to Him. And yet they arrive at the same conclusion. Are these the same midrash or not?

Perhaps our biggest mistake within our initial understanding of these midrashim was our perception of the mashal. Within the Shir HaShirim Rabbah version, the princess’s needs seem petty and incomparable to our connection to HaKadosh Baruch Hu. But the second Midrash discusses how the king acts out of sake for his daughter’s Kavod, not just her adolescent desires. In reality, the king doesn’t build the tent for his daughter so he can talk to her whenever he wants to; he builds it so he could talk to her there whenever he needs to, perhaps whenever he is upset with her and needs to talk with her, not to her. That’s why he needs a private area for her, not to respect her privacy but to prevent her embarrassment. Thus retaining her Kavod.

Within the Midrash in Shir HaShirim, then, the king is also concerned for his daughter’s Kavod, but there is an additional facet to his concern. Now that his daughter is being treated like a big girl and not being scolded or reprimanded in public, the king – and his daughter as well – wants to make it clear to all that she is grown up and mature and not needing of her father’s oversight or supervision. Therefore, he also does his best to avoid being seen around her in public. If people see her and then notice him standing right behind her in the marketplace, or around every corner in the alleys, then they will assume that her independence and adulthood is no more than a façade, that she still has her father on her side aiding her through every step of every process. Her independence becomes meaningless.

The same could be said of Hashem’s concerns for Klal Yisrael. On one hand, He would have loved to maintain as close a relationship as possible. But on the other hand, this relationship would mean little if He constantly spoke with them in public and let them know about every detail He was displeased with. We would be treated like children and our Avodas Hashem would amount to nothing more than following basic instructions. Instead, we demanded a challenge from Hashem. Like the princess says to her father, we tell Hashem we are mature now. “Kol Asher Debeir Hashem Na’aseh ViNishma,” if Hashem tells us the mitzvos once Himself, He should trust us to remember what we heard and not forget, not need constant reminders, as if we are constantly hearing Him. We should be expected to remind ourselves. We should work, ourselves, at maintaining the connection to Hashem that we began with at the early stages of our relationship.

Hashem heard the nation demand this and then gave the Torah. It was His final chance to connect in such a grand and public fashion; after this, the visual and auditory presence stopped, thus proving to all the other nations how independent we were as a nation. Our Avoda became much more meaningful, from the outsider’s perspective, from our perspective, and even from Hashem’s. Like the king who avoids being seen with his daughter for the sake of her Shevach, Hashem’s concealed presence adds to the praise we receive and deserve for following the Torah.

We now can fully grasp the fundamental difference between a nation that proclaims “Na’aseh,” and a nation that demands “Na’aseh ViNishma.” The former is interested in following the Torah, asking Hashem to carefully instruct them over what to do and how to do it, and they will abide by every excruciating detail like a child taking instructions from a parent. It was not until Klal Yisrael’s demand “Na’aseh ViNishma,” the final preparatory stage in their growth as a nation, that they were ready to exist on such a mature and responsible level. But once they reached such a stage, Hashem was more than happy to oblige. And though the request in fact was “give us some space,” it was meant with the most righteous of intentions, for the greater the space between Hashem and us, the more room we leave for our dedication toward improvement and perfection.