Shaarei Tzedek – Orthodox Judaism in Downtown Toronto

By Tali Loewenthal, Chabad.org

Alone with G‑d on Mount Sinai, Moses learnt the details of building the Sanctuary, the portable Temple described in this week’s Torah reading. This was to be the spiritual centre for the Jews, and eventually for the whole world: the place where the Shechinah, the Presence of G‑d, would be revealed.

The Sanctuary was constructed of heavy wooden planks standing upright. Each plank was supported at its base by two heavy blocks of silver. The plank slotted into these. The upright planks were overlaid with gold and securely fastened together. These planks formed the walls of the Sanctuary, and layers of curtaining formed the roof.

Inside the Sanctuary were the Menorah, a Table and an Altar for incense, all made of gold. Behind a beautifully embroidered curtain was the Holy of Holies, containing the golden Ark. Inside this were the sapphire tablets with the Ten Commandments engraved on them, which Moses brought down from Sinai.

The Sanctuary built by Moses existed long ago, and in the form of the Temple will again be rebuilt in Jerusalem. But there is also an inner Sanctuary, within the heart of every man and woman. The details of the physical Sanctuary described in our Parshah help us understand how we can build this inner Sanctuary, so that the Presence of G‑d should be revealed there too, within us.

The acacia wood of which the Sanctuary was made has in Hebrew a strange name. It can be translated as “the wood of folly.”

This helps us understand the purpose of the Sanctuary, and of life.

There is a level of ordinary, civilized behavior. This is the norm. Low, base and callous behavior means acting in a way which is lower than this norm: this is folly. All sin and evil come from this lower kind of folly.

But there is also another kind of folly, which entails going above the norm. This is termed “sacred folly.” Through faith, dedication, devotion and love, the person goes beyond their ordinary level. He or she makes a step which might be exceptional. Imagine a person deciding to put on tefilin every day, or to change round the kitchen so as to make it truly kosher.

Judaism is based on the power generated by such decisions. We have survived for thousands of years because of the power of this “sacred folly,” our willingness – occasionally – to go beyond the norm of conventional rationality. The leap forward which we then achieve redeems the blunders and excesses of our lower, unpleasant folly. Bad is changed into good, darkness into light. It is through this process that we build our inner Sanctuary.

This is why the Sanctuary was built of acacia wood, “wood of folly.” Through the quest to advance we go beyond ordinary reason into the realm of sacred folly, transforming our coarse, worldly folly into something spiritual. Thus we reveal the radiant Shechinah, the Presence of G‑d. It illuminates the Sanctuary in our heart, our home, our life and ultimately, from the Temple in Jerusalem, the entire world.1

FOOTNOTES
1. Based freely on the discourse by Rabbi Yosef Yitzhak Schneersohn, Bati LeGani, ch. 5.

On the first night of Chanukah all eight candle holders stand before you. But you light only one. Tomorrow night you shall light two. You know that eventually you will light all eight.

From which we learn two things:

1. Move step by step in life. Take things on at a pace you can handle.

2. Always grow. Always keep moving. If you did one good thing yesterday, do two today. Your ultimate achievement is always one step ahead.

[via Chabad.org]

[From the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe]

The Torah portion of Lech Lecha relates that Avraham built three altars to G-d.1 Rashi , basing his commentary on the Midrash2 , explains that Avraham built the first altar “upon hearing G-d’s promise that he would have children, and that they would inherit the land of Israel.”3

Rashi goes on to state that he erected the second altar — in the vicinity of Ai — because “he saw in his prophecy that his progeny would stumble there through the sin of Achan. He therefore prayed for them there.”4

However, no explanation is given by Rashi as to the reason for Avraham’s third altar, since Avraham built it out of his simple love of G-d upon his arrival in the city of Chevron.

Our Sages inform us5 that “G-d gave Avraham a sign that all that transpired with him will transpire with his children as well.” This is so because the actions of the Patriarchs serve as an antecedent and a catalyst for the subsequent actions of their descendants.

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By Shifra Hendrie

“As in the days when you left Egypt, I will show you wonders” Micah 7:15.

On the fifteenth of the Hebrew month of Nissan, Jews around the world will sit together with family and friends. They will sit at tables covered with white cloths, illuminated with candlelight, sparkling with silver, china and crystal. Throughout the night, they will taste the richness of wine, the bitterness of horseradish, and the subtle pure taste of matzah, the bread of faith.

On the seder night, we celebrate our liberation from slavery in Egypt, our redemption and freedom.

And yet, we are still waiting to be free.

When I was a small child, I lived in Chicago. We weren’t observant, but my grandparents were. And every Passover (Pesach), we would go to their apartment – my parents, my brothers and I – together with all my aunts, uncles and cousins, to celebrate the seder.

I remember my Uncle Artie and my Aunt Shiffy joking, the kids clowning around, my grandfather talking about the Exodus from Egypt and my grandmother saying: “Samuel, I’m hungry! Can you please hurry so we can eat?”

I never wanted my grandfather to hurry. I would have loved it if he had told the story of the Exodus all night long. Because from as far back as I can remember, at the seder – in the eating, the drinking and the telling of the story – I could feel the walls of the world shifting, opening and moving back. I could feel the presence of something else; something sparkling, something powerful, profoundly in motion, real and alive.

Many years have passed since my grandparents passed away. There were years – lots of years – when I didn’t go to any seder. There were years when I didn’t even know that Pesach had come and gone.

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By Rabbi Manis Friedman, Chabad.org

There are two kinds of human love: the intrinsic, calm love that we feel for people to whom we’re related by birth; and the more intimate, fiery love that exists in marriage. This is why the husband-wife relationship is very different from the parent-child relationship.

The love within a family, between relatives who are born of the same flesh, is innate. The love between a mother and child, a brother and sister, two brothers, two sisters, comes easily. Since they’re related by nature, they feel comfortable with each other. There’s an innate closeness between them, so their love is strong, solid, steady, predictable, and calm. There’s no distance that has to be bridged; no difference that has to be overcome.

The love between a husband and wife isn’t like that. Their love wasn’t always there; they didn’t always know each other; they weren’t always related. No matter how well they get to know one another, they aren’t alike. They are different from each other physically, emotionally, and mentally. They love each other in spite of the differences and because of them, but there isn’t enough of a commonality between them to create a casual, calm love. The differences remain even after they are married, and the love between them will have to overcome these differences.

After all, husband and wife were once strangers. Male is different from female, so in essence they must remain strangers. Because of this, the love between them can never be casual, consistent, or calm.

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via Chabad.org, based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe:

The Torah reading of Pekudei (Exodus 38:21-40:38) opens with an accounting of the various materials donated by the people of Israel for the making of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary which “housed” the divine presence in the Israelite camp during their journeys through the desert.

These donations included: gold for the Mishkan’s “vessels” (the Menorah, Ark, etc.) and the plating of its wall panels; silver used for the “foundation sockets” into which the wall panels were inserted; copper used in the making of the Altar and the washbasin; wood for the wall panels and posts; wool dyed in a variety of colors, and fine-spun linen, for the tapestries and the priestly garments; goat hair and animal skins for the roof coverings; a variety of precious stones for the Ephod and Choshen (the apron and breastplate worn by the High Priest); oil for the lighting of the menorah and spices for the making of the ketoret (“incense”) — fifteen materials in all.

With 14 of these 15 materials, each Jew gave whatever he or she chose to give and how much he or she chose to contribute. The type and amount given depended solely on the resources and the degree of generosity of the individual making the donation.

The single exception was the silver used to make the Miskan’s foundation. Here, G-d commanded that each should give exactly half a shekel of silver — “The rich man shall not give more, and the poor man shall not give less” (Exodus 30:15; from the section of Shekalim, a special supplementary reading added this week because of the upcoming month of Adar, when the half-shekel was traditionally contributed).

Every person is different: we differ in our intellect, character, talents and sensitivities. But we are all equal in the very basis of our bond with G-d: our intrinsic commitment to Him. So while we each contributed to the making of the various components of the Sanctuary in accordance with our individual capacity, we all gave equally of the silver of which its foundation was made. As regards the foundation of the relationship between us and G-d, the rich man cannot give more, and the pauper cannot give less, since we all equally possess that intrinsic commitment.

Upon this foundation, we each build our individualized edifice. Upon this foundation, we each erect a home for G-d made out of the unique talents, capacities and resources we are able to contribute. The foundation is the lowest, least noticeable part of the edifice; sometimes it is buried out of sight in the ground. But it is the silver foundation of absolute, immutable commitment that is the basis and support of it all.

via Chabad.org

The Talmud relates that the great Sage R. Yochanan ben Zakkai wept before his death, saying: “There are two paths stretching before me, one to Gan Eden [Heaven] and one to Gehinom. I know not on which I shall be led.”

It goes without saying that R. Yochanan ben Zakkai was concerned as to whether he had attained a sufficient level of holiness to enter Gan Eden. Why did he voice his apprehension only on his deathbed? His spiritual status should have been an ongoing concern.

Every Jew is entrusted with a unique Divine mission that he is to accomplish during his lifetime. He is allotted a specific time in which to accomplish that task — not one day more and not one day less.

When a Jew fails to make use of a day, an hour, or even a moment, in pursuit of his mission, he not only fails to achieve his fullest spiritual potential, but more importantly, he has failed — during those moments — to accomplish his entrusted task.

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via Chabad.org

In the Torah portion Bo we read that, “G-d said to Moshe and Aharon in Egypt: ‘This month shall be the head month to you; it shall be the first month of the year.’“ We learn from here that it is a mitzvah to “sanctify months, set leap years, and establish the festivals of the year according to the determined sanctification.”

Our Sages note that the entire Torah might have begun with this commandment, “for it is the first mitzvah that the Jewish people were commanded.”

The very fact that of all 613 commandments the Torah chose to begin with this one indicates that this mitzvah contains an element fundamental to all the rest.

What is so special about this commandment?

The primary function of the mitzvos is to enable man to permeate the world with goodness and holiness. Thus all mitzvos involve the transformation of physical objects into mitzvah-objects, entities of holiness.

This, too, is the overall theme of the commandment to sanctify the new month: The court sanctifies a certain day and declares it to be Rosh Chodesh, the beginning of the month — not an ordinary working day, and one which establishes when the holidays shall be celebrated.

In addition to the above, this commandment is inherently first in theme and content: Although the world is a composite of both space and time, and time is bound up with space, nevertheless, time precedes space. For all of Creation, including space, implies an aspect of change — present conditions are compared to the past, i.e., to conditions prior to creation.

Thus, before anything was created, including space, there already existed an entity subject to change — time. Therefore the starting point of all creation is time.

This is true in terms of man’s experience as well. First comes the actual day, and only then can man make an impact on that day by transforming physical objects.

Sanctification of the new month is thus the first commandment, for sanctity is first imbedded in time — the beginning of existence — and only then comes man’s interaction with physical objects — the aspect of space.

There is yet another all-encompassing aspect to this mitzvah: All of creation was brought about in order to be sanctified through the Jewish people’s performance of Torah and mitzvos. This is a theme that affects all of creation at all times and in all places.

A Jew’s service consists of actualizing and revealing the ultimate purpose within all things. When a Jew performs a mitzvah with a particular object, he thereby fulfills the object’s reason for being, and the object becomes a mitzvah-object.

For example, when a Jew transforms an animal’s hide into parchment for a Sefer Torah, tefillin, or mezuzos, that animal’s hide attains the purpose for which it was created — the hide has now become imbued with holiness.

Since time, too, is created, it is readily understandable that it is meant to fulfill the same purpose as the rest of creation.

Herein lies the additional significance of this most important command: Through the Jewish people’s sanctification of months — Rosh Chodesh and festivals — they reveal that the true purpose of time is to be sanctified.

For in reality the sanctification of any one month affects not only the establishment of Rosh Chodesh and the festivals in that month, but alters the entire time continuum, so that all of time becomes permeated with the realization that it is to be filled with goodness, holiness, and mitzvos.

(Based on Likkutei Sichos Vol. XXVI, pp. 59-65.)

via Chabad.org – Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe

At the “Covenant Between the Parts” G-d said to Abraham: “Know that your children shall be strangers in a land not theirs, and they will enslave them and afflict them… and afterwards they will go out with great wealth.”

For much of our history, we have indeed been strangers in a land not ours. There was the Egyptian Exile that preceded our birth as a nation; the Babylonian Exile that followed the destruction of the First Temple; the Greek Exile during the Second Temple Era; and our present exile, which began with the Roman destruction of the Holy Temple in 69 ce and from which we have yet to emerge after more than nineteen centuries under the hegemony of alien powers.

Exile — galut, in Hebrew — is much more than a person’s physical removal from his homeland. A person in exile is a person severed from the environment that nourishes his way of life, his principles and values, his spiritual identity. In exile all these are in jeopardy, for the onus is now on him alone; he must call upon his own resources of resolve and perseverance to survive. In the words of our sages, “All journeys are dangerous.”

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