Building the Mishkan in ourselves

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "Construindo o Mishcán em nós mesmos")

This week's parashah contains the final instructions for constructing the Mishkan (Tabernacle), the portable Temple that the Israelites carried during their forty-year journey through the desert. Upon completing this process, the text states: “When Moshe had finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of ADONAI filled the Mishkan.” (Ex. 40:33–34)

At first glance, the extensive list of materials and intricate details provided in this parashah could serve as a blueprint for reconstructing the Mishkan (and indeed some have attempted precisely that!). Yet, how can we integrate these detailed instructions into our lives amid the bustling environment in Johannesburg in the 21st century?

One possible path can be found in Hasidic commentaries, which frequently draw parallels between the text of the Torah and the dilemmas faced by our ancestors with our own inner struggles. Thus, the task of building the Mishkan, a place for the Divine presence to dwell, can be compared to the inner work of constructing ourselves into the individuals we aspire to become, reflecting, as closely as possible, the Divine image in which we were formed. Whether we view this as aligning with a Divine purpose or simply cultivating our highest ethical selves, it involves practical steps: identifying what's distancing us from our goals, intentionally removing those obstacles, and consistently developing habits such as daily reflection, deliberate kindness, or community engagement. This demanding, detailed work, akin to the Mishkan's construction, leads to what Hasidism calls d'vekut – the profound experience of connecting spiritually with God and living purposefully. This is how we bring the Divine Presence, not just into our personal experiences, but into the world as a whole.

As Rabbi Ebn Leader, one of my beloved teachers, emphasises, just as the Mishkan was portable and could be established anywhere, we too can initiate our personal process of transformation and pursuit of d'vekut at any time and place [1]. It begins by listening to our inner voice and deciding to engage in the challenging work of transforming ourselves into our own Mishkan.

This Shabbat, may the instructions of Parashat P’kudei inspire us to transform ourselves, enabling God to occupy the Divine’s rightful place in our lives and in the world around us.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Ebn, R. et al. (2013) Speaking Torah Vol 1. 1st edn. Jewish Lights.

Balancing Structure and Spirit: The Dance of Keva and Kavanah

This week, I taught a class on t’filah, Jewish prayer, in which the students and I discussed the balance between keva, the fixed part of the liturgy—both in terms of the moments we are required to pray and the words we use—and kavanah, the spontaneity that leads us to seek connection with the Divine at different moments of the day, not necessarily using the prescribed words.

Throughout the centuries, Jewish tradition has sought to achieve a balance between these two concepts. On one hand, no one has ever believed that a spiritual connection can occur when words are recited mechanically, without presence in the moment. Indeed, very early sources already expressed the opinion that a prayer said without kavanah—without intent and concentration—is not considered valid. At the same time, several authors recognise that achieving genuine spiritual connection requires effort and that, just like with any other acquired skill, frequent practice—even when one does not feel “in the mood”—eventually makes the connection possible.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, one of the most influential theologians of the 20th century, wrote:

“There is a specific difficulty of Jewish prayer. There are laws: how to pray, when to pray, what to pray. There are fixed times, fixed ways, fixed text. On the other hand, prayer is worship of the heart, the outpouring of the soul, a matter of devotion. Thus, Jewish prayer is guided by two opposite principles: order and outburst, regularity and spontaneity, uniformity and individuality, law and freedom. These principles are the two poles about which Jewish prayer revolves. Since each of the two moves in the opposite direction, equilibrium can be maintained only if both are of equal force.” [1]

This week’s parashah, Vayakhel, introduces the search for this equilibrium between opposing principles. It continues the instructions for the construction of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary the Israelites carried in the desert—the physical expression of what the prescribed liturgy, keva, meant in those times. At the same time, it details the incessant flow of donations towards the Mishkan’s construction, a desire to deeply connect with the Divine and with this communal effort—kavanah! Furthermore, the text tells us how Bezalel, the artisan leading the construction, was endowed by God with knowledge in every kind of craft (which could be seen as an expression of keva) but was also inspired to create all sorts of designs—an act of inspiration and creativity, which I see as forms of kavanah.

Quite often, when we think about Jewish religious observance—including but not limited to t’filah—we focus on the rules and laws that govern every aspect of our practices. And they are important! But it is equally essential to leave space for spontaneity, for the expression that comes from our innermost selves as we seek to connect with the Divine, with tradition, and with one another.

We have been striving to do just that at Bet David—incorporating new melodies, drawing from the beautiful poems in Mishkan T’filah, introducing new ones, and creating opportunities for members of the community to add their creative voices to the service. And we want to do even more!

Let’s learn about Jewish traditions and all their rules—and infuse them with our Jewish creativity, building together our shared Jewish path!

Shabbat Shalom,

[1] Abraham Joshua Heschel, “The Spirit of Jewish Prayer” in Moral Grandeur and Spiritual Audacity, p. 111

 

Dvar Torah: Faith Without Idols: Why Absolute Certainty Can Be Dangerous

At some point during my teenage years in the 1980s, a fancy hotel in São Paulo began organising gastronomic festivals, inviting chefs from renowned international restaurants. In one of these events, in 1986, they hosted a dinner inspired by the restaurant in Rome where the famous Fettuccine Alfredo was born. My brother, a fan of the dish and eager to taste it in its original form, convinced my parents to take him. My mother, then, made me an offer: since the dinner was expensive and I was not particularly interested in the famous fettuccine, she would give me another gift of the same value. At fifteen years old, already certain of the career path I wanted to pursue, I accepted the deal and chose a book on computer graphics.

Computer graphics, which are now an integral part of our daily lives, were not as widespread back then. Beauty and the Beast, featuring a ballroom scene partially developed with computer graphics, was only released in 1991. Toy Story, the first full-length film created entirely using computer graphics, came out in 1996. At the time, I was fascinated by the short, creative TV videos created by Hans Donner, a Swiss designer who had established home in Brazil and become a reference in the field.

What captivated me about the book I received instead of the dinner were its beautiful images, but behind those incredibly realistic computer-generated models lay complex mathematical formulas. Computer Graphics is the field of Computer Science that transforms numbers, formulas, and algorithms into images that, over time, have become almost indistinguishable from reality.

How is it possible that numbers can describe physical reality? Max Tegmark, a Swedish physicist and author of Our Mathematical Universe, argues that the physical world is a “gigantic mathematical object.” [1] Similarly, Galileo stated that “Mathematics is the alphabet with which God has written the universe.”[2]

Mark Schaefer, author of The Certainty of Uncertainty, points out that one of the advantages of mathematics as a language is that it is far less ambiguous than other fields of knowledge. “There are not competing traditions of mathematicians who argue whether 2+2=4, nor are there dissenting mathematicians who maintain that 2+2=5 and consider the rest to be hopelessly misguided heretics.”[3] Thus, mathematics could be seen as a system in which certainty exists. However, Rabbi David Curiel argues that the certainty that every mathematical problem has a solution disappears when we delve into Advanced Mathematics.[4] In the same vein, illustrating how advanced mathematical studies differ from our everyday experience of certainty, the physicist Erwin Schrödinger stated that a completely satisfactory model of quantum reality was “not just practically inaccessible but even unthinkable.” He added: “To be precise, of course, we can think of it, but it is wrong.”[5]

In preparing this week’s sermon, I have spent a great deal of time reflecting on our certainties and doubts, on the space we allow for ambiguity, and on the times when we demand definitive answers.

This week’s parashah recounts that, after the liberation from Mitsrayim, the parting of the sea, and the encounter with the Divine at Mount Sinai, Moshe delayed his return with the Tablets for forty days. In his absence, the people constructed a golden calf and began worshipping it. Despite having experienced direct interactions with the Divine — encounters that our generation can only dream of — they still needed something more tangible, a more absolute certainty, which they found in the form of a golden statue.

In many passages of our tradition, the construction of the golden calf is associated with the pursuit of unquestionable, absolute certainties. This person is good, and that one is bad; one culture values life, while another worships death; this ideology is unquestionably superior to that one. In exchange for these absolute truths, we often forgo our critical thinking and our ability to question with sincerity. The Chassidic master Mordechai Yosef Leiner, better known as the Ishbitzer and author of Mei HaShiloach, wrote: “People’s anxiety stems from their immense fear of stepping into the realm of doubt, and for this reason, some have claimed that it would have been more comfortable had humankind never been created.”[6] According to Rabbi Leiner, God planted אילנא דספיקא, ilna desfeica, “the tree of doubt,” in this world, and this is the source of our anxiety.

In a way, Moshe descended from Mount Sinai carrying a different kind of certainty—the Tablets of the Covenant, a tangible representation of the abstract relationship between God and the people of Israel. Confronted with the worship of the Golden Calf, he threw the Tablets to the ground, shattering them. Those Tablets represented absolute certainty, sculpted and inscribed by God. With that act, Moshe extinguished any expectation that our tradition would be built on absolute answers.

Anyone who knows me knows that I relish playing the devil’s advocate, questioning almost everything, turning our certainties upside down until we are left with no golden calves to cling to. That is why the idea of worshipping our own certainties unsettles me deeply.

And yet, we live in strange times… Some people argue that vaccines contain microchips to control us; others claim the Earth is flat; some deny the science of climate change. Sowing doubt to reap conflict has become a profitable business, making some of the world’s biggest corporations immense fortunes. Instead of being used to embrace and understand, doubt is being weaponised to exclude; instead of saving lives, it is serving those who seek to put them at risk.

I wish I could offer a mathematical formula to distinguish between constructive doubts — those that help us refine our answers — and destructive doubts, which only generate discord without improving anything. Unfortunately, I let go long ago of the certainty I once had that my future lay in computer graphics, along with the belief in automated solutions to complex problems. There is no magic answer; each of us must rely on our discernment and critical thinking.

Towards the end of the parashah, God instructs Moshe to carve a new set of Tablets. This time, they would not be exclusively Divine but the product of a partnership between God and humanity. By design, doubt was embedded in this second set of Tablets.[7] The tablets were to be shaped by human effort, while the inscriptions would be Divine.

Moreover, Rashi tells us that the fragments of the broken Tablets were placed in the Ark alongside the new set. This way, we would be constantly reminded of the dangers of absolute certainty—represented both by the fragments and by the Golden Calf.

As if we needed more reminders, this week’s parashah offers yet another moment that challenges absolute rules. Moshe asks to see God’s face, and God replies: "I will make all My goodness pass before you and proclaim before you the name ה׳ and the grace that I bestow and the compassion I show, but you cannot see My face, for no human being can see My face and live." Yet, just nine verses earlier, the Torah states: "וְדִבֶּר ה׳ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה פָּנִים אֶל־פָּנִים כַּאֲשֶׁר יְדַבֵּר אִישׁ אֶל־רֵעֵהוּ", "And God spoke to Moshe face to face, as one speaks to a friend."[8]

There are moments when we are almost certain we have encountered the ultimate truth, that we have seen truth itself face to face. Yet, even as the Torah recounts moments when this seemed to happen between Moshe and God, it simultaneously acknowledges that such an experience is impossible. The closest we can come is to see the Divine, truth, and certainty from behind, with a hint of doubt—just as God offered Moshe.

May all doubt always serve to advance, to embrace, to improve, to refine. In a time when we are increasingly prone to retreat into our own truths, may we remain open—to listen, to see, to consider, to question, to engage in dialogue. And in doing so, as a community, supporting one another, may we navigate the anxiety of living in a world of uncertainties.

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] Max Tegmark, Our Mathematical Universe, p. 246, as quoted in The Certainty of Uncertainty, p. 108.
[2] Mark Schaefer, The Certainty of Uncertainty, p. 107.
[3] Ibid., p. 107.
[4] "Ki Tisa: Releasing the Golden Calf of Certainty", Asiyah: Jewish Community of Greater Boston, 5 March 2021. Available at: https://www.asiyah.org/news-1/2021/3/5/ki-tisa-releasing-the-golden-calf-of-certainty
[5] Martland, Religion as Art, p. 166, as cited in The Certainty of Uncertainty, p. 112.
[6] Mei HaShiloach Anthology, commentary on Talmud, Eruvin 13b:1.
[7] Rashi, commentary on Deuteronomy 10:2.
[8] Exodus 33:11.

More Than a Number: What It Means to Be Counted

Earlier this week, I was speaking to some Cheder students preparing for their bnei mitzvah ceremonies in the coming months. I asked them what they thought would change once they had completed the process. Their first response was that they would become adults in the Jewish world, which I had expected. I followed up by asking how that would change the way they behaved in the world. Then, one of them told me that they would now be counted as part of a minyan—the group of ten Jewish adults required for certain prayers and religious functions. I had expected one answer but was struck by the depth of another. My first instinct was to push further, encouraging them to think more about personal transformation, but I suddenly paused, realising the significance of what had just been said.

Being seen, being acknowledged, being counted as part of a group—these should never be taken for granted. The Jewish experience has long been one of seeking acceptance in the societies we have been part of while simultaneously retaining our status as the proverbial outsider. Becoming an insider is indeed something to celebrate and take pride in.

This week’s parashah, Ki Tissa, begins with God’s instruction to Moshe to count the people—one of several censuses taken as the Israelites journeyed through the desert. A midrash affirms that God’s repeated counting of the people is an expression of love: just as a king frequently plays with and counts his favourite gems, so too does God count the people of Israel multiple times.

A passage from Psalm 147 states that God is the one who “heals those with broken hearts and binds up their wounds; counts the number of stars and gives each one of them a name.”[2] I have always found these words profoundly beautiful, recognising that God operates on both a grand and intimate scale. Assigning numbers to the stars requires distance and perspective, while giving them names demands a deep, personal knowledge of each one. There is a common expression about not being able to “see the forest for the trees,” but Psalm 147 teaches that God sees both—attending to each tree individually while still perceiving the entire forest.

Returning to my students and their realisation about being counted in a minyan, may we all feel that we are full members of the Jewish community—counted in the overall numbers and truly seen in the fullness of who we are.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Ex. 30:12 

[2] Psalm 147:3-4

One light or many lights?

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "Uma luz ou muitas luzes?")

The other day, I was watching an old episode of one of those satirical news programmes that blend current affairs with humour. The topic being discussed was the numerous human rights violations involved in Qatar’s preparations for hosting the FIFA World Cup in 2022 [1]. During the segment, a FIFA official stated that the organisation found it challenging to work with democratic governments due to the multiple stakeholders involved in negotiations, whereas authoritarian regimes made hosting large-scale events much easier. While the candour of this remark is shocking, it reflects a belief held by many: that a single, unified vision ensures greater coherence within a group (regardless of its size) compared to the complexity of multiple differing perspectives. In contrast, others argue that engaging in dialogue and debate between diverse viewpoints ultimately strengthens processes, even if it makes them more complex and time-consuming.

This week’s parashah, Tetzaveh, opens with instructions regarding the lighting of lamps that were to remain perpetually illuminated in the Mishkan [2]. However, the very next verse instructs Moses and Aaron to light the lamps from evening until morning. Faced with this apparent contradiction, various commentators questioned whether the lights were meant to remain burning at all times or only during the dark hours. In a classically Jewish (and rabbinic!) approach, they resolved the dilemma by affirming that both interpretations were correct. A single lamp remained lit throughout the day, while the other lamps of the menorah were kindled only from dusk till dawn, when the darkness of night required additional light for the sacred space.

There are moments in our history that are marked by clarity: when we all agree on our goals and the best paths to achieve them. In such times, a single source of light may be sufficient, aligning us in a shared direction. However, Israeli philosopher Yeshayahu Leibowitz (1903–1994) warns us of the dangers of such unanimity turning into totalitarianism:

“A shared language and discourse is, according to many naïve individuals today, the description of an ideal situation: all of humanity united as a single bloc, without differentiation and, as a result, without conflict. But those who truly understand will know that nothing is more threatening than this artificial conformity: a city and a tower as a symbol of concentrating all humanity into a single thought—where there are no differing opinions and no disputes over values. One cannot imagine a greater tyranny than this, nor a sterility more intellectual and moral than such a state.” [3]

Returning to the instruction in this week’s parashah, during the darkest hours of the day, multiple lamps were lit to generate the necessary illumination, even if the resulting light was more diffuse than that of a single flame. Similarly, in situations where diverse opinions naturally emerge, it is crucial to embrace multiple voices, even if this makes the process slower and more intricate. The clarity offered by a single viewpoint often pales in comparison to the richness and depth that arise from contrasting perspectives. Russian philosopher Vladimir Lossky articulated this idea particularly well regarding theology, though his argument holds true in many other fields of knowledge: “There is nothing more dangerous, more contrary to true theology, than a superficial clarity at the expense of deep analysis.”

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, a key figure in Modern Orthodox thought in the United States, expressed a similar idea in a metaphorical and theological perspective: “The white light of divinity is always refracted through the dome of reality, composed of many coloured panes of glass.”

As we seek light amidst darkness, may we never forgo the glow of our own candle, and may we learn to appreciate the strength that arises from the multiple flames of the menorah.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] https://youtu.be/UMqLDhl8PXw

[2] Ex. 27:20

[3] Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Earot leParshiot haShavua, Ch. 2: Bereshit - Noach

Dvar Torah: A Sanctuary in Our Midst: How Generosity Shapes Community

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "Dvar Torá: Criando na comunidade o espaço do Divino")

The name of this week’s parashah is Terumah, which literally means “donation,” and I have joked a few times that this sermon should be sponsored by the Jewish Fundraisers Association because the theme of donations is central to this biblical passage. While researching what I would say to you today, I came across a slightly better joke on the subject…

A rabbi, moved by the poverty in his city, decides to dedicate his sermon to the need for the community to increase its donations to those most in need. The next day, his students approached him, curious to know whether the sermon had already had any effect. “I achieved a 50% success rate,” said the rabbi. “Those in need are already interested in receiving; I just need to convince those who can give to increase their donations.” [1]

Beyond the humour, this highlights a real challenge: how do we inspire generosity and a sense of shared responsibility? The truth is that it is worth taking a few minutes to reflect on how we decide which causes to support and how we develop this commitment.

We often repeat a certain mantra that differentiates between the general approach to donations—represented by the word “charity”—and the Jewish approach—represented by the word tzedakah [2]. In this discourse, we explain that the root of the word “charity” comes from the Latin caritas, which is associated with a form of love. In this way, giving charity is an expression of love, a voluntary act of generosity towards someone one cares for. Tzedakah, on the other hand, comes from the Hebrew tzedek, which means justice. Thus, giving tzedakah is an obligation to act in the world to restore balance and justice in our societies.

I must confess that I do not like this discourse for at least two reasons: Tzedakah is not only an obligation or a concern for a general state of justice in the world; it is also a way of showing that we care, that we have empathy for those in need. Moreover, I see many people outside the Jewish community donating to restore justice, just as many within the community donate as an expression of love. As is so often the case, this attempt to qualify “ours” and “theirs” in absolute terms leaves much to be desired.

That being said, it is true that the Torah places great emphasis on the issue of social justice, instructing us, amongst other precepts, to help people in difficulty, whether citizens or strangers [3]; not to harden our hearts and to assist those in need [4]; not to press for the repayment of debts [5]; and to protect the orphan, the widow, and the foreigner [6]. In broad terms, these teachings align with the commandment tzedek, tzedek tirdof, "justice, justice you shall pursue" [7].

Our parashah, however, made me reflect that new approaches may be useful when thinking strategically about philanthropy (another word on the matter, which comes from Greek and means “love for humanity”). The text of the parashah begins as follows:

וַיְדַבֵּר ה׳ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר׃ דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִקְחוּ־לִי תְּרוּמָה

 מֵאֵת כׇּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ תִּקְחוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִי׃

ה׳ spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the Israelites,

 that they may take donations for Me;

accept My donation from every person 

whose heart is moved to give. [8]

After listing various types of donations—metals and precious stones, fabrics and oils — God continues the instruction:

וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם׃

And they shall make Me a sanctuary, 

and I will dwell amongst them. [9]

Unlike the idea that Jewish donations always emphasise obligation and justice, this passage speaks of voluntary acts and generosity of the heart. The response to this divine request, which we will read about in Parashat Vayakhel in a few weeks, is that the people bring so many donations that the artisans ask Moshe to stop the request—they had already received more than was needed! [10]

The request for donations in our parashah was not about tzedakah, nor was it about correcting an injustice. In some way, the issue here was community-building: when the Mishkan, the portable Temple that the Hebrews built and used during their forty years of wandering in the desert, was completed, the people could point to various parts of the project and see how they had contributed to its realisation. Some had donated earrings or other jewellery, others had given fabrics, coloured threads, animal skins. A midrash tells of how people organised work groups in response to the request for donations.

In response to this communal effort, God proclaimed, “Make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell amongst them.” Many commentators have noted that one would have expected the Hebrews to build a sanctuary and for God to announce that God would dwell in it, but instead, the proclamation was that God would dwell amongst the people. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks highlights that while, for the first generations of the Jewish people, it was easy to feel God's presence at all times, for later generations, God practised tzimtzum—contracting the Divine presence, dimming its light, and softening its voice. God's presence in the world was no longer as obvious [11]. For me, the presence of community often fills this void and creates the space in which the Divine presence can reside. According to the Talmud, the Shechinah—the Divine presence—dwells wherever at least ten people gather [12].

Addressing this same passage, the Chasidic master Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter, the Sefat Emet, notes that the various donations for the construction of the Mishkan allowed each member of the people of Israel to take part in the project and that they were all united through this common purpose. Reflecting on the Sefat Emet’s commentary, my teacher, Rabbi Art Green, wrote in 1998:

Calls for Jewish unity, so it appears, were as common in the Sefat Emet's time as they are in our own. Remembering a Warsaw divided among Hasidim and socialists, Zionists and assimilationists, this teaching was as needed in early 1900, when it was spoken, as it is today. But his message is more defined than that: the way to achieve unity is through everyone holding on to his or her own distinctive viewpoint while sharing with all others in a context that fully accepts the infinite variety of minds and opinions, all of them making up a single divine whole. Here no view is to be dismissed or rejected for such would only diminish the whole, defacing the name of God. Such a truly pluralistic model of Jewish life has yet to be tried. [13]

These still seem, even today, to be immense challenges for community building: how can we accept everyone’s contributions without forcing them to conform to the majority opinion? How can we ensure that the entire community feels represented in this communal construction, regardless of the size of the contribution they are able to offer? How can we raise awareness in the whole community about the importance of this project and ensure that there are sufficient resources for its development?

Here at Bet David, and in the wider Progressive Jewish world, we tirelessly seek answers to these challenges and invite each of you to join us on this journey. To those who already contribute — whether financially, with time, or expertise — we offer our deepest gratitude. To the entire community, we extend an invitation to join this effort — to help shape the beautiful mosaic of Jewish life: diverse, rich, and undoubtedly a place where the Shechinah dwells."

Shabbat Shalom

[1] Adapted from https://www.hidabroot.org/article/218270

[2] See, for example, https://sapirjournal.org/power/2021/07/philanthropy-is-not-enough/

[3] Lev. 25:35

[4] Deut. 15:7

[5] Ex. 22:25

[6] Ex. 22:20-23.

[7] Deut. 16:20.

[8] Ex. 25:1-2

[9] Ex. 25:8

[10] Ex. 35:1-7

[11] https://www.rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/terumah/the-gift-of-giving/

[12] Bavli Sanhedrin 39a.

[13] Art Gren, "The Language of Truth: The Torah Commentary of the Sefat Emet", p. 122.

Dvar Torah: A World on Fire - Our Responsibility to Act

Last Saturday morning, we read here in shul the Ten Utterances, the Ten Affirmations, which people usually refer to as the Ten Commandments, even though not all of them are commandments… For those who were here, we even talked about ideas of what the so-called eleventh commandment should be and we got some great ideas — from “don’t judge a book by its cover” to “you shall never forget”. This week’s parashah introduces 53 additional mitzvot—rules the Israelites are instructed to follow.

Have you ever thought about the rules — both religious and secular — that you live by? Some of them might seem obvious and universal, like the sixth of the Ten Utterances, “לא תרצח”, “you shall not commit murder”, but, as we have sadly seen this week, not everyone abides by this rule.

Other rules might be more idiosyncratic. Much to the despair of my children and Melanie, I never cross the street outside the pedestrian crossing or when the robot is not green. A famous singer in Brazil never mentions the word “evil”. Some people will still eat food that fell on the floor if they pick it up before five seconds, even though scientists say that even one second would have been too late, and you need to throw that food away.

Some of these rules express our deepest values; others stem from superstitions or hopes; and some have simply become habits, with no clear reason why.

The mitzvot in this week’s parashah primarily addresses interpersonal relationships and personal responsibilities. As I was reading them, one instruction caught my attention. It deals with the impact and responsibilities of fire: “when a fire is started and spreads to thorns, so that stacked, standing, or growing grain is consumed, the one who started the fire must make restitution.” Perhaps the recent fires in Los Angeles and Brazil made this instruction stand out to me. But it became even more compelling when I found a Talmudic passage that expands on it:

Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥmani says in the name of Rabbi Yonatan: Calamity befalls the world only when wicked people are in the world, but the calamity begins with the righteous first, as it is stated in the verse: “If a fire breaks out, and catches in thorns, so that a stack of grain, or standing grain, or the field, is consumed” (Ex 22:5). When does the fire emerge? At a time when the thorns, i.e., the wicked, are found with it. But calamity begins from the righteous first, as it is stated in the continuation of the verse: “And a stack of grain is consumed.” It is not stated: If a fire breaks out, and catches in thorns, and consumes the stack of grain; rather, it states: “A stack of grain is consumed,” meaning that the stack, i.e., the righteous, has already been consumed before the thorns. [1]

The righteous, therefore, have a responsibility to prevent the fire or extinguish it once it has started. This reminded me of a wonderful midrash about Avraham Avinu. It comments on the biblical verse in which God instructs Avraham to leave his house and go to the land that God would show him:

Adonai said to Avram, "Go you forth from your land…" … Rabbi Yitzchak said: this may be compared to a man who was traveling from place to place when he saw a castle on fire. He said, "Is it possible that this castle lacks a person to look after it?" The owner of the building looked out and said, “I am the owner of the castle.”

Similarly, Avraham asked: “is it possible that his world doesn’t have a leader?”. The Holy Blessed One looked out and said to him, “I am the Master of the Universe.” [2]

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks offers his interpretation of this midrash:

Abraham was struck by the contradiction between the order of the universe – the palace – and the disorder of humanity – the flames. How, in a world created by a good God, could there be so much evil? If someone takes the trouble to build a palace, do they leave it to the flames? If someone takes the trouble to create a universe, does He leave it to be disfigured by His own creations? On this reading, what moved Abraham was not philosophical harmony but moral discord. For Abraham, faith began in cognitive dissonance. There is only one way of resolving this dissonance: by protesting evil and fighting it. [3]

That is the poignant meaning of the Midrash when it says that the owner of the palace looked out and said, “I am the owner of the palace.” It is as if God were saying to Abraham: I need you to help Me to put out the flames.

We live in a world on fire. Sometimes, like Avraham, we despair at its disorder and ask ourselves, the Universe, and God: 'Isn’t there anyone taking care of this precious palace?

The Talmud passage warns that calamity can spread when the righteous fall into chaos, allowing destructive forces to take hold. This past few days, we were reminded in the most painful way of what happens when the flames of hatred are allowed to spread unchecked.

The midrash, particularly Rabbi Sacks’ interpretation, urges us to become God’s partners in fighting the fire—spreading light where there was only darkness, resisting despair, and building a world rooted in love.

Rabbi Menachem Creditor expanded on the words of Psalm 89:3, “עֹ֭ולָם חֶ֣סֶד יִבָּנֶ֑ה”, “A world of love will be built,” and composed a song inspired by it, with the twist that it gives us agency in the building of this world:

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

I will build this world from love...yai dai dai

And you must build this world from love...yai dai dai

And if we build this world from love...yai dai dai

Then God will build this world from love...yai dai dai [4]

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Talmud Bavli Bava Kamma 60a

[2] Bereshit Rabbah 39:1

[3] https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/lech-lecha/a-palace-in-flames/

[4] https://youtu.be/EUna9KngE6k