Rabbi Uren Reich

The Sanctity of Sacrifice

Someone once made a sharp observation about external appearances and inner identity. He said: “When you arrive in Heaven, they may ask you, ‘Reb Yid, where is your beard?’ But when you arrive in Heaven, they might ask you something even more serious: ‘Reb Beard, where is the Yid?’”

In other words, external symbols of religiosity matter, but what matters far more is the inner substance of a person’s Jewish identity. Humorously, sometimes a Jew without a hat may still be more kosher than someone wearing the full uniform but lacking the inner content.

Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky zt”l points out something striking. Although it is not explicitly stated in the Pesukim, the Chasam Sofer writes that it is self-evident that every Jew participated in contributing to the Mishkan through nedivus halev, a voluntary offering of the heart. Yet the Midrash notes one remarkable exception.

Moshe Rabbeinu did not contribute a donation to the Mishkan.

In fact, it appears that he was not allowed to do so, and the Midrash implies that Moshe Rabbeinu experienced a certain sense of anguish because of this. Why, though, would Moshe Rabbeinu be excluded from participating in such a holy endeavor?

The straightforward explanation is that the donations for the Mishkan served as atonement for the sin of the Golden Calf. Since Moshe Rabbeinu had absolutely no connection to the sin of the Calf—he was not even present when it occurred—it was inappropriate for his donation to be part of that atonement. However, perhaps there is an additional layer of understanding.

The Mishkan was the ultimate spiritual center. It was the place where the Shechinah rested among the Jewish people. One might assume that such a structure would be constructed from purely spiritual materials, something almost otherworldly. After all, the generation in the wilderness lived on an elevated spiritual plane. The food they ate was not ordinary food. They ate the manna, which the Torah describes as “Lechem abirim achal ish—Each man ate a hero’s meal” (Tehillim 78:25), The Ramban explains that manna was a physical form of the spiritual sustenance enjoyed by the angels who derive pleasure from the radiance of the Divine Presence. The water they drank likewise came from the miraculous well of Miriam. Their entire existence was surrounded by open manifestations of Divine providence.

Given that reality, one might expect that the structure meant to house the Divine Presence would be built from something entirely spiritual. Yet the Mishkan was built from the same materials used to build magnificent structures anywhere in the world: gold, silver, copper, wood, and fabrics.

This is precisely the question that Shlomo HaMelech raises in Shir HaShirim:

“How can the resting place of the Divine Presence be constructed from cedar wood, silver pillars, gold coverings, and crimson fabrics?” (Shir HaShirim 3:9).

The answer given by the verse is profound: “Tocho ratzuf ahavah mi’bnos Yerushalayim—Its interior is paved with love from the daughters of Jerusalem” (ibid. 3:10). What made the Mishkan a place of Divine Presence was not the gold and not the silver. It was the love and sacrifice demonstrated by the Jewish people when they gave those materials. Every Jew was asked to give with nedivas halev, with a willing and generous heart. Each person had to make a personal calculation.

One person might say: “I have always had a weakness for silver. I have collected it for years. Gold would actually be easier for me to give away. Therefore I will give the silver, because that is harder for me.” Another might say: “This possession is precious to me, and precisely because it is precious, I will offer it to Hashem.”

Every inch of the Mishkan therefore became a monument to Jewish sacrifice and to the willingness of a person to give up something dear to them for the sake of serving Hashem. This leads us back to Moshe Rabbeinu.

Moshe Rabbeinu was on such a lofty spiritual level that material possessions meant nothing to him. Gold and silver held no significance in his eyes. Had Moshe Rabbeinu donated to the Mishkan, his gift would certainly have carried immense holiness. But it would have lacked one crucial ingredient:

Sacrifice.

For Moshe Rabbeinu, giving away gold or silver would not have been difficult at all. It would not have required him to give up something he cherished. But Hashem wanted the Mishkan to be built from something more than holiness alone. He wanted it to be built from the sacrifice of ordinary Jews; from people who felt the pull of the material world yet chose to give it away for His sake.

And this reveals a powerful paradox.

Sometimes the more spiritually elevated a person becomes, the less certain sacrifices mean to them. But a simple person who struggles with attachment to the material world—and still chooses to give—that may actually bring something uniquely powerful into the world. When a person gives up something that is difficult for them to give up, that act carries enormous value before Hashem.

A great tzaddik might look at that struggle and wonder why it is difficult at all. But Hashem understands the heart of every individual. For one person, giving up a particular comfort may be trivial. For another person, it may be an enormous sacrifice. And when that sacrifice is made sincerely, it brings tremendous holiness into the world.

This is the meaning of the verse:

“Tocho ratzuf ahavah mi’bnos Yerushalayim.” The Mishkan was built from love, from the willingness of the Jewish people to give of themselves.

The lesson for us is profound.

The more connected we are to the physical world, the more opportunities we have to transform that connection into sacrifice for Hashem. When we give up something that we truly value—whether it is time, comfort, possessions, or personal desires—and we dedicate it to a higher purpose, that sacrifice becomes precious before Hashem.

And it is precisely those sacrifices that bring the Shechinah into the world.

Rabbi Yoel Gold

The Parsha of Shidduchim

We may not always view it as such, but Sefer Bereishis is the sefer of shidduchim. Deriving from each of the names of the Parsha and the literal meaning behind them, we arrive at the sequential process and trajectory of a shidduch.

Bereishis—in the beginning—Noach—a fellow by the name of Noach—Lech Lecha—was walking on the street—Vayeira—and he saw—Chayei Sarah—a girl by the name of Chaya Sarah. Toldos—He wanted to find out who’s daughter she is, so he called a shadchan. Vayeitzei—so they went out. Vayishlach—but she sent him home, not wanting to date him any further. Vayeishiv—But he called the shadchan, who put them back together. Mikeitz—and at the end. Vayigash—they grew closer to one another. Vayechi—and they lived happily ever after.

After I shared this, someone told me that you could do it in the context of Sefer Devarim too.

Devarim—when people starting talking and putting shidduchim together. Va’eschanan—everyone starts davening. Ekev—then someone is suggested, but one person says, “Because of this and that reason, I don’t want to go out.” Re’eh—A second person says, “Maybe I’ll go out; we’ll see.” Shoftim—a third person, they judge you. Ki Seitzei—finally someone says yes and they go out. Ki Savo—and they come home and get married. Nitzavim—the rule of thumb is that if everyone stands their ground and nobody gives in. Vayelech—he goes home, and she goes home. Ha’azinu—but if they listen to each other. V’zos Ha’Beracha—then they will have the ultimate blessing.

There is always something to learn from the Torah. Even the names of the Parshiyos tell a story about our lives.

Rabbi Yoni Levin

Perfectly Imperfect

If we pause for a moment to ask a careful linguistic question about the Parsha, we notice something very striking.

The Torah describes the construction of the Mishkan, and the Pasuk states: “Sheshes yamim te’aseh melachah—For six days, work shall be done” (Shemos 35:2).

The word “te’aseh” is written in the passive form. Literally translated, it means “work shall be done,” as though it happened on its own. Grammatically, one might have expected the Torah to say “ta’aseh”—you shall do the work. That would emphasize that the people actively built the Mishkan during those six days. Instead, the Torah uses language that sounds almost as if the Mishkan built itself.

But that is puzzling. We know that the Mishkan did not simply appear, but was constructed through extraordinary effort. Moshe Rabbeinu, Betzalel, and countless skilled craftsmen dedicated themselves to this sacred project. Their talent, energy, and devotion brought the Mishkan into existence. Why then does the Torah describe the process using language that suggests it happened almost automatically?

Rav Yisroel Meir Druck offers a beautiful explanation based on a principle found in the Gemara (Berachos 17b). The Gemara teaches: “Bidei Shamayim efshar letzamtzem, bidei adam ei efshar letzamtzem—That which comes directly from Heaven can be perfectly exact. But that which comes from human hands can never achieve absolute precision.”

When Hakadosh Baruch Hu creates something, it can be perfectly measured, perfectly calibrated, and perfectly aligned. Human beings, however talented or careful they may be, are inherently limited. Human craftsmanship always contains some degree of imperfection. Even the most skilled artisan cannot achieve flawless exactness.

Now consider the Mishkan.

The Mishkan required extraordinary precision. Every measurement mattered. Every beam, every socket, every curtain had exact specifications that needed to be followed carefully. But how could Moshe, Betzalel, and the builders possibly achieve absolute perfection if human craftsmanship can never be completely exact? In truth, it was an impossible task. How could Hashem demand such precision from human beings?

The answer is that He did not expect them to achieve perfection alone.

The Jewish people built the Mishkan with all their strength and skill. They did everything within the limits of human capability. They worked faithfully, carefully, and sincerely. But once they completed their effort, Hashem added the final touches. He perfected what they began and ensured that the Mishkan reached the level of precision required for the dwelling place of the Divine Presence.

This idea may also explain the repeated phrase that appears again and again in Parashat Pekudei:

“Kechol asher tzivah Hashem es Moshe, kein asu Bnei Yisrael—Exactly as Hashem commanded Moshe, so did the Children of Israel” (Shemos 39:42-43). The Torah repeats this statement many times. Why such repetition?

The Torah wishes to emphasize that the Jewish people did everything within their power. They followed the instructions with complete dedication and sincerity and fulfilled their responsibility fully. But the final perfection belonged to Hashem. The Mishkan was therefore both human and Divine. It began with human effort, but it reached completion only through the finishing touch of Heaven.

This is an valuable lesson for life.

The Mishkan required perfection because it was the dwelling place of the Shechinah. It demanded a level of exactness beyond ordinary human capability. But the rest of the world does not function that way. Human life was not designed to be perfectly uniform or mechanically precise. Every person, every creation, every idea contains some degree of imperfection. That is not a flaw in the system. In many ways, it is precisely what makes life beautiful.

Think about a handwritten signature. Its small variations and irregularities are exactly what make it authentic. A machine-generated signature may appear cleaner, but it lacks personality and individuality. The same is true of art. An original painting may contain small irregularities, but those imperfections are what give it soul. A perfectly printed copy may appear flawless, yet it lacks the living touch of the artist.

Consider food prepared at home. In a commercial bakery every loaf looks identical, produced by machinery with mechanical precision. But a home-baked challah rarely looks exactly the same each time. Sometimes it is slightly larger, sometimes smaller, sometimes shaped differently. And yet it tastes better because it carries within it something deeper: the warmth, the care, the love, and the personal energy of the one who prepared it.

Sometimes the imperfections are precisely what make something real and beautiful.

The same is true of people. Very often we place tremendous pressure on ourselves and on our children to fit perfectly into a defined mold. We expect everyone to think the same way, speak the same way, and express themselves in identical patterns. But human beings were not created to be identical.

The Mishkan required Divine perfection because it represented the dwelling place of the Shechinah. But the rest of us were created with individuality—with traits, talents, and even imperfections that make each of us unique.

And perhaps that is the true perfection of being human.

Rabbi Yaakov Asher Sinclair

The Labor Saver

For as long as most of us can remember, one of humanity’s great dreams has been to invent a machine that could do all our work for us.

In the late 1950s, people imagined fanciful robots made from tin cans and metal plates; machines that looked like distant cousins of the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz, complete with aprons and cheerful mechanical smiles. In the 1960s, imaginative inventors proposed devices like the “motorized house puppy,” a little machine that scooted around the house cleaning carpets and sweeping floors.

Today, robotics has advanced to an astonishing level. If you have ever watched a car being assembled on a modern factory line, the experience can be almost eerie. Robotic arms move with perfect coordination, welding, lifting, and assembling with incredible precision.

But let me share a secret.

The greatest labor-saving device in history has actually existed for more than three thousand years. The problem is that many people simply do not know how to operate it.

The Torah tells us in Parshas Vayakhel: “Sheshes yamim te’aseh melachah, u’vayom hashvi’i yihyeh lachem Kodesh—For six days work shall be done, but the seventh day shall be holy for you” (Shemos 35:2).

The diction of this verse is unusual. The Torah does not say, “Ta’aseh melachah—You shall do work.” Instead, it uses the passive form: “Te’aseh melachah—Work shall be done.”

The message is profound.

When a person observes Shabbos, Hashem places a special blessing upon the efforts of the six working days. Somehow the work that needs to be accomplished simply gets done. A creative writer working for an advertising agency may suddenly find a brilliant concept appearing in his mind almost effortlessly. A cabinetmaker may notice that every joint he cuts fits together perfectly. A pilot approaching his destination may discover that the weather suddenly clears just enough to allow a safe landing, avoiding hours of delay and frustration. The examples could go on endlessly, because they touch every field and every profession.

When we honor Shabbos, something remarkable happens during the week. Tasks that might otherwise feel difficult seem to flow more smoothly. Work gets done more efficiently, more successfully, and often with far less strain.

In that sense then, Shabbos is the ultimate labor saver.