Taking the First Step: Shabbat HaGadol 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 26 March. You can also read it in Hebrew here, thanks to ChatGPT.

The Shulchan Aruch tells us that the Shabbat before Pesach is called “the great Shabbat” (Shabbat HaGadol) because of the miracle that occurred on it, yet surprisingly offers no further elaboration. An entire siman is devoted simply to the fact that this Shabbat has a name, without any clear practical consequence. It leaves us wondering: what exactly is so significant about this “greatness,” and why does it matter?

The familiar explanation, recorded by the Tur, relates to what occurred just days before the Exodus. On the tenth of Nissan—Shabbat in that year—Bnei Yisrael were commanded to take a lamb and set it aside for the Korban Pesach, tying it to their bedposts in full view of the Egyptians, who worshipped the sheep as a deity. When challenged, they did not hide their intentions; they stated openly that they were preparing it for slaughter. The miracle was that the Egyptians saw and heard, yet did nothing.

The Bach, however, offers a striking shift in perspective. The real drama of that Shabbat, he suggests, was not the reaction of the Egyptians, but the transformation of Bnei Yisrael themselves. After generations in Egypt, they had not emerged untouched; Chazal describe a spiritual state in which they were not so easily distinguishable from their surroundings. Redemption could not begin until something changed from within.

Seen in that light, the act of taking the lamb was not merely a provocation of Egyptian idolatry, but a rejection of their own. It was a quiet but decisive break with the past—an indication that they were ready, at least in some initial sense, to move in a different direction. The miracle of Shabbat HaGadol was therefore not only that the Egyptians remained passive, but that a nation of slaves found the courage to take its first step toward freedom.

This reframes the entire process of ge’ulah. It is not only something that happens to a people, but something that begins with us. Before the dramatic miracles of the Exodus and the splitting of the sea, there was a moment no less significant: a willingness to step forward, to begin even before everything was fully in place.

That idea feels particularly resonant in our current moment. Jewish history rarely unfolds under ideal conditions, and the instinct can be to wait—for clarity, for stability, for a sense that the path ahead is fully secure. Yet Shabbat HaGadol reminds us that this is rarely how change actually begins. More often, it starts with a step taken within an incomplete reality, even while the wider picture is still unfolding.

As we approach the Seder, with all its focus on freedom and redemption, Shabbat HaGadol quietly sets the tone. It reminds us that freedom is not only something we commemorate, but something we prepare for. It begins with an inner shift—with a willingness to let go of what holds us back and to take a step, however small, toward something greater.

Shabbat Shalom!

The Eternal Fire: From the Altar to the Heart

In this week’s parashah, the Torah introduces us to one of the most powerful and enduring images in all of Jewish thought: the fire upon the Mizbe’ach that must never be extinguished. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom leads us through the multifaceted significance of this image.

The Torah commands that this fire burn continuously—“a constant fire shall remain on the altar; it shall not be extinguished.” This is not merely a technical instruction. It defined the very center—the focal point—of the entire Mishkan, and later, the Beit HaMikdash. The word used is “tamid”—constant, eternal. This fire was not occasional. It was not symbolic alone. It was alive, ongoing, and central to all avodah.

Three Fires, Three Functions

Rashi, drawing from Chazal, teaches that there were actually three distinct fires on the Mizbe’ach:

1. The Great Fire – used to consume the korbanot
2. The Fire for the Ketoret – producing coals for the incense
3. The Eternal Flame – a constant fire that was never extinguished

From this third fire, the Kohen would light the Menorah each day. The Menorah’s light did not come from an external source—it came from the Mizbe’ach itself. These three fires represent the three essential functions of fire:

●      Fire consumes – transforming physical offerings into something elevated

●      Fire produces heat – enabling preparation and transformation

●      Fire produces light – illuminating and revealing

And, at the center of all three, stood the idea of tamid—continuity, constancy, eternity.

The Deeper Fire: Torah Itself

But the Torah is not only describing a physical reality. It is pointing us to something far deeper. Chazal repeatedly compare Torah to fire: “Are not My words like fire?” (Jeremiah). The Zohar goes even further, suggesting that the very first word of the Torah—Bereishit—contains within it the concept of a covenant of fire.

The message is profound: 3ven when the physical Mishkan and Beit HaMikdash are no longer standing, the fire has not gone out. This is because the true, eternal fire is the fire of Torah itself.

The Light That Never Disappears

To understand this, imagine looking at the night sky. Scientists tell us that many of the stars we see no longer exist. Their light, traveling across vast distances, continues to reach us long after the stars themselves have faded. So too with the Beit HaMikdash—physically it is no longer present, but its light still shines. That light is carried through Torah—through its study, its wisdom, its depth, and its eternal relevance. That fire is still burning.

The Torah of the Korbanot

This idea is expressed explicitly in the Gemara: even in the absence of korbanot, one who studies the laws of the korbanot is considered as if he has brought them. This is not mere remembrance. It is spiritual continuity. The Torah itself becomes the vehicle through which the avodah continues. The physical act may be absent, but the inner reality remains fully alive.

The Role of the Kohanim—and Ours

The Torah describes the role of the Kohanim not only as those who perform the service, but as those who teach Torah. Their primary mission was not only to maintain the fire on the Mizbe’ach but to ignite the fire within the people. That dual role still exists today. We may no longer tend the physical flame, but we are each responsible for maintaining the spiritual flame—through learning, teaching, and living Torah.

Five Korbanot, Five Books

The Kli Yakar develops this idea even further. He notes that five types of korbanot in this parashah are each described as a “Torah”—not just an offering, but a teaching. He  then  connects these to the five books of the Torah:

●      Bereishit → Olah (complete elevation, like Noach’s offering)

●      Shemot → Minchah (structured service, formation of a nation)

●      Vayikra → Chatat / Asham (atonement and correction)

●      Bamidbar → continued struggle and need for kapparah

●      Devarim → Shelamim (wholeness, relationship, closeness)

This progression reflects a deeper truth: our relationship with Hashem evolves from obligation to growth, to atonement, to ultimately closeness and partnership.

Servants… and Children

The korbanot also reflect two modes of relationship with Hashem:

●      Sometimes we serve as avodim—servants, fulfilling obligation

●      Sometimes we stand as banim—children, sharing closeness

This is why certain offerings, like shelamim, are eaten by their owners. A servant prepares the meal. A child sits at the table. Torah allows us to move between these roles—from discipline to intimacy, and from obligation to connection.

The Fire Within Us

Today, we do not have the physical Mizbe’ach, but we are not without fire.Every time we learn Torah, every time we engage deeply with its wisdom, every time we internalize its message—we are feeding the eternal flame. The “aish tamid” did not disappear; it was transferred—from the altar to the Torah and to the Jewish people.

A Fire That Must Never Go Out

The Torah’s command still echoes: The fire must burn continuously. It must not go out. Not only on the Mizbe’ach—but within us. And, when we sustain that fire through learning, through teaching, through living Torah, we do more than remember the past. We actually recreate it. We become the Mishkan. We become the light. We become the continuation of that eternal fire—for ourselves, and for future generations.

The Secret of Closeness

Parashat Vayikra opens a new world in the Torah—a world that feels both deeply familiar and yet distant: the world of the Mishkan, the Beit HaMikdash, and the korbanot. It is a world we read about, study, and long for, but one that we do not fully experience. And yet, at its core, it speaks directly to us today. Rabbi Paul Bloom shows us what this new world is all about.

The Torah begins: 

אָדָם כִּי יַקְרִיב מִכֶּם קָרְבָּן לַה׳…

“When a person brings from among you an offering to Hashem…” (Vayikra 1:2)

At first glance, korban is often translated as “sacrifice.” But this translation misses the essence. The root of the word korban is קרב—to come close. The korban is not about loss; it is about closeness.

What Does It Mean to Be Close?

Closeness in Torah is not geographic. A person can live thousands of miles away and feel deeply connected, while another can be physically present yet spiritually distant. Closeness to Hashem is an inner state—emotional, spiritual, existential. There are moments in life when we feel it:

●      A powerful tefillah

●      A רגע של תשובה

●      A moment of אמת

And there are moments when that connection feels distant.

The entire מערכת הקרבנות was designed to create peak moments of closeness—structured, intentional encounters with Hashem. Each korban expressed a different pathway:

●      חטאת / אשם – repairing distance caused by sin

●      תודה / שלמים – expressing gratitude and joy

●      עולה – total elevation and yearning

But the goal was always the same: קרבה – closeness to Hashem.

From Korban to Tefillah

Chazal teach that, in the absence of the Beit HaMikdash, tefillah replaces korbanot. When we daven, we are not merely reciting words—we are reenacting the spiritual goal of the korban:

●      To focus

●      To align

●      To come close

That is why even one moment of true kavanah can define an entire תפילה. Because the goal is not quantity—it is connection.

The Strange Requirement: Salt on Every Korban

Amidst all the complexity of korbanot, the Torah introduces a striking constant:

“עַל כָּל־קָרְבָּנְךָ תַּקְרִיב מֶלַח”

“On all your offerings you shall offer salt.” (Vayikra 2:13)

Every korban—animal or meal offering—required salt. Why? What does salt add to this process of closeness? Before understanding its deeper meaning, we notice something remarkable: this mitzvah never disappeared. To this day, we place salt on our tables and dip the challah. Chazal teach that the table is like a מזבח. A meal can be an act of physical consumption—or an act of spiritual elevation. When there are

●      דברי תורה

●      שלום

●      awareness of Hashem

the table becomes a מקום של קרבה. Salt therefore connects our everyday life back to the Beit HaMikdash.

The First Lesson: Moderation

On a simple level, salt teaches balance. A little enhances everything. Too much ruins everything. This is a powerful message: not everything more is better and, in physical life—and in spiritual life—measured balance creates harmony.

The Deeper Symbol: Eternity

Rabbenu Bachya and the Abarbanel explain that salt has a unique property: it does not spoil and it does not decay. Salt therefore represents permanence. That is why the Torah refers to a “בְּרִית מֶלַח” — a covenant of salt. This symbolizes:

●      The eternal bond between Hashem and Am Yisrael

●      The unchanging truth of Torah.

In a world of shifting values, changing norms, and unstable foundations, the Torah is the “salt”—constant, enduring, and indestructible. When a korban is brought with salt, it is not just an emotional moment—it is rooted in something eternal.

The Cosmic Secret of Salt

The Ramban, drawing on Midrash and deeper teachings, reveals a profound idea.The world is built on a balance between:

●      אש (fire) – דין, strict justice, unchanging law

●      מים (water) – רחמים, flow, life, kindness

These are opposites. And yet, the world can only exist when they are brought together. Now let us ask: “What is salt?” We see that salt is created when the heat of the sun (fire) interacts with the waters of the sea. Salt is thus the product of harmony between opposites. It represents:

●      דין and רחמים working together

●      Structure and compassion in balance

●      Justice tempered by kindness

That balance is not just a philosophical idea—it is the very condition for the world’s existence.

The Message of Vayikra

Now we can understand the deeper meaning. The korban is about drawing close to Hashem. But closeness cannot exist in chaos. It requires:

●      Stability (salt as eternity)

●      Balance (salt as moderation)

●      Harmony (salt as fire + water)

Every act of closeness must be anchored in something eternal and balanced.

Our Avodah Today

We no longer bring korbanot, but the mission remains exactly the same. Every day we are given opportunities to create moments of קרבה in tefillah, in Torah, in our homes and at our tables. And every time we dip bread into salt, we are quietly reminding ourselves of two things: closeness to Hashem is not a moment—it is a relationship, and that relationship is eternal, balanced, and built into the very fabric of creation.

A Closing Thought

Parshas Vayikra is not about a lost world of ancient rituals. It is about a timeless question: How do we come close to Hashem? The answer is hidden in something as simple as salt: not dramatic, not overwhelming but constant, balanced and enduring.

And perhaps that is the deepest lesson of all: True closeness to Hashem is not found in extremes, but in the quiet, consistent, eternal rhythm of a life lived with Him.

 

Stories of the Sages, vol.2: Book of the Month, Nisan 5786

Stories of the Sages: From Sefer Ha-Aggadah is a popular read that dates back to 1991, when it was first published, The text consists of selected and translated passages from the awesome classic, the Sefer HaAggadah, that was so elegantly crafted by Chaim Bialik and Yehoshua Hana Ravnitzky as an encyclopaedic collection of aggadic passages drawn principally from the Babylonian Talmud. Our little library has recently acquired the second volume, thanks to a donation of several English-language books from our members Rubén and Deborah Lamdany.

For those who were not brought up on this unusually readable and user-friendly tome, this volume focuses on the teachings and the personalities of some 50 of the greatest teachers of the Talmudic era.  Mega-scholars and miracle-workers featured in this list include Choni the Circle-Maker, Bruriah (for the ladies), the blind but perceptive seer Rav Sheshet and our shul President’s all-time favorite Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi.

Please feel free to borrow this book and to enjoy it for its accessible and lucid English as well as its deceptively simple but profound and provocative content.

From Obligation to Willingness: Vayikra 5786

 This post, first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 19 March 2026, can also be read in Ivrit, here, thanks to AI.

Sefer Vayikra is defined by precision. It is a world of careful detail, structure, and exact sequence. Therefore it is striking that, when the Torah introduces the system of korbanot, the order appears counterintuitive. Rather than beginning with the obligatory offerings (korbanot chovah), the Chumash opens with korbanot nedavah—voluntary offerings that may be brought of one’s choosing. As Rashi notes at the outset: “The topic begins with korbanot nedavah.” Only later does it turn to those korbanot that a person is required to bring. At first glance, this seems puzzling. If korbanot form a structured system of service, should not the essential come first? Surely what one must bring should precede what one may choose to bring.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe offers two complementary approaches. On a practical level, he suggests that these parshiyot reflect a moment of spiritual elevation, around the time of the Mishkan’s inauguration. At such a moment, the people were not primarily preoccupied with sin and atonement, but with contribution and closeness—responding to the call to build a dwelling place for the Shechinah. The korbanot most relevant were therefore voluntary—expressions of generosity and a desire to draw near to Hashem, rather than those required to atone for sin.

But beyond the historical context lies a deeper idea—one that speaks not only to korbanot, but to avodat Hashem as a whole.

The Ramban famously explains that the essence of a korban is internal, not merely ritual. One who brings a korban should imagine that what is being done to the animal ought, in truth, to have been done to him. The act is meant to awaken reflection, humility, and return. Without that inner process, the offering is empty. Indeed, the prophets repeatedly rebuke a nation that brings korbanot while remaining spiritually unchanged; in such cases, the korban becomes not only meaningless, but even offensive.

But this raises a question: if intention is so central, why does the Torah not state so explicitly?

Perhaps, rather than stating it explicitly, the Torah builds this message into the very structure of the parsha. By opening with korbanot nedavah, the Torah establishes a principle: the defining feature of a korban is not merely obligation, but willingness. Even a korban brought out of necessity must ultimately be rooted in a sense of inner offering and a readiness to give of oneself.

In this light, Rashi’s comment takes on new depth. “The topic begins with korbanot nedavah”—the very essence of korbanot is the spirit of voluntary giving. The opening section is not just one category among others; it sets the tone for all that follows.

This idea extends well beyond korbanot. Chazal teach that Hashem seeks the heart. Halachic observance is defined by action, but its vitality depends on the inner world that animates it. Two people may perform the same mitzvah; one does so mechanically, the other with intention and presence. Outwardly identical, inwardly worlds apart.

That may be the deeper message of the opening of Vayikra. Before speaking of obligation, it begins with nedavah—to teach that even what we must do should ultimately be done as if we have chosen it.

When duty is infused with that spirit, it is no longer experienced as burden, but as privilege. And it is in that space—where obligation becomes desire—that avodat Hashem reaches its fullest expression.

Shabbat Shalom!

Bless that Blossom!

The following note is extracted from "Birkat Ha’Ilanot: Blessing for Blossoming Trees" by Rabbi Moshe Zywica. The full version of this piece, which also contains references, can be found on the OU Kosher website here,

“Hai man denafik beyomei Nisan vechazi elanei d’ka milbalvi omer”

If one goes outside during the month of Nisan and sees trees that are blossoming, one recites the following blessing (Birkat Ha’Ilanot):

Baruch atah Adonay Elohaynu melech hao’lam shelo chasar b’olamo kelum u’bara bo beriyot tovot ve’elanot tovim lehanot bahem be’nay adam.

With these words we praise God’s ongoing renewal of creation during the season of redemption in which we renew our commitment to serving Him.

It is preferable to say birkat ha’ilanot as soon as one sees a fruit tree in bloom, which is usually during the month of Nisan. Some say that if you are in a country where trees bloom earlier than Nisan the blessing can be said earlier.

Ideally, birkat ha’Ilanot should be said on a weekday and not on Shabbat, as some authorities are anxious that one may come to shake the tree or break off a branch on Shabbat—which is prohibited.

If a tree blossomed in Nisan but one did not see it until later, the berachah can still be said as long as the fruit on the tree has not yet ripened.  However, one who saw a fruit tree in bloom during the month of Nisan but forgot or neglected to recite a blessing may only recite  it up till when the fruit has begun to grow.

Though the blessing is said during a specific period of time during the year, it is not considered a time-bound mitzvah, so women are encouraged to say it.

Three Lessons from Parashat Pekudei: Accountability, Inner Substance, and the Foundations of Jewish Life

With Parashat Pekudei we arrive at the conclusion of Sefer Shemot. The final five parashiyot—Terumah, Tetzaveh, Ki Tisa, Vayakhel, and Pekudei—are devoted in remarkable detail to the construction of the Mishkan. The Torah repeatedly lists the materials, measurements, vessels, garments, and procedures involved in building the sanctuary. At first glance, the repetition seems excessive. Yet Chazal teach that within these details lie profound lessons not only about the Mishkan itself, but about Jewish life and leadership in every generation. In the following piece, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom shows how Chazal hav done so.

From Parashat Pekudei in particular, three striking ideas emerge: the principle of accountability, the relationship between external beauty and inner spiritual content, and the foundations upon which Jewish life is built.

Giving an Account

Parashat Pekudei begins with a careful accounting of all the materials donated for the Mishkan: the gold, the silver, the copper, the precious stones, and every other contribution brought by the people. This raises an obvious question asked by Chazal. Why was such an accounting necessary?

The Torah testifies that Moshe Rabbeinu was the most trustworthy individual imaginable. God Himself trusted Moshe completely to transmit the Divine word without alteration. One of the foundations of Judaism is our absolute confidence that Moshe faithfully conveyed the Torah exactly as he received it. Moshe’s humility and selflessness ensured that his own interests never interfered with his sacred mission. But if this is so, why did Moshe feel the need to provide a detailed financial report of every ounce of gold and silver used in the Mishkan? Chazal explain that Moshe was teaching a fundamental principle of communal life. Even when a person is completely trustworthy, communal funds must still be handled with total transparency. Leaders and treasurers must not only act with integrity—they must demonstrate that integrity openly.

This principle is codified in halachah and practiced throughout Jewish history. The treasurer of communal funds, the gizbar, must be someone beyond suspicion. Yet even that is not enough. The Mishnah describes how the Temple treasurer would enter the treasury chamber to withdraw funds for the service of the Beit HaMikdash. He would wear clothing without pockets and without cuffs. He would even remove his shoes. The purpose was simple: there should be no possible way—even theoretically—to hide a single coin. The reason is based on the verse:

וִהְיִיתֶם נְקִיִּים מֵה' וּמִיִּשְׂרָאֵל

"You shall be innocent before Hashem and before Israel” (במדבר ל״ב:כ״ב)

A person must act properly not only in the eyes of Heaven but also in the eyes of other people. The Gemara adds a striking observation: every generation contains leitzanim—cynics and mockers who interpret events in the most negative way possible. If the treasurer later became wealthy, they would say he stole from the treasury. If he became poor, they would say his poverty was punishment for stealing. People who are determined to suspect wrongdoing will always find a way to do so. Therefore Jewish leadership demands that one be “whiter than white,” especially when dealing with communal resources. Thus from Moshe Rabbeinu we learn that integrity must be accompanied by accountability.

The Mishkan: Small in Size, Great in Sanctity

A second insight is offered by the Sforno. When we read the detailed description of the Mishkan, we might imagine a massive and magnificent structure. Yet the opposite is true. The Mishkan was actually quite small. Consider the Aron—the Ark at the heart of the sanctuary. Its dimensions were only two and a half cubits long, one and a half cubits wide, and one and a half cubits high. In modern measurements this is roughly the size of a modest table. The entire Mishkan was a relatively small, portable sanctuary. Why does the Torah emphasize this?

The Sforno offers a profound idea. If we compare the Mishkan with the later Temples in Jerusalem, we see a clear pattern. The Mishkan was small and simple—but filled with the highest level of Divine presence. The First Temple was larger and more magnificent. The Second Temple became even more architecturally impressive, especially after the grand renovations of Herod. Yet, as the buildings increased in external beauty and grandeur, their spiritual intensity diminished. There seems to be an inverse relationship between outward magnificence and inner spiritual depth.

This does not mean that beauty has no place in Judaism. On the contrary, we have the principle of הידור מצוה, beautifying mitzvot. Synagogues, homes, and batei midrash should be dignified and aesthetically pleasing. But the Sforno points to a subtle danger: the law of diminishing returns. Beyond a certain point, external grandeur can overwhelm the spiritual purpose. A building can become so architecturally impressive that people are distracted by its beauty rather than inspired by its sanctity.

The Mishkan teaches that spiritual greatness does not depend on size or spectacle. Authentic holiness is created not by grandeur, but by the presence of the Shechinah.

The Foundations of the Mishkan

A third insight appears in the final verses of Pekudei describing the foundations of the Mishkan. The walls of the Mishkan were made from wooden beams called kerashim. Each beam had two pegs at its base. These pegs were inserted into heavy silver sockets known as adonim. These silver sockets served as the foundation that stabilized the entire structure. Where did these foundations come from?

The Torah explains that each one was made from a kikar kesef, a large measure of silver equal to three thousand shekels. And where did this silver originate? From the half-shekel contribution that every Jew gave. Each person donated exactly the same amount: a half-shekel. When the contributions of the entire nation were collected, they produced precisely enough silver to create one hundred foundations for the Mishkan.

The Ba’al HaTurim draws a beautiful connection here. The word adonim (foundations) is related to the Divine Name Adonai. The Gemara teaches that a Jew should recite one hundred blessings each day. According to the Ba’al HaTurim, these one hundred daily blessings correspond to the one hundred silver foundations of the Mishkan. Just as the silver sockets supported the entire sanctuary, the daily recitation of blessings forms the spiritual foundation of Jewish life.

Every time a Jew says a berachah—before eating, after eating, during prayer, or when performing a mitzvah—he acknowledges that everything in the world comes from Hashem. These blessings anchor our lives in awareness of God. They are the adonim upon which our spiritual Mishkan stands.

Building the Mishkan Within

Parashat Pekudei concludes the construction of the Mishkan, but its lessons continue to guide us.Moshe teaches us the importance of accountability and transparency in communal life. The Sforno reminds us that true spirituality lies not in outward grandeur but in inner holiness. And the Ba’al HaTurim shows us that the foundations of Jewish life are built through our daily blessings.

If we live with integrity, focus on inner substance, and strengthen our connection to Hashem through our berachot, each of us can build a Mishkan within our own lives. And through those foundations, may we merit once again to see the Divine Presence dwell openly among the Jewish people.

Builders of Time and Space: Parshiyot Vayakhel–Pekudei and Parshat HaChodesh 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 12 March 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit, thanks to AI, by clicking here. 

The central mitzvah of each of the two parshiyot that we read this week is puzzling in its own way.

If we were asked to choose the very first mitzvah the Jewish people should receive, it is unlikely that sanctifying the new moon would top the list. Why should this technical command about the calendar be the Torah’s opening mitzvah?

Similarly, the Torah devotes extraordinary attention to the Mishkan. Its construction is described at length, repeated again and again. Why does the Torah linger so extensively on these details?

A common theme links the two.

The command to build the Mishkan marked a profound turning point for the Jewish people. Until that moment, their experience had largely been one of witnessing miracles performed on their behalf: the plagues in Egypt, the splitting of the sea, and the miraculous sustenance of the desert. But the Mishkan required something new. It demanded initiative, craftsmanship, generosity, and creativity. The Torah repeatedly describes those whose hearts lifted them to participate—“kol asher nesa’o libo.” Through this project, a nation of former slaves became a nation of builders.

The Mishkan transformed the people from passive recipients into active participants in a sacred mission. Perhaps for the first time, they were not merely observing redemption; they were helping to shape it.

The same idea lies behind the mitzvah of Kiddush HaChodesh. Rav Soloveitchik pointed out that one of the defining differences between a slave and a free person is the relationship to time. A slave does not control time; time is imposed upon him. Only a free person is able to take responsibility for time.

In giving the Jewish people authority to sanctify the new month, the Torah effectively hands us the keys to the calendar. The festivals themselves depend on that human declaration—hence the beracha “mekadesh Yisrael vehazmanim”: first Israel, and through Israel, the sacred times.

These two mitzvot therefore define the beginning and the culmination of redemption. The Jewish people are entrusted with responsibility over both time and space—sanctifying time through the calendar and sanctifying space through the Mishkan.

Perhaps this is the deeper message of these readings. Redemption is not only something that happens to us; it is something we are called upon to build. Even after failure and setbacks—even after something as grave as the sin of the Golden Calf—the Torah reminds us that the Jewish people are capable of rising again, partnering with Hashem in shaping the world.

That calling remains with us today: to be builders—shaping the sacred spaces of our community and using the sacred time we are given to fill our lives with meaning.

Let the cow clean up the mess of the calf: Ki Tisa 5786

This piece was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 5 March. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, by clicking here.

Parshat Ki Tisa contains one of the most jarring moments in the Torah. Only weeks after the revelation at Har Sinai, Bnei Yisrael construct the Golden Calf. The speed of the collapse is almost as disturbing as the sin itself. How, so soon after Har Sinai, could the nation that heard the voice of Hashem fall so far?

Chazal link this parsha with Parshat Parah, which we also read this Shabbat. Their striking formulation is: “Tavo parah vetekane’ach et tzo’at b’nah” — let the cow come and clean up the mess made by her calf. On the surface, the association is symbolic. But the connection runs far deeper.

The Kuzari famously explains that, in building the Calf, the people were not consciously seeking to abandon Hashem. They were afraid. Moshe had not returned, and they felt spiritually disoriented and vulnerable. They wanted something tangible through which to focus their Divine service—a visible intermediary that would provide structure and reassurance.

In that sense, their impulse was not entirely foreign to the Torah itself. Surrounding the episode of the Calf are the parshiyot describing the Mishkan, with its physical vessels, sacred space, and golden keruvim atop the Aron. Judaism does not reject the physical; it channels and sanctifies it.

The crucial difference, however, is that the Mishkan was commanded; the Calf was not.

That distinction is decisive. When religious creativity detaches itself from the framework of Divine command, even sincere intentions can become spiritually destructive. The desire to make avodat Hashem accessible, tangible, or emotionally resonant is understandable—but, without commandedness, it risks becoming self-directed spirituality.

Parshat Parah responds with a very different posture. The Torah introduces the Red Heifer with the words: “Zot chukat haTorah.” It is the quintessential chok—a mitzvah that resists human logic. The Parah Adumah purifies the impure while rendering the pure impure. It cannot be neatly explained or fully rationalized. It calls for obedience even in the absence of full comprehension.

The Golden Calf represents the instinct to shape avodat Hashem in a way that feels understandable and reassuring. Parah represents the willingness to serve even when we do not fully understand—to act because we are commanded, not because we have constructed a system that satisfies our expectations.

Ki Tisa invites quiet reflection. Spiritual passion is essential. The desire for depth, connection, and meaning is not a weakness; it is one of our strengths. But that passion must remain anchored in something beyond ourselves. The difference between the Mishkan and the Golden Calf was not artistic talent or symbolism—it was submission to Divine command.

The message of Ki Tisa and Parshat Parah is that Torah does not always yield to our logic. Sometimes growth comes precisely through accepting that we do not stand at the centre. The purification of the Parah begins not with understanding, but with humility. Spiritual purity emerges when we allow the Torah to shape us, rather than insisting that we shape it.

Shabbat Shalom!