The Fascinating Aspects of the Fast of Esther

So much is written about the fun side of the festival of Purim that the fast day which precedes it is easily overlooked. Here in this piece our member Rabbi Paul Bloom lists the veil on some of the hidden mysteries of this special day. 

The Fast of Esther, observed annually on 13 Adar, is a lesser-known fast in the Jewish tradition. Many are familiar with the general idea that it commemorates Queen Esther’s fast before approaching King Achashverosh, yet there are several intriguing aspects of this fast that remain unfamiliar to many.

The Origins of the Fast

If you ask most people why we fast on Taanit Esther, they will likely mention that it is in remembrance of the three-day fast declared by Esther and the Jewish people in the story of Purim. The story, as recorded in Megillat Esther, tells how Mordechai learned of Haman’s decree to exterminate the Jews and, in response, put on sackcloth and ashes. He then informed Esther of the decree and urged her to intercede with the king. Esther was initially hesitant, reminding Mordechai that approaching the king uninvited could mean death. However, Mordechai delivered a stirring response that remains deeply relevant: 

“If you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance will arise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows whether it was just for such a time as this that you attained royalty?” (Esther 4:14).

Moved by these words, Esther instructed Mordechai to gather the Jews in Shushan for a three-day fast. The problem, however, is that this fast was actually observed on 13, 14, and 15 Nissan, immediately before Pesach. The fast of Esther that we observe, however, is only one day and falls on 13 Adar. Why the difference?

Why Is Our Fast Only One Day?

One explanation is that Chazal had mercy on the people and shortened the fast from three days to one, recognizing the great difficulty of such an extended period of fasting. A more significant issue, however, is the shift in the date. Why do we fast on 13 Adar instead of in Nissan, when the original fast occurred?

The halakhic answer is that Jewish tradition avoids establishing fast days in the month of Nissan, given its close association with the redemption from Egypt. The only fast that remains in Nissan is the Fast of the Firstborn, and even that is often replaced by a siyyum (completion of Torah study). Consequently, the Fast of Esther was shifted to 13 Adar, the day before Purim.

An Alternative Origin of the Fast

However, there is another view that the Fast of Esther is not actually a commemoration of Esther’s three-day fast, but rather an entirely separate fast that is unrecorded in the Megillah. According to this perspective, Jewish soldiers had a custom of fasting before going into battle as a way to pray for divine assistance. A precedent for such a practice is found in the book of Shmuel, where King Saul prohibited his soldiers from eating until they defeated their enemies (Shmuel I 14:24–30). The Fast of Esther, in this understanding, marks the fast of the Jewish people as they prepared to defend themselves on 13 Adar, the very day when Haman’s decree permitted their destruction.

The Connection to Pesach

A fascinating aspect of Esther’s fast is its connection to Pesach. The original three-day fast included 13, 14, and 15 Nissan, meaning that the Jews, including Esther, may not have observed the Pesach Seder as they were fasting during the night as well. Some commentators argue that they might have skipped the matzah and maror that year due to the severity of the decree. Others suggest an alternative explanation: when the Megillah states that they fasted for "three days, night and day" (Esther 4:16), it does not necessarily mean absolute fasting. Instead, it could indicate that they extended their daily fasts slightly into the night but still managed to eat something, allowing them to minimally fulfill the mitzvot of the Pesach Seder.

Significantly, Esther first invited Achashverosh and Haman to a feast on 15 Nissan, right after the conclusion of the three-day fast. On that same night—still the night of the second day of Pesach—Haman was unable to sleep, which led to a chain of events resulting in his downfall. He was ultimately hanged on 16 Nissan, making the second day of Pesach the day of Haman’s demise. This highlights an often-overlooked connection between Purim and Pesach, as both holidays celebrate the salvation of the Jewish people.

The Unique Status of the Fast of Esther

One of the most striking aspects of the Fast of Esther is its unusual status within Jewish law. Unlike other fasts such as Tisha B’Av, 17 Tammuz, 10 Tevet, and the Fast of Gedaliah, which are based on biblical or early rabbinic sources (Zechariah 8:19), the Fast of Esther is not explicitly mentioned in the Mishnah or the Talmud as a permanent fast. It emerged later, during the Geonic period, making it the only post-Talmudic fast in the Jewish calendar.

Curiously, 13 Adar was once a day of celebration known as Yom Nicanor, commemorating a victory over the Seleucid general Nicanor during the Hasmonean period. According to Megillat Ta’anit (an early Tannaitic work listing days on which fasting was prohibited), Jews were actually forbidden from fasting on this day due to its status as a day of joy. This raises a paradox: how could the later sages establish a fast (the Fast of Esther) on a date that was previously designated as a day of festivity?

The resolution to this contradiction lies in a fundamental debate recorded in the Gemara: Did the holidays of Megillat Ta’anit lose their obligatory status after the destruction of the Second Temple? The prevailing opinion suggests that these minor celebratory days were only binding during the time of the Temple, and once it was destroyed, their special status was nullified. This permitted later authorities to establish the Fast of Esther on 13 Adar, overriding the previous restrictions set by Megillat Ta’anit.

Conclusion: A Day of Reflection and Connection

The Fast of Esther is a fascinating and somewhat mysterious day in the Jewish calendar. While commonly understood as a remembrance of Esther’s three-day fast, there are serious halakhic and historical reasons to question this assumption. Whether its origins lie in the story of Esther’s fast or in the Jewish tradition of fasting before battle, the day holds deep significance. It is also unique as the only post-Talmudic fast widely observed by the Jewish people.

Beyond its origins, the Fast of Esther connects Purim to the broader themes of Jewish history, particularly the story of Pesach. The juxtaposition of the two holidays highlights an important lesson: whether in the days of Pharaoh or Haman, Hashem has continuously saved the Jewish people at moments of great peril.

Thus, Taanit Esther is not just a prelude to Purim—it is a call for reflection, introspection, and prayer, reminding us of our collective responsibility and the enduring power of Jewish unity in times of adversity.

Hava Narisha Rash Rash Rash!

 

Any reader of this blog who has had children, grandchildren or great-grandchildren getting excitedly ready for Purim will almost certainly be word-perfect when it comes to singing "Purim Day" with its infectious chorus "Hava narisha rash rash rash!". Well, here's a very pretty version of it for unaccompanied ladies' voices.* It was recorded in Romania by the Antifonia Choir conducted by Constantin Ripa and the lyrics go like this:

Purim Day, Purim Day, 

Gladsome joyous holiday.

Happy throngs masked and dancing gay.

Havan arisha, rash, rash, rash.

With your gregers play.

It's only 1.24 minutes long and you can listen to it here.

* It is the voices that are unaccompanied, not the women.

Moral Clarity in an Age of Confusion: Shabbat Zachor 5786

This piece was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, 26 February. You can also read it in Hebrew translation, via ChatGPT, here.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l once drew attention to a deeply uncomfortable truth: modern Western culture has largely lost the concept of an enemy. We instinctively assume that hostility must be the result of grievance. If someone attacks, there must be something we did to provoke it. Surely hatred must be rational.

Parshat Zachor challenges that assumption.

The Torah commands us: “Remember what Amalek did to you… do not forget.” Amalek attacked Bnei Yisrael in the wilderness without warning, without provocation, targeting the weak and stragglers at the rear. There was no territorial dispute, no prior history, no political grievance. It was aggression for its own sake.

Strikingly, the Torah’s response to Amalek is vividly different from its response to Egypt. The Egyptians enslaved us, oppressed us, and decreed the murder of our children. Yet the Torah instructs: “Do not despise an Egyptian.” Why? Because, as Rabbi Sacks explains, “The Egyptians feared the Israelites because they were strong. The Amalekites attacked the Israelites because they were weak.”

Pharaoh himself said, “The Israelites are becoming too numerous and strong for us.” Their hatred, though immoral and cruel, was rooted in fear and self-preservation.

Amalek was different. They attacked not because they were threatened, but because they encountered vulnerability. That distinction is not merely historical. It is moral and theological. Amalek represents the phenomenon of evil that cannot be reduced to misunderstanding or insecurity. It is the hatred that seeks vulnerability and exploits it. It is the ideology that glories in destruction.

The Rambam explains that the mitzvah to remember Amalek is about sustaining moral clarity: “to remember always his evil deeds and his ambush… to arouse enmity.” The Torah commands us not to forget the existence of such evil. Forgetfulness breeds confusion; confusion breeds danger.

We no longer know who the biological descendants of Amalek are. Since the time of Sancheriv, former national identities have long been blurred. Amalek today is not a genealogical category but a moral one—a  symbol of those forces, in every generation, that seek the destruction of the Jewish people simply because we exist.

As we read Parshat Zachor, its message remains larger than any particular chapter of history. Jewish experience has repeatedly reminded us that not all hatred can be reasoned with, and not all evil can be explained away.

Amalek may symbolize hatred without cause—but Am Yisrael symbolizes covenant without end. On Shabbat Zachor we do not only recall an ancient enemy. We reaffirm our identity as a people sustained by memory and bound to a Divine promise that has outlived every empire that sought to undo it.

Our task is not simply to survive history, but to remain faithful within it -to carry the covenant forward with faith, dignity, and moral courage.

Shabbat Shalom!

The Two “Tamids” — The Eternal Constants of Jewish Life

 In our ever-changing lives in a fluctuating world, it may seem to us that there is no real meaning and no sense of continuity. But this is not how we should experience it. Hashem has taught us the concept of tamid. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains:

At the opening of parashat Tetzaveh, the Torah describes the lighting of the Menorah in the Mishkan as a נֵר תָּמִיד — ner tamid, an eternal flame that must never go out. The word tamid — constant, continual, eternal — is a “magic word” in the Torah. It signals something beyond routine. It refers to what endures.

At the close of the parashah, the Torah describes another avodah performed daily: the offering of the ketoret, the incense. Here too the Torah uses the language of constancy. Just as the Menorah burned tamid, the ketoret was offered tamid — every day, without interruption. Thus the parashah is framed — topped and tailed — by two great mitzvot that are both constant. The light of the Menorah at the beginning; the fragrance of the ketoret at the end. Between them lie many other details — the priestly garments, the sanctification of Aharon and his sons — but the structure itself is striking. It begins with tamid and ends with tamid. These are not merely ritual instructions. They define the spiritual architecture of Jewish life.

Light and Fragrance: Two Dimensions of Avodat Hashem

Chazal and later commentators understand the Menorah as symbolizing the light of Torah — the illumination of divine wisdom in the world. Its flame represents clarity, consciousness of Hashem’s presence, and the awareness that we stand in His world. The ketoret, by contrast, represents something more inward. The Gemara describes how its fragrance rose upward in a column of smoke. The incense symbolizes the inner delight and intimacy of avodah — the quiet joy of serving Hashem.

These two mitzvot — Torah-light and joyful service — are the twin pillars of Jewish existence. Both are tamid. Both are constant. And, remarkably, the Gemara in Yoma teaches that when the Kohanim lit the Menorah each morning, they did not light all seven lamps at once. They lit five, paused to offer the ketoret, and then returned to light the remaining two. The Menorah and the ketoret were deliberately intertwined. Morning and evening, day after day, light and fragrance were woven together. The message is clear: illumination without inner joy is incomplete. Joy without clarity is unstable. The two must be connected.

The Rama’s Insight: The Constants of Life

Five hundred years ago in Krakow, the great halachic authority Rabbi Moshe Isserles, known as the Rema, opened his glosses to the Shulchan Aruch with a remarkable statement. Before discussing how to wake in the morning, how to wash one’s hands, or how to put on tefillin, he begins with a mindset:

“Shiviti Hashem l’negdi tamid” — “I place Hashem before me constantly.”

Before action comes consciousness. Before performance comes awareness.

The Rema begins his monumental work — spanning hundreds of chapters detailing every aspect of daily Jewish life — with tamid: constant awareness that we stand in the presence of Hashem. And how does he conclude? With another tamid — the constant joy of mitzvah performance. A Jew must feel simchah not merely when life is easy, but as an enduring orientation. Not a joy dependent on circumstances, but a joy rooted in privilege: the privilege of living a life of Torah and mitzvot. Between these two constants — awareness of Hashem and joy in serving Him — unfolds the entirety of Jewish life.

Constants and Variables

Every mathematician knows that equations contain constants and variables. Much in life is variable. Sometimes we experience success and strength. Sometimes difficulty and loss. In recent times especially, we have endured pain, uncertainty, and suffering. Circumstances fluctuate. Emotions rise and fall. History moves unpredictably.

But the Torah teaches that beneath the variables lie constants.Every day in the Beit HaMikdash began with the Korban Tamid in the morning and concluded with the Korban Tamid in the afternoon. It did not matter whether it was Shabbat, Yom Tov, or an ordinary weekday. It did not matter what political realities surrounded the Jewish people. The day began with tamid and ended with tamid. So too in our lives, whatever unfolds during the day must begin with the awareness that we live in Hashem’s world — and end with the quiet joy of belonging to Him. These are the inner Menorah and the inner Ketoret.

The Secret of Survival

This teaching carries particular resonance in times of exile. The early generations after the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash faced a theological crisis. Without a Temple, without prophecy, without offerings — had Hashem abandoned His people? Was Jewish history over?

The answer embedded in the concept of tamid is no. Even when it appears that darkness dominates, the ner tamid continues to burn. Even when fragrance seems absent, the ketoret continues to rise. The Divine presence does not extinguish. Exile may conceal, but it does not erase.

The power of tamid allowed Klal Yisrael to endure centuries of dispersion. It created inner stability — the knowledge that beneath changing circumstances lies an unbroken covenant. That is why even in the hardest moments Jews can still sing. We can still daven. We can still feel that Hashem is close. Not because life is easy — but because our constants remain intact.

Tamid in Our Generation

We are privileged to live in a generation of profound change — a generation witnessing the rebuilding of Jewish life in Eretz Yisrael after centuries of exile. Yet even now, challenges persist. Pain persists. Questions persist.

Tamid teaches us how to stand. Begin each day with the Menorah — with awareness that we stand before Hashem. End each day with the Ketoret — with gratitude for the privilege of serving Him. When those two constants frame our lives, the variables lose their power to destabilize us.

The Torah’s structure is not accidental. It is instruction. Life begins with light. Life ends with fragrance. And both must be constant.

May we merit to live with that steady flame — and to see its light illuminate our generation fully and eternally.

When Tetzaveh is also Shabbat Zachor

This piece, from the Destiny Foundation archive, was composed by Rabbi Berel Wein zt’l and published back in 2017.

It is obvious from the context of the earlier readings of the Torah that, when the Torah states “and you shall command”, the “you” referred to is Moshe. Nevertheless, the name of Moshe does not appear in this week's reading. Many explanations, ideas and commentaries have been advanced over the ages as to why his name is absent from this parashah. 

Moshe’s name is so intertwined with the Torah which he transmitted to us that its absence strikes a perplexing and even jarring note. Since there are no mere coincidences or accidents of language and style in the Torah, the absence of the name of Moshe in this week's Torah reading merits our attention and understanding. 

There is an element of Moshe’s phenomenal modesty certainly present here. Moshe strove throughout his life to prevent Jewish belief from becoming the cult of the personality. He always made it clear that he was only the conduit for the transmission of God's word to the people of Israel and that the Torah was of Heavenly origin and not the work of his mind and pen. It would thus be completely in character for him to allow an entire portion of his teachings to Israel to appear without his name being attached to it. The Torah is represented by the great candelabra and the light that emanated from it. The fuel that fed that light—the pure olive oil—came from all of the Jewish people collectively and not from Moshe alone. It is completely understandable that the intrinsic modesty of Moshe would be reflected by the absence of his name being associated with this holy fuel and light. 

This week’s Torah reading coincides with the Shabbat of Zachor, which records that Amalek comes to destroy the Jewish people in their infancy as a nation. There has always been a tendency in the Jewish world to somehow ascribe the hatred of Jews by certain sections of the non-Jewish world to the acts, policies or personalities of the leaders of the Jewish people. In the story of Purim, the Jews of Persia blamed Mordechai for the decrees and enmity of Haman. But Haman certainly is not satisfied with destroying Mordechai alone. He meant to destroy Mordechai’s Jewish critics as well. To our enemies, the hatred is never exclusively personal. To them, a Jew is a Jew, no matter what or whom. 

The fact that this week's parashah coincides with Shabbat Zachor indicates to us that the problem is not Moshe or any other leader or individual Jew. Even when Moshe and his name are absent from the scene, Amalek and its hatred and violence towards Jews, are present and dangerously active. 

There is a tendency in the Jewish world to cast blame upon our leadership—national, organizational and religious—for all of the outside ills that befall us. Our leadership must always be held up to scrutiny and critical standards forpersonal behavior and national policy must be maintained. However, the outside forces that arise in every generation to attempt to destroy us do so even when our leaders are blameless and absent from the scene completely.

We remember Evelyn Blachor a.h.

Many of the members of Beit Knesset Hanassi, particularly those who have joined in recent times, will not have had the opportunity to meet our dear and recently-departed member Evelyn Blachor a.h.  We are therefore grateful to her daughter Devorah for sharing with us the following:

Evelyn Blachor was born in London and raised in New York. She was a beloved wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. By profession she was an English teacher in New York and, along with her husband Isaac Blachor, she was a community leader and activist. 

Evelyn volunteered for many years with Amit Women, where she served as National President from 1995-1999. She was also instrumental in helping to build the Mikvah in West Hempstead, where she and Isaac lived for many years and raised their three children. 

Evelyn is survived by those children, 12 grandchildren and seven great grandchildren. May her memory be a blessing.

Moshe Rabbeinu's special day

 This note is adapted from a piece posted by the OU in 2014.

7 Adar is the date on which Moshe Rabbeinu was born, and also the day on which he died exactly 120 years later. His burial place is unknown. Linking Jewish present to past, modern day Israel has instituted a public memorial ceremony on this day for Israel Defense Forces soldiers who have not yet been brought to burial (the unknown soldier). This annual memorial takes place at Mount Herzl Military Cemetery, Jerusalem.

Some people have the custom of fasting this day and saying a special tikkun for 7 Adar” that is found in some siddurim. This is because the death of a righteous person is regarded as an atonement, as are fasting, repentance and prayer. In a leap year, which contains two Adars, this fast is generally observed the second Adar, while some people fast in the first Adar too.

It is customary in many Jewish communities for the Chevrah Kadisha (burial society) to mark the day by holding a gathering for its members. A festive banquet is held and the entire community participates. The reason for this custom reflects praise upon Israel. Most working people rejoice when work increases, and are saddened when their work diminishes. The Chevrah Kadisha, however, never rejoice in their work for obvious reasons--and in the year of Moshe's death no-one was engaged in his burial, except God in His glory alone.

Planting the Future: Parshat Terumah 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 19 February 2026. An Ivrit translation, via AI, can be found here.

Parshat Terumah opens with an extensive list of materials required for the construction of the Mishkan: gold, silver, copper, wool, skins—and wood. The Torah instructs that “atzei shitim”—acacia wood—should be used for the beams that would form the Mishkan’s structure. One of the classic questions raised by the commentators is simple yet striking: where did this wood come from? Bnei Yisrael had just left Egypt and were traveling through the wilderness. Forests were hardly abundant. How did they obtain the materials needed to build the sanctuary?

Rashi, quoting the Midrash Tanchuma, offers a remarkable answer. Yaakov Avinu, when he descended to Egypt generations earlier, planted cedar trees there. He foresaw, through ruach hakodesh, that his descendants would one day build a Mishkan in the wilderness, and he ensured they would have the necessary materials. According to another Midrashic tradition, these trees were first planted by Avraham in Be’er Sheva and later transported by Yaakov to Egypt, carefully preserved for this very purpose.

When Yaakov arrived in Egypt, he knew his family was entering exile. Egypt offered stability and prosperity—but it was not home. Yaakov emphasized this explicitly at the end of his life, insisting his descendants take an oath not to bury him in Egypt. He wanted them to understand that their presence there was temporary. The trees he planted gave concrete expression to that message. They stood as a quiet but constant reminder that redemption would come, that Egypt was only a chapter in a much larger story.

But the trees served another purpose as well. When Bnei Yisrael later built the Mishkan, they were not using anonymous materials gathered along the way. They were using beams planted generations earlier by their forefathers. Every plank carried memory. Every beam testified that this moment had been anticipated long before. The Mishkan was not only a response to the present—it was the fulfillment of a vision planted in the past.

Yaakov Avinu did not leave his descendants only a promise of redemption. He left them its raw materials. He ensured that when the moment came, they would not only remember their destiny—they would be able to build it.

We, too, are the beneficiaries of foundations laid by earlier generations, and we are entrusted with the responsibility to continue building. Living in Jerusalem, seeing Jewish life flourish once again in our ancestral home, reminds us that we are part of a story far larger than ourselves. Like Yaakov Avinu, we plant seeds whose full impact we may never see—but which ensure that the future of our people will stand strong and endure.

Shabbat Shalom!

The Mishkan: Where Heaven, Torah, and Love Converge

This week's Torah reading does more than just lay out a blueprint for the building of a focal point for God's relationship with His people. It establishes the ground rules for an enduring relationship based on three key principles. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains:

With just a few opening words, the Torah introduces us to an entirely new era in the life of Klal Yisrael:

וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם

“They shall make for Me a Sanctuary, and I will dwell among them” (שמות כה:ח).

After Yetziat Mitzrayim, Kriat Yam Suf, Ma’amad Har Sinai, and the thunderous revelation of the Aseret HaDibrot, one might have imagined that the spiritual climax had already occurred. Heaven had descended to earth. The Jewish people had heard the direct word of Hashem. Yet the Torah now calls them to something even more demanding: a collective project — the building of the Mishkan.

This was not an architectural endeavor. It was not merely craftsmanship. It was the creation of a sacred center that would channel Divine Presence into the physical world. If Har Sinai was a moment of revelation from above, the Mishkan was a mission of sanctification from below.

Betzalel: Building a Microcosm of Creation

The Torah describes the appointment of Betzalel in extraordinary terms:

וָאֲמַלֵּא אֹתוֹ רוּחַ אֱלֹקִים בְּחָכְמָה בִּתְבוּנָה וּבְדַעַת

“I have filled him with the spirit of God, with wisdom, understanding, and knowledge” (שמות לא:ג).

Chazal explain (ברכות נה) that Betzalel possessed a profound, almost mystical understanding. Just as Hashem created heaven and earth through the letters of the aleph-bet, so too Betzalel understood the spiritual correspondences embedded in every component of the Mishkan. Rashi notes that da’at here refers to ruach hakodesh — divine inspiration.The world itself was created as a physical universe. The Mishkan was constructed to introduce kedushah — sanctity — into that universe. Every beam, every socket, every vessel mirrored some aspect of creation. The Mishkan was, in a sense, a repaired and sanctified cosmos. From that point forward, Jewish history would revolve around this sacred center.

At the Heart: The Aron and Its Mystery

At the epicenter of the Mishkan stood the Aron HaKodesh — a sealed ark of acacia wood overlaid with gold, containing the Luchot HaBrit. It was hidden, inaccessible, entered only by the Kohen Gadol once a year on Yom Kippur. And yet it was the silent generator of holiness for the entire Mishkan.

On top of the Aron rested the Kaporet — the golden cover — and upon it stood two Keruvim:

וְעָשִׂיתָ שְׁנַיִם כְּרוּבִים זָהָב… וְהָיוּ הַכְּרוּבִים פֹּרְשֵׂי כְנָפַיִם לְמַעְלָה… וּפְנֵיהֶם אִישׁ אֶל־אָחִיו

“You shall make two cherubim of gold… The cherubim shall spread their wings upward… and their faces shall be toward one another” (שמות כה:יח–כ).

Their wings reached upward toward Heaven. Their faces turned toward one another.
Their gaze inclined downward toward the Luchot beneath them. What do these mysterious figures mean?

A Suspension of the Ordinary

The Keruvim pose an immediate halachic question. The Second Commandment prohibits graven images:

לֹא תַעֲשֶׂה לְךָ פֶסֶל…

“You shall not make for yourself a sculptured image…” (שמות כ:ד).

Yet here the Torah commands sculpted human forms. The Chizkuni explains that the Mishkan and later the Beit HaMikdash operated in an otherworldly dimension. Within its walls, certain prohibitions were suspended in service of a higher sanctity. Melachot normally forbidden on Shabbat — slaughtering, burning, baking, lighting fire — were performed daily in the Temple service. The prohibition of sha’atnez was suspended in the priestly garments, which combined wool and linen. So too, the prohibition against sculpted forms was suspended for the Keruvim.

Entering the Mishkan meant stepping into a different plane — a realm where the Divine order superseded the ordinary structure of law. It was Heaven touching earth.

The Two Halves of Torah

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch offers a powerful interpretation. Why two Keruvim? They represent the two great categories of mitzvot:

●      Bein Adam LaMakom — between man and God.

●      Bein Adam LaChaveiro — between man and fellow man.

One Keruv symbolizes our vertical relationship: Shabbat, tefillin, tzitzit — the mitzvot that anchor us in awareness of Hashem. The other symbolizes our horizontal relationship: kindness, justice, compassion — the mitzvot that build society.

Their faces turned toward one another — panim el panim — teach that these two dimensions must work in harmony. Spiritual devotion without ethical sensitivity is incomplete. Social ethics without reverence for Hashem is rootless. The Torah’s sanctity depends on their integration.

Torah Shebichtav and Torah Shebe’al Peh

A Midrashic teaching (Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer) offers another layer. The Luchot inside the Aron represent Torah Shebichtav — the immutable written Torah. But the Keruvim, facing one another, symbolize something dynamic: two scholars engaged in Torah dialogue — shnayim shenosnim v’nosnim b’divrei Torah. The written Torah is eternal truth — Torat emet. But Torah also lives in discussion, analysis, application, and debate — Torah Shebe’al Peh.

When we recite the blessing after an aliyah, we say:

וְנָתַן לָנוּ תּוֹרַת אֱמֶת וְחַיֵּי עוֹלָם נָטַע בְּתוֹכֵנוּ

“He has given us a Torah of truth and planted eternal life within us.”

The eternal truth lies in the Luchot; the “eternal life within us” lies in the living transmission of Torah. The Keruvim embody that vitality — Torah not as static text, but as vibrant, generational engagement.

The Language of Love

A third interpretation, drawn from the teachings of the Baal Shem Tov and his disciples, sees the Keruvim as symbols of love. Chazal describe them as youthful figures, at times like a boy and a girl, facing each other with affection. Their image evokes Shir HaShirim — the love between husband and wife — which Chazal understand as a metaphor for the love between Hashem and Israel.

The Baal Shem Tov summarized his mission in three loves:

1. Ahavat Hashem — love of God.
2. Ahavat Yisrael — love of fellow Jews.
3. Ahavat Torah — love of Torah.

The Keruvim capture all three:

●      Their wings stretched upward — Ahavat Hashem.

●      Their faces toward one another — Ahavat Yisrael.

●      Their gaze downward toward the Luchot — Ahavat Torah.

Love is not peripheral to the Mishkan. It is its core.

The Voice Between the Keruvim

Most striking of all is where the Divine voice emerged:

וְנוֹעַדְתִּי לְךָ שָׁם… וְדִבַּרְתִּי אִתְּךָ מֵעַל הַכַּפֹּרֶת מִבֵּין שְׁנֵי הַכְּרוּבִים

“There I will meet with you… and I will speak with you from above the Kaporet, from between the two Keruvim” (שמות כה:כב).

The word of Hashem came from the space between them.

Not from the Luchot alone, not from Heaven alone, but from the space between love of God, love of Torah, and love of one another. That is where revelation continues.

A New Beginning

The building of the Mishkan marked a new chapter in Jewish destiny. Sinai was an overwhelming moment of Divine initiative. The Mishkan was an enduring structure of human participation. Klal Yisrael was called upon not merely to witness holiness, but to build it — to create a space in the physical world where sanctity, truth, and love converge.

At the heart of that sacred space stood two figures facing one another.

The message is timeless.

Torah must be held firmly. Love must flow generously. Heaven must be reached for. And the Divine voice emerges when these elements meet.

May we learn to recreate that inner Mishkan — where Ahavat Hashem, Ahavat Yisrael, and Ahavat Torah stand face to face — and may the voice that once spoke between the Keruvim continue to guide Klal Yisrael forward.

Hearth and Home

Have we already ticked the box, as it were, for building the Beit HaMikdash withour realizing it? Our member Rabbi Steve Ettinger looks behind the Mishkan's construction plans and asks some probing questions.

The Mishkan/Bet Hamikdash is likely the single most holy place in the Jewish religion. It is the focal point for our service of Hashem. In its heyday, it was the resting place of the Shechinah, the Divine presence, and was filled with miracles. Today, millions flock to the site where the first two Temples stood, to pray and to feel a greater connection to God’s “home.” However, if we delve into how Hashem described this structure (the Mishkan) and, more specifically, its special vessels, it could well be that, in fact, none of what many may think and believe about the function of this structure and this place is relevant. Hashem may have had a very different lesson in mind when He commanded us to build the Mishkan.

When you stop and think, Hashem certainly does NOT need or require a home. Before the Chet Ha’egel, according to some opinions, He might not have even commanded that Moshe build it. Maybe it was merely a part of the atonement process or a concession to the fact that the Bnei Yisrael were acculturated in a pagan world. For most of history, our religion has functioned and survived quite well without a Temple and without its service. In fact, His very command to construct it hinted at a spiritual rather than physical dwelling: וְעָ֥שׂוּ לִ֖י מִקְדָּ֑שׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּ֖י בְּתוֹכָֽם (“And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them”). Effectively, He wants to dwell “within” each Jew, not in some structure.

It is possible that the building or place itself is NOT at all important. Perhaps it is NOT intended to be or to represent Hashem’s abode on Earth or where He dwells. Rather, He may be giving an example of how and where the Jewish religion should primarily be observed. He is providing a visual representation so we can create homes where He can live with us and with our families.

This notion may seem radical but, before examining the minutiae of the Mishkan, stop and consider: we might be a nation, but it might be more accurate to characterize the Jewish People as a family. Our foundation is not built on rabbis, kings and priests but on Avot and Imahot, fathers and mothers.

Note that the laws of Mishkan construction are juxtaposed with the command to observe the Shabbat (Shemot Chapter 35). Accordingly, we derive all of the laws of prohibited work on the Shabbat (the 39 categories) from how the Jews built the Mishkan. Thus, it should be no mystery why the command to observe the Shabbat is listed on the tablet with the first five Commandments—those reserved for the relationship between Man and God. This placement illustrates this same connection between the holy day and Hashem’s “place.”

However, the commandment to honor our parents is also on that first Tablet. In fact, THIS is the commandment that is juxtaposed to the Shabbat!   Parents – family on the Luchot – are in the same relative position to the Mishkan and the Mikdash as Shabbat was in the Torah – they are identified as part of the Man-God relationship.

Keeping this in mind, let us examine the Mishkan/Mikdash more closely. Tthe structure itself is a tent (ohel), dwelling (mishkan) or house (bayit). Historically (other than the more affluent “modern” era), most dwellings had two basic areas – a larger main space where all of the daily living activities were conducted and a private sleeping area for the parents (or perhaps one large area with the parents’ beds behind a curtain for privacy). The Mishkan/Mikdash had a similar floorplan – a large outer chamber with multiple vessels and an inner chamber (or a section separated by a curtain).

Homes, of course, require illumination. For centuries the source of this light was candles and oil lamps. The menorah, an oil candelabra, provided this light. Families must also eat. The staples of the human diet have historically been bread and meat. Two of the other primary vessels found in the Mishkan/Mikdash are the shulchan (table) upon which the kohanim placed the lechem hapanim (show bread) every week and the outer mizbe’ach (altar) where animals (meat) were sacrificed. A home, of course, requires sanitary facilities. A large water basin called the kiyor was likewise situated within the confines of the Mishkan/Mikdash complex.

As mentioned above, people sleep in their homes. It certainly would not have been appropriate to situate beds or couches within the structure. In the presence of Hashem, one must be completely alert. However, sleep is the most intangible or ephemeral human state. A person is simply breathing when asleep and he is most closely connected his subconscious. A great metaphor for this could be the burning of the ketoret (incense). It is basically intangible, it is diffuse, one can only breathe it in -- yet it has so many physical components -- and it soars freely heavenward.

Finally, we turn to the Kodesh Kodashim. In the Mishkan and the Mikdash this is the abode of the Aron HaKodesh (the Holy Ark) that contains the two sets of tablets – both the broken ones and the complete ones. The Ark is topped with the two Cheruvim, child-faced angels (asexual), that are turned toward each other.

As noted, historically the second room for most homes (or the space separated by the curtain) was the parents’ bedroom. This is where they become partners with Hashem, where they are required to vigilantly keep the sanctity of the family through the laws of taharat hamishpacha (ritual purity).  The two angels, representing two generic children, are symbolic of their sacred duty of “peru urvu” (”be fruitful and multiply”). Marriage is called kedushin. The Aron has both the complete and broken tablets – some relationships, some families, are whole and some unfortunately can be broken and in His Mishkan/Mikdash Hashem acknowledges this reality as well.

Every time we complete the Amidah (and at other times, as well), we pray for Hashem to rebuild of the Bet HaMikdash speedily and in our days. However, it could be that we have overlooked that He has already built one for each of us and that He already dwells in it. Our homes should be the true Batei Mikdash. Our homes copy the blueprints that He commanded. However, they can either be empty shells (eitzim ve’avanim – wood and stone) or they can be places where the Shechinah resides. The difference is whether we perceive our homes as a Mishkan or Mikdash, or as mere shelter. Hashem does NOT require shelter. He will choose to dwell in a Mikdash that follows his blueprint. There is no need to wait – you can build it!

Menoras HaMaor: The Light of Contentment (Book of the Month, Adar 5786)

Our Book of the Month for Adar this year is Menoras HaMaor: the Light of Contentment. This is a translation of the celebrated work of Rabbenu Yitzchat Abohav by Rabbi Yaakov Yosef Reinman.

Rabbenu Abohav was an early 14th century Spanish Talmudic scholar and Kabbalist. He is known for his intellectual approach to rabbinic literature, which he juxtaposed with contemporary Spanish Kabbalah. Of his many works, the Menorat HaMaor survived and won considerable fame for the author, though in his humility he assures his readers that he composed it chiefly for his own use as a public speaker. But besides this it has contributed probably more than any other medieval book to the popularization of rabbinical lore and to the religious edification and elevation of the masses. It belongs to that class of ethical works which sprang up in the 13th century in a time of reaction against the one-sided manner in which Talmudic studies had been previously pursued.

"These Talmudists consider it their duty to propose difficult questions and answer them in a witty and subtle manner, but leave unnoticed the precious pearls that lie upon the bed of the Talmudic ocean, the aggadic passages (similar to Midrash) so rich in beauty and sweetness."

He conceived the plan of grouping together the rich material stored up in the vast treasure-house of Aggadah from the religious and ethical point of view, and of presenting it in a book, intending by it to illumine the minds and the hearts of his coreligionists. Alluding to the seven-armed Menorah in the Tabernacle, he divided the book into seven sections, each of which bears the title of Ner or "Lamp" subdivided into seven separate parts and chapters.

This English-language edition is translated by Rabbi Yaakov Yosef Reinman, is part of the Marvin N. Hirschhorn Collection, which is housed in our Beit Midrash library.

From Revelation to Responsibility: Parashat Mishpatim 5686

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

After the drama of Ma’amad Har Sinai—the thunder, fire, and overwhelming revelation—Parshat Mishpatim can feel like an anticlimax. We move abruptly from the Ten Commandments to a long and detailed list of civil laws: damages, property, loans, lost objects, and interpersonal disputes. It is hardly the soaring spiritual vision one might expect to follow Sinai.

“Ve’eleh hamishpatim asher tasim lifneihem” — These are the laws you shall place before them. Why does the Torah descend so quickly from revelation to regulation?

The commentators note the Torah’s deliberate use of the connecting vav—ve’eleh hamishpatim. These laws are not a new chapter but a continuation of what happened at Sinai. Revelation was never meant to remain abstract or confined to lofty ideals. It was meant to shape real life.

Rashi sharpens the question even further. Parshat Mishpatim follows immediately after the command to build the mizbe’ach , the altar. Why place detailed civil law next to the symbol of divine worship? What do courts, contracts, and damages have to do with sacrifices and holiness?

The answer emerges from a scene at the end of the parsha—one that Rashi explains actually took place before Sinai (invoking the principle that events in the Torah do not necessarily follow chronological order). As Bnei Yisrael entered into a covenant with Hashem and declared na’aseh venishma, korbanot were brought. Their blood was divided: half sprinkled on the mizbe’ach  and half on the people.

Rashi adds a striking detail: an angel was required to divide the blood precisely in half. Rav Hutner zt”l explains why this mattered. This moment defined the essence of Torah itself. The mizbe’ach  represents bein adam laMakom—our relationship with God. The people represent bein adam laChaveiro—our responsibilities to one another. The blood, the symbol of life, had to be shared equally. Neither dimension outweighs the other. Without both, the covenant is incomplete.

History shows the danger of forgetting this balance. The Mishnah describes how competition among Kohanim in the Beit HaMikdash once degenerated into violence—even murder—at the foot of the mizbe’ach  itself. Religious devotion severed from ethical responsibility can become deeply distorted.

This is why Parshat Mishpatim follows the mizbe’ach . Serving Hashem is not limited to moments of prayer or ritual. It is expressed just as powerfully in how we conduct ourselves at home, at work, and in society. The Torah insists that holiness must permeate our everyday interactions.

Ve’eleh hamishpatim are not a step down from Sinai. Rather, they are its fulfillment: the blueprint for building a holy society and bringing God’s presence into every corner of our lives.

Shabbat Shalom!