Divine Reflections
Parshas
Tetzaveh
One of the most
challenging issues confronting a Jew at all stages of growth is the need to
find a healthy balance between developing and expressing one’s identity and conforming
to the Torah’s norms.
The drive for
self-assertion is a lifelong force, emerging in early infancy. It manifests in
children in their resistance to parental authority and the tendency to be
overprotective of toys and turf.
The tantrums and
irritability that mark the teenage years reflect this same innate need for
self-definition. An adolescent’s fragile, maturing sense of self remains under
assault as he or she reacts to relentless peer pressure.
Adults, too, must
grapple with this push for independence and the corresponding yearning for
self-definition. As life progresses, the issue tends to fade somewhat into the
background. The pressing challenges of livelihood and children occupy our minds
and energies, while also anchoring our social standing and self-image.
In subtle guises,
however, the quest for self-promotion persists as we move along the road of
life, mirrored in one’s desire for status, power and other ego-props.
Strangely, the
accomplishments that we were certain would cement our identity never fully do
so. Who are we at our core? We know how we wish to be perceived-but is that a
reflection of our true self, or merely a carefully crafted image designed to
impress others? As well as we know ourselves, part of that inner self remains a
stranger.
Some of our greatest
Torah thinkers have attempted to unravel this mystery of the ever-elusive self.
They have taught us that who we truly are, in the most fundamental sense, is
determined by our deepest innermost aspirations.
Forgetting about public
opinion for a moment, what do you really want deep down? Who is that person you
want to be?
The answer to that
question puts one on the path to true self-definition. What your deepest ideals
are-who you really want to be-is the best way of describing who you actually
are.
Though we may
constantly veer off course from the path leading to our ultimate
self-realization, our identity can still rightfully be defined by who we
ideally yearn to be.
This important
thought about what makes up the core of a Jew’s deepest self may be alluded to
in the opening lines of this week’s Torah portion: “Now you shall command the
Jewish people that they should take pure pressed olive oil for illumination, to
kindle the ner tamid.”
Our sages tell us that
this continuously burning light, the Western lamp of the menorah, was never
extinguished. Its cup was replenished daily with the purest oil attainable.
With great devotion and in exacting detail, only a few drops of select oil were
extracted from each olive tree and carefully primed to illuminate the ner
tamid.
The questions bounce at
us from the text: Why are all the Jewish people commanded to participate in
this mitzvah, when only one person-Aaron, the High Priest-was permitted to
ignite this light? Why the emphasis on only pure olive oil? Wouldn’t any high
quality oil produce the same flame? And why the need altogether for an eternal
light to be constantly aflame and aglow in the tabernacle?
The commentaries explain
that the ner tomid is a reflection of Hashem’s presence that constantly
animates and gives light to the universe. This Divine energy remains invisible
to the naked eye, hidden under the guise of “mother nature,” yet its presence
is clearly visible for those who wish to see the Creator in creation.
The commentaries
further explain that this ner tamid is apparent in each of us. Every human
being is an olam kotton, a miniature world. Each of us has a ner tomid, an
ever-burning flame of Hashem’s presence, embedded in our soul. It is what we
call the “pintele neshama.”
This pintele neshama
emits pangs of conscience when our actions betray our beliefs, and when our
bodies fail to act in consonance with our soul’s Divine moorings. The soul
reflects our innermost aspirations to fulfill our life mission and to remain
connected to our Source.
Even when we are
consumed with stirrings of jealousy and lust; even when we are struggling to
secure our livelihood in the degenerate atmosphere of the marketplace, the vibrations
of our pintele neshama are always audible.
That ner tomid emits a
constant glow that is pure and untainted. Even when the mitzvos we perform are
tarnished with self-interest, our true and constant sublime yearning to fulfill
His will in the purest way possible is what defines us.
When we constantly reaffirm the stirrings of our ner tomid and
ensure that they determine our life’s direction, we will then succeed in
shedding the unsavory thoughts and actions that are but a façade around our
intrinsic core. Keeping a pure ner tomid aflame at all times is a mitzva that
is instructed to each and every Jew for all future generations. Only when we
are suffused with its spiritual glow will our bodies ceaseless striving for
self-definition and self-realization reach fruition, allowing our everlasting
flame to be locked for eternity with its eternal Maker.
Wishing you a
wonderful Shabbos,
Rabbi Naftali Reich
Text Copyright © 2014 by Rabbi Naftali Reich and Torah.org.
Rabbi Reich is on the
faculty of the Ohr Somayach Tanenbaum Education
Center.
Eternal Lights
Parshas
Tetzaveh
Posted on February 6, 2014 (5774) By
Rabbi Berel Wein | Series: Rabbi Wein
| Level: Beginner
The Torah busies itself
in this week’s parsha to point out the necessity for an eternal light to always
burn in G-d’s tabernacle. The Talmud points out that the light was certainly
not for G-d’s benefit. The Lord is always beyond our physical needs and
environment. The commentators to the Torah always searched for a deeper and
more understandable meaning to this commandment.
Many ideas have been
presented to explain the necessity for this eternal light. One that I wish to
mention here in this essay is that the eternal light represented the eternity
of Israel and its survival as a people no matter what. Just as the Lord
inexplicably demanded that an eternal light be present and lit in the
Tabernacle and the Temple, so too is the survival of Israel to be seen as
something that is truly inexplicable.
The lights of
Hanukkah are the successors to the eternal light of the Tabernacle and the
Temple. They too symbolize the unlikely and miraculous, the triumph of the weak
and few. This symbolic light is meant to guide us in our understanding of
Jewish history and life. The otherwise seemingly unnecessary light represents
G-d’s guarantee of Jewish survival and of the great lesson that a small candle
while burning can illuminate a great deal of darkness.
The Lord needs no light
but humankind cannot operate in the darkness. The prophet Isaiah chose his
words carefully when he charged Israel to be “a light unto the nations.” Our
mere existence and accompanying story of survival is enough to be a guide to a
very dark world and lead it towards a better future and a brighter day.
When the eternal
light of the national existence of the Jewish people was dimmed by the Roman
legions, the Jews installed a physical eternal light in their synagogues. But
just as the eternal light in the Tabernacle and Temple required human effort
and physical material – pure olive oil – so too does our current eternal light
require human effort and physical material.
Lighting a dark room
requires ingenuity, ability, planning and the correct fixtures. Since Torah is
compared to light in Scripture, and it too is an eternal light, it is obvious
that the maintenance of Torah and the spread of its light also require human
effort, talent and industry. Even the glorious eternal light that hangs in
front of the ark in our synagogue has to have its bulbs changed and cleaned
periodically.
The Lord, Who needs no
light, demands from us that we provide light in the physical and spiritual
sense of the word. The High Priest of Israel was charged with the daily
cleaning, preparing and lighting of the eternal light in the Temple. The Lord
never provided for automatic lighting but rather for a light that would be
generated and cared for by human beings in the daily course of their godly
duties.
That remains the case today as well. Though our survival as a
people is guaranteed, paradoxically, it cannot happen without our efforts and
dogged commitment. We must light our lamp ourselves in order for it to burn
brightly and eternally.
Shabat shalom
Rabbi Berel Wein
Make Yourself At Home
Parshas
Tetzaveh
Posted on February 9, 2011 (5771) By
Rabbi Yochanan Zweig | Series: Rabbi Zweig on
the Parsha | Level: Beginner
“…Its
sound shall be heard when he enters the Sanctuary before Hashem…” (28:35)
The Torah relates
that the Kohein Gadol wore a robe with bells attached to its hem to insure that
before he entered the Sanctuary his presence would be announced. The Rashbam
cites this verse as the source for the practice of Rabbi Yochanan, which was to
knock on the door of his own home before entering [1]. It seems logical to
assume that the verse indicates that a person is required to announce himself
before entering someone else’s home, not his own. The novelty of Rabbi
Yochanan’s actions seems to be that he would knock before entering his own
home. How can the Kohein Gadol’s requirement to announce himself before
entering the Sanctuary, which is the home for the Shechina, be the source of
the requirement for us to announce ourselves before entering our own homes?
The Torah states
“Ve’asu li mikdash veshachanti betocham” – “They should build for me a
Sanctuary and I will reside in them [2].” In order to be grammatically correct,
the verse should have stated “and I will reside in it” What message is being
taught by this apparent inconsistency?
Influenced by a secular
society, many of us believe that in order to experience Hashem’s presence, we
must be in the synagogue. We erroneously assume that entering the synagogue is
akin to entering Hashem’s home. Consequently, when we leave the synagogue, we
leave Hashem behind.
Rabbi Yochanan is teaching us that although the structure we
build is for Hashem’s presence to rest, it is nevertheless still considered our
home. The Tabernacle, and on a smaller scale our houses of worship are the
communal prototype of what our own homes should be. Hashem’s presence should
not be confined to a structure which is deemed His home, for in such a case, we
cannot draw an example from it on a personal level, for our own homes. The
Tabernacle is to be viewed as the blueprint for the building of our own
individual homes. Therefore, we are commanded to build a structure in a manner
which will ultimately facilitate not only the Divine presence resting within it
but more importantly the Divine presence resting within us.
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