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“Mishkan” vs. “Mikdash”

By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin What is the correct Hebrew name for the Tabernacle that God commanded the Jews to construct in the desert? That’s easy: It’s called the “Mishkan.” However, the very first time the Torah identifies the structure, Hashem calls it a “Mikdash” (25:8): “וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם” – “They shall make for me a ‘Mikdash,’ and I will dwell in their midst.” The edifice is mentioned by name an additional 19 times in our parsha, but each time it is called “Mishkan!” What, then, is the difference between a Mikdash and a Mishkan, and why are there two terms for the very same thing? The Talmud acknowledges that the correct term for the temporary portable edifice that the Jews built in the desert is “Mishkan,” and the correct term for the Temple in Jerusalem is “Mikdash.” The reason why the Torah first calls the Mishkan a “Mikdash” is to teach that the technical halachot of ritual impurity and other holy protocols apply equally to both the Mishkan of the desert and the Beit HaMikdash, the Temple in Jerusalem. I might have thought, the Talmud explains, that there are certain additional holy aspects to each edifice, and so Scripture needed to connect them, demonstrating that both structures occupy the same level of holiness. But we are still left with the question: Why are two different words used to describe two buildings which have essentially the same function, namely, a holy edifice for worshipping God? The commentaries note a number of differences between the words, “Mikdash” and “Mishkan.” Here are some of those differences:

Two building, two names

1. On the basic level, the word “Mikdash” is a sanctified place. This word describes the job of the Jewish people in building the edifice. They needed to “sanctify” it and make it distinct and separate from their own homes and other structures. In exchange for building a holy place that is habitable for Hashem, God promised, “וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם” – “I will dwell in their midst.” The word “Mishkan” derives from the word, “Shekhinah,” the infusion of God presence, as it were, into the edifice that Bnei Israel had sanctified. Put another way: “Mikdash” represents Israel’s role in this project, and “Mishkan” represents God’s reaction to that effort. 2. The Mishkan was a portable edifice; whenever the Jews encamped in a new place in the desert, they reconstructed the Mishkan, and it regained its holy status. The Beit HaMikdash, by contrast, was fixed permanently on one piece of real estate, on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, never to be relocated. 3. As per the Talmud cited above, the Mishkan’s holiness was temporary. The edifice was only meant to be utilized until Bnei Israel would find a permanent place for building a Temple. By contrast, the Temple was meant to last perpetually. Even after its destruction, the Temple Mount retains its sanctity. 4. Both the Mishkan and the Temple were meant as places for communion with God. However, the method of Divine communion in the Mishkan was primarily achieved when God rested His Shekhinah among the people in order for Him to communicate the laws of the Torah to Moshe. Sacrifices were also brought in the Mishkan, but this was only its secondary function. The Temple, by contrast, created Divine communion solely through the Jews’ bringing their korbanot (sacrifices). God never communicated Torah law via the Temple.

Mikdash and mishkan today

We might apply these four distinctions between Mikdash and Mishkan to our own lives: 1. The Kotzker was known to say: “Where is God? Any place where you let Him in.” Our job is to construct the “Mikdash.” If we live our lives with dignity, moderation, and morality, then we can expect Divine influence in our lives. The Shechinah can only rest upon those who properly invest in living a life dedicated to Torah study and mitzvot, and create a welcoming place for God to rest within. 2. There’s value in knowing that there are two types of holy places: the portable ones, and the ones fixed in place. Tradition teaches that we should assign specific places and times for spiritual efforts. That is why we have designated holy days, and designated places of holiness. The authorities advocate that a person should designate one spot, known as a makom kavua, whether in the synagogue or in the home, which is reserved for prayer. The human psyche reacts better to the idea of transcendence when it is bounded by specific times and places. At the same time, we often find ourselves traveling through the deserts of the world, whether literally or figuratively. We should attempt to create holiness even in places where holiness is not to be found. In the desert, we anointed the Mishkan utensils in order to imbue them with a holiness that was not endemic to the desert environment. We can do the same while in our own deserts. Whether it’s assembling a minyan at the airport, or putting together a minyan amidst the rubble in Gaza, we can create holiness anywhere. We should never be embarrassed to express ourselves religiously in public. 3. Rav Kook teaches something profound: The Mishkan was a prerequisite to the Temple in Jerusalem. Something as transcendent and holy as the Divine Presence could not initially rest in something permanently ensconced within our physical world. The Mishkan needed to be a temporary edifice in order for Hashem’s transcendence to feel “comfortable” descending into it. Only after Moshe and the Jewish people expressed great love and desire for a more permanent home, did Hashem allow His presence to rest in a permanent edifice. I was just at a new restaurant in the neighborhood, where they advertised that they were having a “soft launch.” I asked the owner why he didn’t just open up fully right away. He responded that both he and his partner were not coming from the foodservice industry, and they needed to ease themselves into this new venture before committing to a full-service restaurant. The same is true with any spiritual endeavor. No one should go from zero to 100 in one fell swoop. We always advise baalei teshuvah and others who are assuming new responsibilities in life: Take it slow, and ease your way into your new role. This is the only way to succeed, especially when attempting something that is spiritually monumental. 4. Finally, utilize your holy places, especially your shul, for both worship (Mikdash) and Torah study (Mishkan). Both are holy endeavors, and both create communion with God. One is not a holier endeavor than the other, even though they serve different functions. We need both a Mishkan and Mikdash in our lives.

Making a place for God in our lives

Rav Yitzchak Hutner (d. 1980) is credited with the moving poem, “בלבבי משכן אבנה”, which has been popularized as a beautiful song (which is actually based on a poem written by Rav Elazar Azkari of the 16th century). The lyrics translate as: In my heart I will build a Mishkan for His glorious honor. In this Mishkan I will establish an altar for the corners of His glory. For an eternal light, I will use the fire of the Akeidah. For a sacrifice, I will offer up to Him my only soul. We can use these parshiyos which detail the Mishkan’s construction to try our best to sanctify our lives with efforts that will make us a place for God to feel welcome. Whether it’s our home, our workplace, or our vacation spots, let’s welcome Hashem into our spaces, so that we can commune with Him at the Redemption, bb”a.

Community vs. Individual

By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin Many commentaries ask why the Mishpatim, the civil laws presented in our parsha, come immediately after the giving of the Ten Commandments at Sinai. Some observe that the very basis for a Torah society is the structuring of civil law to ensure that society functions properly. Without Derekh Eretz – a civility-based society – there can be no Torah, so Mishpatim must be the foundation of any Torah community. We can frame this another way: the Torah was presented to an entire nation. We received the Torah “כאיש אחד בלב אחד” – “as one person, with one heart.” It’s our national credo that we are ONE people. But therein lies the problem: when you imagine the Mt. Sinai experience, there are no individual faces, just a national entity of Am Yisrael. One might get the misimpression that the individual does not count in a Torah society. The collective is everything, and the individual’s wellbeing doesn’t matter. This is especially dangerous for a group of people who have just left slavery, where they were oppressed by having their humanity and individual rights stripped from them. “We were faceless slaves to Pharaoh. Are we to be faceless once again? Just another number in this Torah-based collective?”

An individual's uniqueness

To create a counterbalance, Hashem, through the Mishpatim, emphasizes that, despite the need for national unity, we cannot lose sight of the rights and the uniqueness of each individual. No matter how important national unity is, it cannot come at the expense of the poor and the oppressed. A criminal, no matter how important they may be to Am Yisrael, must be judged as a criminal, and justice for the individual must prevail, no matter the cost to the communal structures. Yuval Levin is the editor of National Affairs and is a former White House staffer under President Bush. The thesis of his latest work is that we live now in a time of tremendous anxiety, loneliness, and isolation. There is a greater mistrust of organizations and institutions than ever before. People are loathe to join organizations, and prefer to view themselves as outsiders instead of belonging to a group. Part of this is due to social media and the online isolation that breaks social structures. But Levin points to another factor as to why people no longer trust social constructs: organizations were originally focused on influencing their constituents and helping them become better people. Today, however, institutions have transformed from “formative” to “performative.” Instead of a political party, religious institution, or community entity trying to influence its constituents, it focuses largely on advertising its brand and trying to get as many people as possible to follow it and give it a “like.” The measure of success in our online world is getting the most traffic to your web site and the most approval. This is the “performative” aspect of our institutions. Instead of our institutions influencing the individual, the institution has now become a captive of the individuals who either give it a thumbs up or a thumbs down. As Levin states: “We have replaced a culture of integrity with a culture of celebrity – in which achievement is measured by prominence and legitimacy by affirmation.”

The needs of the many, the needs of the one

There are many examples of this in the secular world, whether it be a media outlet, a political party or politician, or a university campus. But it has also crept into the way we do business in the Jewish world. On a recent visit to Israel, I was visiting a wonderful rosh yeshiva friend, who is sincere and idealistic. He wants to help every single talmid of his yeshiva and is extremely reluctant to turn away anyone. He recently accepted a boy who had been asked to leave a different yeshiva, and was sharing with me his concern as to whether he had made the right choice by accepting this young man. Was he creating problems for the yeshiva? “At what point,” he asked, “do we say, ‘enough is enough’?” I expressed to him that obviously the balance between the klal (communal) and the prat (individual) is very sensitive, and only you, as the rosh yeshiva, can make that determination. But I will say this: If you feel that this individual is hampering your ability to serve the other talmidim, if he’s so disruptive to the yeshiva or if he’s draining resources to the point where you can’t properly educate and inspire the other students, i.e., if he’s hampering your ability to “formative,” then you are justified in letting him go. But, if your primary concern is the good name of the yeshiva, and this boy is ruining your reputation, but you feel that over time you can serve both this young man and raise him up, and at the same time not compromise on your service to the other boys, then you have no right to ask him to leave. Your desire to be “performative” and shine in the public sphere is insufficient reason to give up on a holy neshamah. One way that we can all work on rectifying the current “performative” attitude is to realize how we sometimes contribute to the problem. Any time we as individuals advertise our own brand on social media – be it the posting of our latest vacation or the delicious food on our plate for dinner at the restaurant – and create that kind of performance art, we are being “performative.” If self-promotion is the mainstay of our own lives, we can expect no better from our institutions.

Hiding the aura

Let’s take a lesson from Moshe who, upon coming down from Mt. Sinai after receiving the Second Tablets, realized that there was a light shining off of his face, representing a spiritual greatness that he had attained as a result of saving the Jewish people from destruction after the sin of the Golden Calf. Rabbi Chaim Yoseph David Azoulay, the Chid”a, suggests that Moshe’s face shone as a result of the Jewish people’s forfeiture of their spiritual greatness after they sinned with the Golden Calf. The special “glory” that was forfeited by the people was conferred upon Moshe instead. When Bnei Israel saw this, they became extremely frightened and deeply humiliated. This shining of Moshe’s face represented to them their utter failure in their encounter with the Divine. In Moshe’s face they saw what really should have been their glory, but which they lost because of their impetuousness. Note how sometimes our behavior is the exact opposite of Moshe Rabeinu. When we achieve some greatness in life, we jump to TikTok or Instagram to flaunt our aura. We’d do better to learn from Moshe to put a veil over our face and hide the aura. In this way, we reduce jealously, and refrain from contributing to the social trend of life as a performance art. In this way, we can focus more on how we can influence others positively. May our efforts to be strong individuals while at the same time realizing that we can only accept the Torah as part of the klal, as being a member of “עם ישראל” bring us to the redemption speedily, bb”a.

Running Away and Running Towards

By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin One of the most important theological divides among Jewish thinkers hinges on the answer to the following question: When God first introduced Himself to the Jewish people at Mount Sinai, why did He say (20:2), “אָנֹכִי יְקֹוָק אֱלֹהֶיךָ אֲשֶׁר הוֹצֵאתִיךָ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם” – “I am Hashem your Lord, who took you out of Egypt”? Would it not have been more appropriate for God to introduce Himself as the Creator of heaven and earth?! Would that not have made a greater impression on the Jewish people, that they would know their God was not a “local” deity, restricted to one event and one people, but rather the universal God of all? Two great rabbis of the early 12th century, who were also good friends, debated this issue. R. Yehuda HaLevi believed that the revelation at Mt. Sinai was the necessary foundation for our entire belief in God, because it was a face-to-face encounter with the Divine, not just an intellectual proof to the existence of God. The Jewish people adhere to a belief in a God they experienced first-hand. This is why, when Hashem introduced Himself to Bnei Israel, He told them to believe in the God that you yourselves experienced (or, by extension, your ancestors), and not just in the God who is the logical Creator, but who no one, with their own eyes, witnessed creating.

Intellectual proof of God

The Ibn Ezra, on the other hand, suggested something completely contrary. He believed, like the Rambam, that an intellectual proof of God’s existence was actually the higher level of belief, because only someone provincial needs to be proven that something is true by being shown it with their own eyes. A truly sophisticated intellectual can internalize the truth of God without ever being shown a miracle. Ibn Ezra bisects the verse: the first part, “I am Y-H-V-H, your Lord,” is manifest to the thinking individual without any further demonstration. The second part, “who took you out of Egypt,” was only written for the uninitiated, more simplistic thinkers, who needed “proof” of God through witnessing the Exodus miracles themselves. Who is greater: He who believes without seeing the miracle, or he who believes because he has seen the miracle himself? This debate – belief based on intellect vs. belief based on personal experience of the Divine – has been a point of divide between great rabbinic thinkers ever since. There is another way of answering this question, which is provided by the Mekhilta midrash. The Rabbis state that when God appeared to the Jews in Egypt and at the Red Sea, He appeared as “a man of war,” a very strong deity, who was like a young, vigorous man leading his army into battle. But when Hashem appeared to the Jews at Mt. Sinai, He appeared to them as a wise and wizened elder. Lest anyone think that there were two deities – one, the strong warrior god of the Exodus, and two, the sage god of Mt. Sinai – Hashem dispelled that thought by introducing Himself as the very same God who took them out of Egypt. My guise may change, but it is still Me, “Anochi.”

A God of wisdom and might

This Midrash also helps us understand why the Torah introduces the events at Mt. Sinai with the words (19:1), “On the third month after the Jews left Egypt, on that very day, they came to the Sinai desert.” The Torah is making a direct correlation between the events of the Exodus and the giving of the Torah to reinforce this idea that it was the same God responsible for both events. It goes deeper. Consider that there are two ways to relate to a God who provides salvation. One is when someone is running away from a threat, and God comes and saves that person. The second is when a person is not in distress, and is not running away from anything. Rather, he or she feels that they need meaning and purpose, and so run towards the God who provides them with that sense of fulfillment and attachment to a Higher Power. God appeared to the Jews as a mighty warrior when we were leaving Egypt. He was our powerful God who could save us from our persecutors. But this God wasn’t offering us anything other than His might. At Mt. Sinai, however, God presented Himself as the wise old man, the source of wisdom from whom people seek counsel and purpose, and flock towards in order to have their lives count for something.

Saving us from assimilation

When Hashem said that He was the same God who took us out of Egypt, He was connecting the two guises, as if to say: If I am only that God who saved you from the darkness of the outside world, this is not enough. You need a reason to run toward Me even when nothing in your environment is hounding you. I am the source of goodness, not just the savior from badness. The respective imageries of the Exodus vs. Mt. Sinai are starkly different. At the Exodus, Hashem saved us from the water of the Red Sea. At Mt. Sinai Hashem wanted us to witness a fire atop the mountain (19:18). The Egyptians tried to “wash us away” by smothering us with their values. Hashem would not allow us to “dissolve” in their overpowering current, and saved us from succumbing to Egyptian assimilation. When He brought us to Mt. Sinai, He showed us that He was the fire, the source of light and warmth. It was as if to say: I would much prefer that instead of viewing me as the God who saves you from drowning, you view Me as the God to whom you are drawn because of the light that I bring to your lives.

Seeing, and not seeing the light of Torah

All too often, our motivation for being Jewish is because we point a finger to the outside world and recognize how truly messed up it is. Judaism brings us the consoling oasis of sanity amidst a “woke” world that has run amuck. That’s fine and good, but if our sole motivation for latching onto the Torah is because of the wasteland outside our community, then instead of running toward the light, we have instead merely run away from the darkness. Our motivation should not be based on the “tum’ah” (impurity) of the “goyishe velt,” but rather the inherent beauty of the Torah, despite our familiarity and integration with the outside world. This is why Moshe sent Yitro away before the giving of the Torah (18:27). The righteous Yitro greatly admired and worshipped the God who saved the Jews from the evils of Egypt, but failed to see the God who would be the bringer of the light of Torah to a nation who no longer faced any danger. It’s fine to point at all the problems in the world today; they’re all around us. But we’d do better if we instead focus upon all the timeless beauty, kindness, and wisdom contained within our Torah. If your primary motive for being Jewish is the fire-and-brimstone, gloom-and-doom stuff, it may be enough for you, but you haven’t yet seen the fire atop Mt. Sinai. May we always focus on the positive light contained within the Torah, and follow the beacon that leads to the ultimate Redemption, may we see it bb”a.

Glory Days and Boring Days

By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin Think I'm going down to the well tonight, And I'm going to drink 'til I get my fill. And I hope when I get old I don't sit around thinking about it, But I probably will. Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture a little of the glory of, well, time slips away. And leaves you with nothing, mister, but boring stories of Glory Days -- Bruce Springsteen, 1984 We all look back at a time in our lives that were our “glory days.” It might have been during high school, university, or any other chapter when we were younger and more vital. Life was exciting, we were hungrier, we had more hair, and a very long, exciting, and successful future lay ahead. Then, as the years rolled by, we lost some of our mojo, our zest for living, and we learned to accept that perhaps our best years, our glory days, had already passed us by. There are many chapters of “glory days” for the Jewish people. The first iteration was right after the splitting of the Red Sea. Never before had there been such an exhilarating and intimate connection between human beings and the Almighty. Moshe led the nation into spontaneous song, and that song reverberates through the ages to every generation of our people. There have been many other iterations of glory days: Our initial arrival into Eretz Israel; the building of the Temples; our defeat of Haman, the Greeks, and other persecutors; and the founding of the State of Israel. Not every generation of Jewish history, however, has its glory days. In our millennia-long Exile, there have been many more dark days than glory days. The only thing that has sustained us during those dark epochs was looking back wistfully upon our glory days with the confidence that we would, one day, somehow, regain our glory days in the Messianic Age.

Understanding the meaning of being "chosen"

Right after we finished our “Az Yashir” song at the Sea, the Torah relates (15:22) that Bnei Israel traveled into the desert. They journeyed for three days without finding any water. They finally arrived at a body of water, but could not drink the water because it was bitter (15:23). Hashem instructed Moshe to throw a piece of wood into the water. Miraculously, the water became sweet (15:25). Our Sages teach that the particular wood that Moshe threw in the water actually had a bitter taste, and it was a thus a “miracle within a miracle,” in that the bitter waters became sweetened through something bitter. The simple import of the story is that Hashem was teaching the Jewish people, at this very incipient stage of their being the Chosen people, that one needs to place their trust in God; even when things look grim, Hashem is with you and will bring you salvation when you least expect it. But wasn’t that already the message of the splitting of the Red Sea – why is this secondary lesson necessary? Furthermore, why all the different parts of the story: No water for three days, then finding bitter water, and then having the water sweetened miraculously by something bitter. Why not just make it rain after three days? Rav Yaakov Lainer explained that the waterless three days of desert travel was a lesson to the Jewish people, one that needed to be imparted after the Red Sea miracle. Life has its glory days, but you also need to learn how to cope with the aftermath of those glory days, when life is fraught with suffering, challenges, and that most arduous part of life, the tedium of everyday living. It is impossible to maintain the spiritual high of singing “Az Yashir” on a daily basis; we must rather learn how to live a life of devotion to Hashem even when life is not filled with miracles and excitement. Travel in the desert of life, face its adversities and mundanities, and retain your faith even when your soul is not soaring with that sense of exhilaration and ultimate closeness with your Creator.

Finding purpose in bitterness

This was the added lesson of finding bitter water and sweetening it with bitter wood. Everyday life can be bitter. Sometimes, you cannot sweeten daily life by finding some new thrill or source of elation. The alleviation of bitter daily living is rather to appreciate that in that very bitter moment, when you feel estranged and uninspired, Hashem is with you and you are His beloved child. The fact that you are not experiencing some magic moment right now, but are instead feeling bored and distant from spirituality, means that Hashem wants you to live in this very mundane moment and be His beloved child, finding Him and praising Him despite the fact that there’s nothing new or exciting about today. In other words, “sweeten” the current bitterness by finding meaning and purpose in that bitterness. Take the bitter and add it to the bitter, and you will end up with the sweetness of knowing that no matter how mundane and removed you feel from Divinity, Hashem is always there with you. Golda Meir once said, “You'll never find a better sparring partner than adversity.” This does not just mean the adversity of difficult physical times; it includes the adversity of feeling spiritual emptiness because our glory days are behind us, and there is nothing fueling us to regain them. Embrace that emptiness and acknowledge that even when we feel we are at a distance from Hashem, “זֶה־הַיּוֹם עָשָׂה יְקֹוָק” - “this is the day Hashem has made; let us rejoice and be happy with it” (Ps. 118:24).

A rebellious time of year

Rav Lainer used the illustration of the sun and the moon to help explain this principle. When is the moon the fullest? It is not when the moon is closer to the sun, because if that were the case, the moon would appear dark to us. Rather, we see a full moon only because the moon is further away from the sun than we are, and thus is reflecting the sun’s light back toward us. The fact is, sometimes being at a greater distance from Hashem is what allows us to create more spiritual light. If we can retain our devotion even beyond those glory days, then this is a sign of a true eved Hashem (servant of God), who consistently shows up for davening and shiurim even when feeling unfulfilled and uninspired. Our holy sefarim teach that we are in the midst of a period of the year known as “Shovavim” (this is an acronym for the parshiyot we read over 6 weeks – Shemot, VaEra, Bo, Beshalach, Yitro, Mishpatim – but also is a word in Tanakh meaning, “rebels” – see Jer. 3:14 and commentaries). It is considered a time for returning to Hashem. What makes it different from the traditional time of teshuvah, during Elul and the High Holidays? We are asked to repent not because we are approaching a monumental day of judgment, or facing holy days of awe. Rather, when we are in the midst of the doldrums of life, we are called upon to remember Hashem, even amidst the bitter waters of living life by routine. Make life sweet by making God a part of everyday living, even when there are no life and death stakes. Wedding anniversaries are great; but the truest signs of love with our spouses is when we express our love even when it’s not our anniversary. When we’re not dressed up, when we’re just doing household chores together, that’s when real love is evidenced. Use those times when nothing special is happening to express your deepest love for each other. For those times when we find ourselves in the desert without water, we can take comfort knowing that our light still shines, and our God is still with us. May we always feel Hashem’s loving presence until the coming of the Redemption, bb”a.

Rubbernecking Others’ Tragedies

By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin Have you ever been caught in freeway traffic, only to later discover that it was due to an auto accident down the road, and that all the drivers had slowed down to “rubberneck,” that is, to gaze for a few moments at what happened? It’s annoying, but we all do it. In trying to understand why we do it, one person wrote: “It is rooted in profoundly human instincts and feelings of curiosity, shock, and empathy… Carl Jung believed that human beings enjoy witnessing violence. He maintained that this is a way to entertain our most destructive impulses without actually harming ourselves or others in the process.” We suggest that part of our fascination in others’ tragedies is a response to the subconscious anxiety we experience when seeing an accident: “There but for the grace of God go I.” That could have been me, and I’m subconsciously relieved it was the other guy instead. We take great pride when reading the section of the Haggadah which talks about how God not only redeemed us from Egypt, but did so by Himself, not via proxy: וַיּוֹצִאֵנוּ ה' מִמִּצְרַיִם. לֹא עַל־יְדֵי מַלְאָךְ, וְלֹא עַל־יְדֵי שָׂרָף, וְלֹא עַל־יְדֵי שָׁלִיחַ, אֶלָּא הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא בִּכְבוֹדוֹ וּבְעַצְמוֹ “And the Lord took us out of Egypt” - not through an angel, and not through a seraph, and not through a messenger, but [directly by] the Holy One, blessed be He, Himself.

The angel of death

The Hagaddah demonstrates this from a verse in our parsha (12:2) which emphasizes the idea of “אֲנִי יְקֹוָק” – it is I, God Himself, who is redeeming you from Egypt. And yet, the very same chapter of the Torah contains a verse which implies the exact opposite. In telling the Jewish people to paint their doorposts with paschal blood on the night of the Plague of the Firstborn, the Torah then exhorts (12:22), “וְאַתֶּם לֹא תֵצְאוּ אִישׁ מִפֶּתַח־בֵּיתוֹ עַד־בֹּקֶר”- “No person may leave their front door until morning.” Why couldn’t the Jews walk outside during the plague? Rashi, quoting the very same Sages who wrote the Hagaddah states: “We learn from here that once permission is granted to God’s destroyer angel, he does not distinguish between the righteous and the wicked.” So which is it, God Himself or His angel of death? If God Himself redeemed us from Egypt, then what’s wrong with walking outside? Can’t God Himself distinguish who is Jewish and who is Egyptian? Furthermore, even if Hashem sent some kind of angelic proxy to bring about the death of the firstborn, where is the justice in killing righteous and wicked alike? What kind of lesson is this for the offspring of Avraham, who was always taught that Hashem is a righteous and just God?! While there are a number of commentaries who address this gaping contradiction, a comment from the Zohar is most meaningful. “Whenever Divine justice is being meted out, a person should stay indoors” and not gaze at the overt retribution.

Spared for a reason

The Zohar provides three biblical examples, which at first glance don’t appear connected: (1) God required Noah to seal himself in an Ark when the rest of the world was being destroyed. (2) When Lot and his family were fleeing from the destruction of Sodom, the angels told Lot and his family that they could not turn around and look at the destruction. (3) When the Jews were being saved from the Plague of the Firstborn, they were commanded to not leave their homes, so as not to look upon all of the Egyptian carnage. All three of these episodes share something very important in common. Each one of the parties being saved – Noah, Lot, and the Jewish people in Egypt – were not being saved on their own merit. Rather, these were overall good, yet flawed, human beings who were being spared by Divine decree. (1) Noah was spared in order to perpetuate mankind, but would not have deserved to be saved from the Flood on his own merit. (2) Lot was only saved from Sodom’s destruction because he was Avraham’s nephew. (3) The Jewish people, at this stage of their development, were pagans who had not yet received the Torah, and were not yet meritorious enough to deserve a miraculous salvation for their own sake. God saved them because of his covenant with their ancestors and because of His foreknowledge that they would become a great people in the future.

A new faith at the Red Sea

Rav Yaakov Etlinger (19th cent.) noted a very interesting evolution of the Jewish people during their Exodus process. Bnei Israel only sang to God after the Splitting of the Red Sea, because they were granted the privilege of seeing the Egyptians perish. Why were they allowed to witness this carnage only now, whereas before, they were not permitted to witness the Egyptians’ death during the Plague of the Firstborn? Something new developed within the Jews’ faith in God after the Red Sea’s splitting. Until that moment, they still harbored doubts about God and His ability to save them. Because of this lingering lack of faith, they were not sufficiently different from the Egyptians, and thus were not granted the opportunity to see their enemies fall. But after the splitting of the Red Sea, the Torah testifies (14:31), “וַיַּאֲמִינוּ בַּיקֹוָק וּבְמֹשֶׁה עַבְדּוֹ” – “They completely believed in Hashem and in Moshe, His servant.” They were then granted the right to witness the complete elimination of their persecutors. The Midrash quoted above stated that once the “destroyer angel” is granted permission to destroy, it does not distinguish between the righteous and the wicked. What it really means, according to this Zohar, is that even when Hashem Himself is meting out the punishment, those righteous (i.e., righteous in comparison to those being punished) who are being saved – such as Noah, Lot, and the Jewish people in Egypt – do not have a right to gaze upon their fellow human beings’ suffering, so long as they are not substantively different from them. If they do, then they are deemed guilty, and deserve the same punishment. This helps resolve the contradiction over whether it was God Himself or an angel, and where the justice is in this system.

Overcoming unhealthy insecurities

We all have an instinct, due to our own insecurities about our mortality, to be curious when we hear about others’ tragedies. When someone tragically dies young, for some, the first question is, “What happened? How did they die?” We don’t consciously mean to be petty and intrusive, but the alarms go off in our minds: “They’re not much older than me. If it could happen to them, what will be of me?!” We seek to reassure ourselves that whatever circumstance brought about their tragedy will not be relatable to ourselves. But deep down, we know that what happened today to them, could, God forbid, happen to any of the rest of us. It’s an instinct that we should try to overcome. It’s not coming from a healthy place, but rather from a place of insecurity. It’s that anxiety which causes some of us to say foolish things at a shiva house. Things like: “Which bus line hit him?” “I didn’t know she was so sick! My wife saw her at the market just the other day and she looked fine!” “Was he a smoker?” “Did he have good life insurance?” When we hear of a tragedy, we should instead express sympathy, care, and suppress our curiosity-motivated questions. In other words, we should leave the blood-stained “front door” of our prying eyes closed. This was such a fundamental lesson to the Jewish people in their early formation. If so, it seems to be vital to our identity as God’s people. It is part of our national character to be compassionate and caring. Suppress your curiosity and rubbernecking, and just be there for your friend who could use your support without your curious questions. May we all have the fortitude of character to support each other in our times of need, so that we travel together with our heads held high toward the Redemption, bb”a.