Parshas Pekudei 5785

Shortly after we first moved into our house in Cherry Hill, my wife’s grandmother—may she live and be well—came by for a visit. She took a look around our new home and with a knowing smile noted, “In 25 years, it’ll be just the way you want it!”
She was trying to offer a little relief. And she did. You don’t need to fret over every last detail. Don’t become frustrated that your new home doesn’t fit the image you’ve carried around in your mind for years. A home is a marathon, not a sprint. It will take time, and that’s fine, it’s supposed to be that way.
But on another level, those words words of comfort actually struck me with a sense of deep foreboding. “Oh no,” I thought. “You mean there’s more of this to come? More decisions, more choices, more furnishing? For twenty five years? Can’t I just stop and catch my breath? Do we need to fill our minds with future projects right now? Can’t we just be satisfied with what we’ve already done?”
Don’t worry, Grammy, Moshe Rabbeinu seems to think like you.
Upon completing the Mishkan, the Torah records that Moshe Rabbeinu blessed the people (39:43). And while the text of that bracha is absent from the Chumash, the Tosefta (Menachos 7:3) provides the words Moshe recited. The Tosefta records that Moshe said, “Just as you worked towards building the Mishkan and Hashem rested His Presence upon your handiwork, may you likewise have the merit to build the Bais HaMikdash and may Hashem rest His Presence upon your handiwork once more.”
To be sure, the Mishkan is not the final destination for Hashem’s Presence. But it was a major undertaking, and the people have worked hard. Can they have a moment to pause and catch their breath without being reminded of the ideal home that would yet need to be built?
Though we may well take the word “Mishkan,” literally “habitat” or “residence”, for granted as a reference to the structure in which Hashem’s Presence would come to rest, Rashi (38:21) notes an additional layer of meaning latent in the word. He explains that “Mishkan” is also related to the word “mashkon,” meaning “collateral,” referring to Hashem’s ultimate seizure of both the first and second Bais Hamikdash in exchange for the destruction that should otherwise have come upon the people directly. The “debt,” as it were, would go uncollected; the Jewish People would survive, while the “Mishkan” would be taken as collateral.
Which, historically speaking, isn’t exactly so. The Mishkan itself was never destroyed. It emerged from the wilderness in which it was created wholly unscathed, coming to rest in different locations throughout Eretz Yisrael. It was the Bais Hamikdash that would be destroyed as “collateral” for the Jewish People themselves, not the Mishkan.
Rabbi Eliyahu Mishkovsky, author of Mishnas Eliyahu and former Rav of Kfar Chassidim in Eretz Yisrael, offered a novel interpretation. In truth, he explained, there is one primary distinction between the Mishkan and the Bais Hamikdash. Whereas the edifice that was the Mishkan was imbued with eternal sanctity, the same cannot be said of any location upon which it was erected. When the Mishkan was deconstructed and then reconstructed elsewhere, the place upon which it formally stood reverted back to its original status.
But the same cannot be said of the Bais Hamikdash. The Bais HaMikdash invested the location upon which it was built with more than mere temporary sanctity. Even after the Bais HaMikdash was destroyed, Har HaBayis, the mountain where it once stood, retains its holiness, even until today.
The Bais HaMikdash, then, is essentially comprised of two distinct components: Mishkan and Makom, or edifice and location. And in this regard, explained Rav Mishkovsky, it is only the edifice—the Mishkan within the Mikdash—that Hashem revoked as collateral for the Jewish People. The location, on the other hand, remains unchanged, forever saturated with the sanctity brought upon it by the building that was once there.
Perhaps this understanding sheds new light on the bracha Moshe Rabbeinu gave the nation upon completing the Mishkan. Why was Moshe Rabbeinu already setting his sights on the greater project that would be the Bais HaMikdash when the Mishkan had barely yet been dedicated? Because the Mishkan and the Mikdash represent two very different sorts of influences one can have on his surroundings. And getting too comfortable in the paradigm of the Mishkan can come at the peril of ever advancing to the paradigm of the Mikdash.
The paradigm of the Mishkan is that of sanctity or influence while one is present. When the Mishkan stood in place, its location was sanctified. When it was deconstructed and moved elsewhere, the previous location reverted back to its previous status. It ultimately remained unchanged.
Not so the Bais HaMikdash. Even after its destruction, Har HaBayis remained sanctified. The influence of the Mikdash, unlike the Mishkan, outlasted its physical presence in the space it occupied.
“Advance,” Moshe Rabbeinu urged the people. “Don’t become people who only influence those around them while they remain present. Become the kind of people who can create a culture, who can inculcate values, who can provide an influence that will endure, even when they are no longer present.”
Every one of us wants to be a Mikdash, not just a Mishkan. We want to do more than influence our children’s behavior while we stand over them with a stern gaze. We want to impact their very consciences so that they act in accordance with our values, even when we’re not present. We want to create an atmosphere in which employees and coworkers are motivated to work diligently whether we stand guard over them or not. We want our communities to be positively influenced by our behavior, in a way that fundamentally changes those around us, whether we are actually in the room or somewhere else entirely.
How do we get there? First and foremost by recognizing that there’s a difference. Which, I would suggest, is precisely what Moshe Rabbeinu was trying to get across. For his people to know that there’s a difference between being a Mishkan and a Mikdash. And to periodically ask oneself, which am I?
Am I influencing those around and under me by fear, or am I inspiring by my very example? Am I simply demanding compliance through force, or providing them with a role model for how one ought to act? Am I behaving in the sort of way that leaves people with a sigh of relief when I exit the room, or disappointed that they now have only the memory of my conduct rather than my physical presence?
Rav Chaim Volozhiner famously noted that when instructing the people to build the Mishkan, Hashem said, “ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם—Build for Me a Sanctuary, that I may reside within you.” Not within it, within the Sanctuary. But within you, within the Sanctuary that you forge yourself into so that Hashem’s presence may come to rest within your very soul.
Every Jew has the ability to turn himself into a Sanctuary. Either a Mishkan or a Mikdash. Which will you be?