Living in the now: Key lesson from the Mishkan
There is a question that never quite leaves us. When does real life begin?
As children, we cannot wait until high school. In high school, we long for yeshiva in Israel, then college. Then comes marriage, then children, and eventually we count the days until the house is quiet again. We are, almost all of us, perpetually waiting, standing in line for the next chapter while barely noticing the one we are living right now.
In parshas Terumah, we journey into the intricate world of the Mishkan. The Mishkan was the traveling sanctuary in the desert that provided us with an answer to how to live in the moment.
The Mishkan moved constantly. The ananei hakavod, the clouds of glory, served as the spiritual GPS system of the desert. When the clouds lifted, Klal Yisrael dismantled the Mishkan and traveled. When the clouds rested, they stopped and rebuilt again. They might remain in one place for three hours, three days, or three years. No one knew.
Can you imagine living like that? Every morning, waking up uncertain whether you are building or dismantling today?
This dynamic generates one of the most fascinating halachic questions in all of Shabbos. We derive the 39 melachos from the labors performed in constructing the Mishkan. Among them is boneh, building. Yet the Gemara teaches that boneh is biblically prohibited only when the structure is kayama, permanent (Shabbos 102b). A temporary structure does not carry the same prohibition.
But the Mishkan was, by definition, temporary. It was packed up and unpacked repeatedly across forty years in the desert. So how can we derive the prohibition of permanent building from a structure that was never permanent?
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The answer is simple yet very relevant to our lives today. Even though the Mishkan was dismantled and rebuilt, in every place it stood, that was precisely where Hashem wanted it to be at that moment. It was not permanent in the architectural sense, but it was permanent in the sense of divine intention. Wherever it stood was the right place, at the right time, by divine design.
There are two kinds of travelers, a distinction beautifully developed by the Yitav Lev. One is the oveir derech, the passerby, who sees the road as nothing more than an obstacle between Point A and Point B. The journey itself feels meaningless. Only the destination matters.
But the holech derech is different. This traveler notices Hashem’s hand in every step, finds meaning in every experience along the way, and understands that the journey itself carries purpose. The Torah says of Yaakov Avinu, “V’Yaakov halach l’darko, Yaakov went on his way” (Bereishis 32:2). Yaakov was a holech derech, someone for whom the road itself was sacred.
The Kohen performing the avodah in the Beis Hamikdash was required to maintain this same consciousness. If, while walking from one point to another in the Temple service, his mind wandered to the wrong offering or the wrong time, the sacrifice could be invalidated. It was called pigul. Even the intention while walking with the sacrifice mattered. The movement itself was part of the avodah.
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A Jew was once imprisoned and informed that he would be granted release for one day each year, a day of his choosing. Unsure which day would carry the greatest spiritual weight, he wrote to one of the leading halachic authorities of his time, Rabbi David ben Zimra, known as the Radbaz. Should he select Yom Kippur? Rosh Hashanah? Perhaps another sacred day on the calendar?
The Radbaz, who lived in the sixteenth century and served as a rabbinic leader in Egypt and later in Tzfat, ruled decisively in his responsa (Shu”t Radbaz, Vol. 4, Siman 13) that the man should choose the very first day he is able. One does not postpone a mitzvah opportunity in anticipation of a seemingly greater future moment. Spiritual life is not meant to be deferred. The holiest day is the day placed before you now.
That ruling carries a quiet but powerful message. We are not meant to wait for a more perfect tomorrow. We serve Hashem in the present.
Rav Chaim Shmulevitz once offered a beautiful mashal to illustrate this idea. A mother travels all day, to the market, onto a bus, back home. She moves constantly. But her baby, cradled in her arms the entire time, has not moved at all.
Al pi Hashem yachanu v’al pi Hashem yisa’u (By the word of Hashem they encamped and by the word of Hashem they traveled) (Bamidbar 9:23).
Wherever we go, we are held. We are always in the same place, in the arms of the Ribono Shel Olam.
The Mishkan teaches us that permanence is not a function of geography or time. It is a function of intention. Where Hashem wants you to be, that is where you are permanent. That is where you are home.
Instead of living to wait and waiting to live, may we be blessed to simply be in the moment. To feel the loving embrace of Hashem’s arms throughout every step of the journey, through every encampment and every stage of travel, through every moment of uncertainty and every moment of grace.
The road itself is the gift. May we have the wisdom to recognize it.
Write: Columnist@TheJewishStar.com
