Jonathan Chisdes
Devar Torah "Vayakhel"
March 7, 1997
Congregation
Bet Chaim
Casselberry, FL
Shabbat Shalom.
This week's portion is "Vayakhel," Exodus, chapters 35 through 38. In order to discuss it, I'd like to tell you about a personal discovery that has its roots 16 years ago...
In the summer of 1981, I turned 14 years old. Barely a year beyond my Bar Mitzvah, I was at a very impressionable age. That summer, Hollywood released a spectacular blockbuster movie called "Raiders of the Lost Ark." It starred Harrison Ford, who at the time was previous known only for his role as Han Solo in two "Star Wars" movies and a rabbi's friend in "The Frisco Kid." Harrison Ford played a new kind of hero--adventurer-archeologist Indiana Jones who in the late 1930s is hired by the US government to prevent the Nazis from discovering the lost Ark of the Covenant. The Ark of the Covenant. It was the center of Jewish existence for centuries. It held the ten commandments and was kept in the Holy of Holies in the Temple in Jerusalem. Until it mysteriously disappeared. According to the theory advanced by the movie, it ended up in an Egyptian city that was buried in a sandstorm. Two millennia later, Nazis are hoping to get it to use its supernatural power to take over the world. I don't know how many of you have seen the movie and what you thought of it, but at age 14, I was entranced. Spellbound. Mystified.
To this day, there are two scenes from that movie which stand out clear as day in my mind because they made such an impression. The first scene is when Indy and his friend Sallah first discover the ark in a long-forgotten Egyptian tomb, lit only by torch-light. But as they lift the golden ark out of its encasing and its brilliant artistry and angelic adornments are exposed, it gives off a fiery glow. The shadows of the two men carefully and respectfully carrying it are thrown against the wall of hieroglyphics that along with such swelling music and exquisite cinematography, sent chills down my spine.
The other scene which is most memorable occurs toward the end of the movie when the Nazis have the ark and are preparing to open it on a remote island in the Aegean Sea. The hubristic bad guy, Belloq, who is allied with the Nazis, dresses up in the ceremonial robes of the Cohanim, complete with breast-plate and jeweled turban. He recites a Hebrew blessing and the cover of the ark is removed. All the Nazis peer in to see what awesome treasures were inside... And what do they find? Sand. Sand. Just sand. Belloq is puzzled, disappointed. All this for sand? Some of the Nazis laugh as if to say all this fuss, all this hocus-pocus. A failed enterprise. They start to walk away...
But then suddenly there's more there than sand. Demons and angels and all kinds of otherworldly beings fly out of the ark and start tormenting the Nazis. They swarm around. The clouds roll in and the thunder and lightning make themselves known. The wind rushes by and the music swells. The wrath of God descends from the heavens upon the island and when all has been swept clean, the Nazis are destroyed by the very power they had been attempting to master. All that remains are Indiana Jones, his girlfriend, and the ark, glowing in the background.
What a movie! Sixteen years, and it still evokes such emotions and passions within me. So about four or five weeks ago, when my mother told me we'd be leading the service tonight and that the torah portion included, among other things, the construction of the ark, I jumped at the chance to speak about it. I opened up the Bible to read about the ark, and what did I see?
That was it. Huh? Isn't there supposed to be more? What happened to all the stirring drama that so stood out in the movie? This is the Ark of the Covenant--where's the power, the poetry, the passion? The feelings and emotions? Spiritual inspiration? I tell my writing students when describing something, its not enough just to give physical details, you must give your reaction, explain the significance, let the reader share your passion for the object. I said to myself, if the person who wrote this were a student of mine, what would I say to him or her? What we have here is little more than the measurements of a box. What good is that? If I were building a replica, it'd give me a general basis for what materials I'd need and what size, but how could this passage inspire me to create the artwork to adorn it? I'm not spiritually moved by this passage; although given the subject, I had expected to be. You know how I felt after I read that? I felt like the Nazis in the movie when they peered in and discovered sand. What a disappointment. And more importantly, what could I talk about tonight? How can such uninspiring verses yield a worthwhile devar?
I scratched the back of my head. What can I do with this? I was puzzled. Am I missing something? I reread those nine verses and still saw nothing special there. I pondered some more. Eventually, it occurred to me to take a more holistic approach and go back and actually read the whole parasha--all four chapters. And you know what? Suddenly I found the passion. This torah portion deals with the construction of the entire Mishkan--the entire tabernacle. It starts with Moses' request that the people bring materials for the building of their place of worship and suddenly the people go wild. They rummage through their belongings and start bringing gold, silver, bronze, jewels, gems, onyx stones, fine linens, goat hair curtains, acacia wood, ram skins dyed red, hides of sea cows, oils, spices, incense, blue, purple, and scarlet yarn. Oh, such beautiful details and a festive community coming together for a common cause. Everyone moved to give from their hearts. So much so that the priests had to tell them to stop because they had more than enough. And in the middle of all this glorious chaos is Bezalel, a craftsman who is literally inspired by God and he skillfully puts everything all together and creates such a beautiful and artistic place of worship. The ark is just one aspect of this, but there are also several motifs running through the whole Mishkan: the cherubim, the gold rings at feet, the acacia wood overlaid in gold. When taken together, as a whole, we've got a beautiful ensemble here.
You see, I discovered that I had been looking at this passage out of context. Alone, by itself, it didn't mean much, if anything. The measurements of a box. But when put in the larger context of the tabernacle, it blossomed as an appropriate centerpiece.
And that's the way it is with most Jewish relics. We like to think of Jewish ritual objects as something special and holy, but by themselves, sitting alone of a shelf, they don't mean anything. A kiddush-cup is just a vessel for holding liquid thats only utilitarian until you put wine in it and bless it. Candlesticks or a menorah only have real, spiritual value when Jews come together and participate in the holy rituals and make the human connection with each other. It's just like the old philosophical question: if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
On a weekday, our torah, sitting in our ark, is worthless. It's just a parchment scroll wrapped around two pieces of wood and covered by a cloth. But when we come together as a congregation to pray on Shabbat, and we take out the torah and read from it, it becomes holy. It's an experience that we share, that brings us together, awakens our spiritual side, and brings us closer to God.
Like the ark, relics and ceremonial pieces are just objects until they perform our holy tasks of bringing us together. The ark may have been lost and unlike in the Hollywood movie we'll probably never see it again, but it was just an object and we can find unity, community, spirituality without it. All we need is each other and our faith in Judaism.
Shabbat Shalom.