The Torah devotes a bit more than four consecutive weekly readings to the construction of the mishkan, the portable sanctuary that the Israelites utilized during their wanderings in the wilderness. This is an awful lot for what was, in essence, one large tent…
The first two of these readings detail the size and makeup of the various components needed for mishkan’s construction, along with the things that were to be kept inside it (the ark and its appurtenances, the table, the great lamp, and the altars), their measurements and the materials to be used for their construction. The second reading (Parshat Tetzavveh) lists, among other things, the details of the garments to be worn by the priests (kohanim) when performing their duties in the mishkan.
After these comes last week’s reading, Parshat Ki Tissa, which begins with further instructions about the mishkan before recounting the incident of the Golden Calf and all that followed. Then the next two weekly readings (which are combined this year into a single reading, Vayyakhel plus Pekudei), repeat—almost word by word—the list of components needed for mishkan’s construction and the details of the priestly garments, this time saying for each item that the Israelites carried out the work commanded in the first two readings item by item.
All this raises an obvious question: why should the Torah have bothered? The whole matter could have been summarized in a single sentence: “God commanded the Israelites to build Him a sanctuary, and they did so.” Why go into all the details of the materials of the mishkan’s parts and their dimensions (especially since these were ultimately different from those to be used in the construction of the mishkan’s successor, the great, permanent sanctuary built in the time of King Solomon in Jerusalem). And even if there were some necessity for listing all those ingredients once, why then repeat the same long catalogue a second time, verse by verse, asserting this second time around that for each item the Israelites did just as God had commanded?
It is not hard to see the Torah’s message here. The various commandments given in regard to the mishkan serve as a model of the Torah as a whole (by “Torah,” of course, I mean both the written Torah itself and the further specifications and interpretations of the “oral Torah” found in Mishnah and Talmud and midrash). The great strength of the Torah, these successive readings imply, is always in its details, and this is as true of other matters as it is of the mishkan—indeed, this constant specifying of myriad details may be Judaism’s most striking characteristic.
Thus, if the God had simply said to the Israelites, “Build me a sanctuary,” the resultant structure might really have been anything. But in listing all its components and their measurements, the abstract idea of a mishkan became something quite specific, a portable sanctuary of such-and-such components, all of which were in keeping with God’s own dictates.
Similarly, if the Torah had simply said, “Every seventh day will be called Shabbat, and you are to rest on it,” with each person free to decide for himself or herself what “resting” consisted of, then the resultant day might really have been anything; soon, the very idea of resting would be subject to so many different interpretations as to be meaningless. But once all the different types of activities permitted and prohibited on Shabbat had been spelled out, an abstract idea acquired a specific form and dimensions—just like the mishkan. And so it is with all the mitzvot.
As for reviewing all the things that had been listed in the first two weeks’ readings and asserting, in the last two weeks’ readings, that each and every item had been carried out to the letter—there is a message here too: It is crucial to keep each mitzvah in all its details, because the strength of Torah lies in those sacred details.
In another sense as well, the mishkan is a kind of model. By building it as instructed and carrying out God’s commandments in detail, the Israelites created an opening, a space wholly dedicated to ‘avodat ha-Shem, where each person could stand before God as his servant.
When the Jerusalem Temple was destroyed, its physical space was gone and no one could stand before God in the old way. Sometime later, R. Ulla, a teacher who lived in the late third and early fourth centuries, is reported to have said, “After the Temple’s destruction, all the Holy One has left on earth are the four square cubits [a minimal amount of ground] of halakhah.” This was certainly an odd comparison: how is the halakhah comparable to a building, a physical structure?
But what he meant was that, just as the Temple created a space in which to stand before God, so does the halakhah create such a space; we get to stand before God by performing mitzvot. It is therefore noteworthy that in the olden days, the Temple and its various appurtenances and personnel had to be sanctified and purified (expressed by the verb kiddesh). In the same way today, before carrying out a commandment, we say a particular type of berakhah (blessing) thanking God for having “sanctified us (kiddeshanu) by His commandments” and thereby enabling us to stand before Him.
Shabbat shalom!