Our tambourines are ready, but we haven’t had a chance to shake them yet.
What are we waiting for?
Geulah.
What does that even mean? The end of sorrow, trauma, pain? The end of challenges? Everyone wants to shake off the shackles of constriction and breathe freely, but we want so much more than that.
To understand geulah better, let’s look more closely at galus – exile. The seeds of exile were born in the Garden of Eden. After Adam and Chava ate the forbidden fruit, Hashem looked for them and asked plaintively, “Ayeka, where are you?” Of course, Hashem knew where they were physically. His question was to highlight where they were internally. It reflected His sorrow over having lost the intimacy for which He created them. What was supposed to be a relationship of synergy became an estrangement.
Humanity has been wandering ever since then, wondering how to get back into Eden. But not only did we lose the way, we lost sight of the destination. Was it appeasement of the gods? Was it power? Was it domination? Was it comfort? Was it at least the absence of pain?
While humanity was wondering, Hashem was not. Eden is intimacy with Hashem. But intimacy requires partners; by definition, it’s not something that can be forced. And so, Hashem waited.
Enter Avraham. Finally, after 2000 years, someone who recognized the chasm and wanted to bridge the gap between him and Hashem. And not only for himself, but for all of humanity.
Hashem made a bris with him; I’ll do My part and you do yours, and together we will form a people who will be a bracha in the world and illuminate a pathway for all the families of the earth to be blessed (see Bereishis 12 and 15).
And so, the long story of the Jews began, wondering, struggling, growing, experiencing, sharing, learning, walking through darkness and shedding light wherever they found themselves.
Though the destination is further than we ever imagined, and many of us have tired along the way, we haven’t stopped walking toward it. Pesach is our spiritual rest stop when we not only remind ourselves of our origin story, but more importantly, we gather energy to reorient ourselves toward our goal. But if Pesach is a rest stop, it sure takes a lot of work to get there!
For many, Pesach preparations begin quietly, rising with the sap in the trees, sometime around Tu B’Shvat, and then fully blossoms right after Purim. The lists get longer along with the days. As the sun grows stronger, new light is shed on piles that have accumulated and repairs that need attention. We clean out cabinets to create space for new groceries, we clean out closets to create space for new clothes, we clean out bedrooms to create space for guests. Our days, our minds, and our homes go through a process of transformation.
Though the process is physical, the goal is spiritual. As we clear out the detritus of the year, we create space for fresh energy and a fresh orientation. On a deeper level, physical work can help us clear out old attitudes to help us create space for new intimacy. Though this pattern unfolds in Jewish homes each year, it did not begin with us. It began with Hashem.
Creating Space
We know that there is nothing besides Hashem, as the pasuk says, “Ein od milvado (Devarim 4:35).” And, we know from physics that the two things cannot occupy the same space. If that’s the case, then how are we here?
Our Kabbalists address this conundrum by revealing the concept of Tzimtzum/contraction. In order for there to be the possibility for something other than Hashem to exist, Hashem had to contract to make space. In so doing, He created the conditions in which not only life could exist, but also in which free will, and, thereby, a relationship could exist.
The world exists inside Hashem. Hashem surrounds the world entirely. This is why we refer to Hashem as HaMakom, The Place.
The female body, created in the image of Hashem, contains an organ whose sole purpose is to be a space in which another life can flourish. The womb, the rechem, is the embodiment of the space of possibility. If you rearrange the letters of rechem, רחם, you get machar, מחר, tomorrow. The womb is the place from which the future is born.
Of course, we are so much more than biological beings. We are also relational beings. Part of the meaning of the pasuk: “You shall walk in His ways” (Devarim 28:9) is the mitzvah to consciously create space in which others can flourish, just like Hashem did and does for us.
But even more than general “space for others”, Hashem created space within Himself in which we could dwell, and now Hashem asks us to create space inside us in which He can dwell.
This is the secret of the mitzvah: “Make for Me a Mikdash, and I will dwell within them.” (Shemos 25:8). The pasuk does not say, “… I will dwell within it” referring to the building we were commanded to build, but, rather, “…in them”. In the people who created the building. He gave us the physical pathway to the spiritual destination: be careful of the details, keep Me in mind, don’t build on Shabbos, and by engaging in the task, I will be able to dwell in you. The physical act created the spiritual space.
Back to Pesach
How can the physical act of preparing for Pesach create relational space for others?
At some point, the preparation is complete. The cleaning, the organizing, the shopping, the endless details that filled our days and thoughts have come to rest. For me, that time is the morning of Erev Pesach.
Breakfast is over, the final crumbs are swept away. The children gather the remaining chametz and leave the house to burn it with the rest of the community.
And suddenly, the house is quiet.
For a moment, there is nothing left to remove, and the anticipation for the Seder, the stories, Divrei Torah, and family connections strengthens.
More than Hashem wants to dwell within us, He wants to be invited.
We emulate Hashem when we create a space for others to flourish. We emulate Hashem when we create space inside us for Hashem to dwell, but Hashem actually wants us to take it one step further.
There is an enigmatic verse in the Navi: “How long will you tarry, oh wayward daughter? For Hashem has created something new in the land: the feminine will surround the masculine.” (Yirmiyahu 31:22).
It is from this verse that we have the ancient custom for the kallah to circle the chosson seven times under the chuppah. Through those seven circles she is creating the spiritual architecture of their shared world, paralleling how Hashem created this world through seven circles/sefiros. But even more than that, she is becoming the home in which he will dwell, as our sages express: “his wife is like his home” – אשתו כביתו. If you think back to the creation story, Chava was once an inner part of Adam, and then they were divided, only to be told to reunite. Marriage is the opportunity for that reunion.
That is the “new creation” referred to in the pasuk: the feminine will encompass the masculine. Or, it could also be translated: the feminine will court the masculine. They got to the wedding canopy because he asked her to dwell with him, but under the canopy, she invites him to dwell in the home she will create for them. The invitations must be reciprocal. As they intertwine their lives, it relieves both of them from a level of wandering/galus. As they build their Bayis Ne’eman b’Yisroel, they build a home for each other.
That is what Hashem is waiting for. A home within us. Not just through the details of building the Mishkan, but with a heartfelt invitation. Chazal tell us that the Jewish People are both the wayward daughter and the kallah. Hashem is our Chosson. And the Chosson wonders, from Eden until today, “Ayeka, how long will you stray? I yearn for you.”
That is the geulah we all yearn for. None of us can do it alone, but hopefully, soon, we will all do it together. And then we can finally use our tambourines!
Sidebar: Shining Hashem’s Light
I met a rabbi of a large traditional congregation at a conference. I wish I remembered his name so I could quote him, but the story he shared has been one of my favorites since I heard it:
After delivering a sermon about God, he found himself walking behind a mother and her young daughter as they left the sanctuary.
The little girl tugged at her mother’s hand.
“Mommy,” she said thoughtfully, “the rabbi said that God is bigger than all of us, right?”
“Yes,” her mother answered.
“And he said that God lives inside each one of us, right?”
“That’s right,” her mother confirmed.
The little girl grew quiet. Her face tightened in concentration as she tried to reconcile the two ideas. After a moment, she looked up and asked:
“If God is bigger than us, but He lives inside of us… wouldn’t He show through?”
If He really lives inside of us, He’ll shine through!
Sidebar: Seat at the Table
One year, back when I was a mother of teens and young adults, I was setting the Seder table for about 30 people. At that time, our family and guests included people from vastly different pathways and perspectives: scholars and seekers, scientists and skeptics, believers and questioners, elders and children, each bringing their own temperaments, tempers, and questions to the table.
I wanted each person to feel comfortable, to have someone to talk to, to feel connected, and to not complain about sitting next to someone who…?
So, I sat down to make the perfect seating chart. My stomach tightened and I found myself wishing I could wash the floor with a toothbrush rather than face the challenge of making everyone happy with my seating choices.
As I sat with a blank diagram of the tables and began placing names around them, writing, erasing, reconsidering, and wishing, I felt like I was sitting in a puddle of galus, in the midst of my geulah-ready home. Then, it dawned on me: this was the essence of my avodah.
Cleaning the home, making the beds, and preparing the food, were just the prerequisites. Preparing a place for each person, in my home, in my heart, and in our community, was the work of my life.
With that thought, the task transformed from “making a seating chart” to “making sure that everyone had a seat at the table.”
As I worked on it with renewed purpose, I thought about how patient Hashem is in waiting for His children to want to sit with each other, and how this was an opportunity for me to emulate Him: in hope, in patience and in “Creating a space in which others can flourish.”
Sidebar: Shabbos is our Mishkan
When Hashem commanded the Jewish people to build the Mishkan, He said: “Make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell within them” (Shemos 25:8).
Immediately after delineating all the details to create the Mishkan, Hashem commands us: “You shall keep My Sabbaths, for it is a sign between Me and you throughout your generations, to know that I am Hashem Who sanctifies you” (Shemos 31:13).
Our sages teach that the juxtaposition of these mitzvos teaches us two things: that we must pause from building the Mishkan to observe Shabbos, and that the way we observe Shabbos is by pausing from each of the 39 types of melacha/creative activity that it took to build the Mishkan (Shabbas 49b).
Long ago, the Mishkan was built through the active engagement of those 39 creative labors. Through engaging in the physical actions of building the Mishkan, the Jewish people constructed a space inside themselves that could hold Hashem’s presence.
Today, Shabbos creates that same space through restraint. When we refrain from the 39 categories of creative labor, we perform an inner Tzimtzum/contraction. We contract our own will. We step back from shaping the physical world, and we withhold our drive to produce, to control, and to transform. This is the Mishkan we can build in our own lives.
Additionally, the positive mitzvos of Shabbos then fill the space that has been created. The meals, the songs, the Divrei Torah. When our family gathers around the table to fulfill these mitzvos, our table becomes a mizbach/altar, and our home becomes a sanctuary, and Hashem can dwell among us.
