We have just completed five parshiyos devoted to the detailed construction of the Mishkan along with its keilim and all of its accoutrements, fulfilling the command given by Hashem. In Parshas Terumah, the Torah articulates one of the primary purposes of the Mikdash, “veno’adti lecha shom”, that Hashem would meet with Moshe there. The Mishkan, in this sense, serves as a continuation of Har Sinai. Just as at Sinai we received the Aseres HaDibros along with “ve’eleh hamishpatim” so too, after leaving Sinai, there would remain an ongoing point of encounter between Hashem and Moshe.
Chazal suggest that Bnei Yisrael wished, in some sense, to preserve that moment of direct encounter with Hashem that they experienced at Sinai. While this was not possible in a literal sense, Hashem provided the next best thing. The Mishkan would become a portable Sinai, a makom mifgash, where Hashem would continue to communicate with Moshe, and Moshe would in turn transmit mitzvos, mishpatim, and chukim to Bnei Yisrael.
Given this, we might have expected that after five parshiyos describing the meticulous construction of the Mishkan, with the repeated refrain of “ka’asher tzivah Hashem es Moshe”, the book of Shemos would culminate with the fulfillment of this purpose. One would imagine a moment when Moshe enters the Mishkan, communication resumes, and the people rejoice at the realization of this sacred goal.
Yet the Torah concludes Sefer Shemos with a striking and somewhat surprising scene. “V’lo yachol Moshe lavo el Ohel Moed, ki shachan alav he’anan, u’kvod Hashem malei es haMishkan.” Moshe is unable to enter the Ohel Moed because the cloud rests upon it and the glory of Hashem fills the sanctuary. This appears almost anticlimactic. The entire purpose of the Mishkan is to facilitate this encounter, and yet Moshe cannot enter.
Only later, at the beginning of Sefer Vayikra, does the Torah describe “Vayikra el Moshe,” that Hashem calls to Moshe, as Rashi explains, in a language of affection, inviting him into that encounter. The question, then, is clear: why does the Torah end Shemos with Moshe standing outside, unable to enter?
Rav Avigdor Nebenzahl explains that this is not incidental, but deeply instructive. A parallel appears in the inauguration of the Beis HaMikdash in Melachim I, where Shlomo haMelech describes how the kohanim were unable to stand and perform the avodah because the presence of the Shechinah filled the Mikdash. It was, so to speak, too overwhelming, too intense, leaving no room even for those who were meant to serve within it.
This teaches a fundamental principle. Although the Mishkan is rooted in ahavah, as described in Shir HaShirim, where the relationship between Hashem and Bnei Yisrael is portrayed with deep love and closeness, that is not the starting point. Before ahavah, there must be yirah. There must be a sense of awe, reverence, and recognition of the Shechinah's overwhelming presence.
Even Moshe, who experienced communication with Hashem at the highest level of panim el panim, was initially held back. The Torah is teaching that entry into a relationship with Hashem, even at its most intimate, must begin with yiras Hashem. The pasuk “Mikdashi tira’u” encapsulates this idea. The approach to the Mikdash is not casual or automatic; it requires a posture of humility, restraint, and reverence. Only after that foundation is established can the relationship move toward ahavah, toward closeness and communication.
This idea has direct and practical application. There must be a synthesis between ahavah and yirah in how we relate to our own batei knesset. As we find in Orach Chaim 151, one may not engage in conversation during davening, but the expectation extends further. Even when one is in shul waiting for a bris to begin, or attending a simchah, it is not meant to become a setting for casual chatter. Even if the conversation is not lashon hara, one may not engage in sichah beteilah in a beis haknesses. It would be inappropriate to arrange to meet in shul before Minchah in order to discuss the details of a business transaction.
Perhaps, over time, the line between the social hall and the ulam has become blurred in many batei knesset. Because people gather for kiddush, a bris, an ufruf, or other smachot, which are all meaningful and important occasions, there is a tendency to allow the atmosphere to become more relaxed. The beis haknesses serves to unify the Jewish people, and that is a beautiful function, but it can sometimes lead to a diminishing of the sense of distinction and sanctity.
Historically, there was a perception that non-Orthodox synagogues maintained a stronger sense of decorum, while smaller shtieblach often struggled in this area. One explanation offered was that those who felt less at home in shul experienced a greater sense of awe, whereas those who attended regularly, even three times a day, developed a sense of familiarity and closeness that sometimes translated into a more relaxed, even casual, environment.
What is needed is not a rejection of that closeness, but a recalibration. The ulam, the space where the sifrei Torah are housed and where tefillah takes place, must once again be recognized for what it is, a makom kadosh. The sense of ahavah must be grounded in yirah. We must relearn to experience the beis haknesses with a sense of “mah norah hamakom hazeh,” an awareness of the sanctity of the space, and to conduct ourselves accordingly.
This perspective is further reinforced by the pasuk in Yechezkel, “va’ehi lahem lemikdash me’at,” which Chazal understand as referring to batei knesset and batei midrash. These spaces carry a dimension of mikdash, and according to the Sefer Yere’im, they therefore possess a status which requires mora hamikdash. That status demands that we not blur the distinction between areas designated for social gathering and the space designated for tefillah.
Ultimately, the model is already embedded in the Torah itself. “Vayikra el Moshe”, the language of affection and closeness, comes only after “v’lo yachol Moshe,” after the experience of distance, restraint, and yirah. Our avodah is to hold both of these emotions together. A relationship with Hashem, and a relationship with the spaces in which we encounter Him, must be built on a careful synthesis of ahavah and yirah, a balance that allows for closeness without compromising reverence.
This is, in the truest sense, a life of mixed emotions.