Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

I have a confession. Returning from a family vacation always leaves me with terrible feelings of dad-guilt. My kids love spending time with me, and I love spending time with them. Few things are more important to me. But I know that when we get home, my time will once again become strained. The hours of vacation time will give way to minutes of rushed scheduling, in between carpools and activities.

I feel this guilt a lot. I feel it whenever I leave the Beis Medrash, knowing that there is so much I have yet to learn. I feel it when a hang up the phone after a far-too-quick conversation with a friend, chavrusa, family member or member of our shul. I feel it when date nights start late or end early, to make sure that everything gets done.

So this past week on vacation, Aliza and I spent some time discussing the time we spend on things that are important, versus things that are necessary; and how to differentiate and prioritize.

If this is a challenge that resonates with you, take a moment to consider: What in your life is necessary? What is important? How much time do you spend on each?

Invariably, “necessary” is far easier to define; indeed, most of us will have the same definition. For most of human history, most of our lives have been spent on the same things: Food, clothing and shelter. Once these needs are met, leveling up on Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, we seek out safety and security.

There is no shame in this reality. The simple urgency of our physiology and psychological needs has meant that we are rarely have time to address the items of real importance.

We all feel that there are things that are important; dreams, aspirations, plans and hopes. But in a very real, and often tragic way, the world of action is inhabited by necessity, while importance is relegated to the world of ideas.

Consider the following thought experiment: Imagine that food, water, clothing, shelter, education, community, safety and security were all assured. Imagine that this was not only true for you, but for your family and society. What would you like to spend your life doing?

If you're imagining that this is so far from possible that it's not worth examining, please consider that this is the question of the Dor HaMidbar – the generation of our ancestors coming out of Mitzraim.

At the very beginning of our national existence, Hashem places us in such a situation. In the Midbar, everything operated on miracles. Food descended miraculously from Heaven. Water from a rock. Clothes were cleaned by the miraculous Clouds of Glory. The seas were split and GPS was provided by Pillars of Fire and Cloud. Hills were flattened, scorpions and snakes were eradicated by the Aron Kodesh which travelled before the camp.

It’s hard to imagine such a world; where every little need is attended to by Hashem Himself. A world where all of the “necessary” is taken care of.

What should we do with such circumstances? It is in this completely supernatural world that Hashem commands Moshe to instruct the nation in building the Mishkan.

In complete contradistinction to the otherworldliness of life in the Midbar, the Mishkan is to be constructed solely through human effort. (So much so that we learn the basic definition of labor on Shabbos from the Melachos of the Mishkan.)

Why couldn’t Hashem just “magic” a Mishkan into existence? Why did we need donate our precious belongings, only recently acquired from Egypt, to contribute to the building materials requested? Surely, in a world where Hashem provides everything, we could let Him provide the gold, silver, fabric and animals needed for this project as well?!

Yet, the Torah painstakingly describes every part of the building of the Mishkan. Not once, but twice. For the next five weeks, we will be learning about the construction of the first Mikdash in our History.

Apparently, then, when everything is taken care of, the job the Jewish people is to give our time, expertise and possessions to build a space for Hashem.

Today of course, our every need is not fulfilled by miraculous intervention. We are not living in such a world. But the Torah's message is just as essential for us. When something is important, it requires action; tangible, practical action. It is not enough to live in the world of thought.

The world is not transformed by intention and philosophy alone. The only thing that makes any difference is action.

The same is true of personal growth and relationships. Going to the gym, putting the late night snack back in the fridge and getting to bed earlier are more impactful than any seminar on healthy living. Telling a friend that we intended to call on their birthday pales in comparison to actually calling – or even texting. Showing up for our kids school event is far more meaningful to them than the reason we couldn't make it.

Our challenge is that we are regularly deluded into thinking that our thoughts are as real to the world as they are to us. But the truth is that without practical action, the story of our lives is simply “They thought of a bunch of things. Not much happened.”

Yaakov Avinu understood this.

Rashi tells us that the beams of the Mishkan came from cedar trees that Yaakov brought with him when he came to Mitzraim. There, he replanted them, knowing that one day his descendants would use them for the Mishkan.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe questions this entire narrative. Why would Yaakov need to plant these trees hundreds of years before they were needed? Surely lumber could have been purchased in time for the construction?

He explains: the human condition is that we give time and attention to that which is real. Egyptian slavery was real. The backbreaking labor was real. The business end of the whip was painfully real. And what of the promises of redemption? Were they any less real? Tragically, yes. The were not nearly as real as the suffering of slavery.

Those dreams of redemption existed only in the ever dimming imaginations of slaves. They lived in the world of thought; passed on in hushed whispers as tired and broken parents tucked their hungry children into bed. But when they looked out the window and saw the trees that Yaakov had planted, all at once, another kind of life was real too. Yaakov wanted his children to see a physical emblem of his dreams of freedom, so he did something. He built something. He grew something.

Perhaps this is the solution to the dad-guilt, the Gemara-guilt, the relationship-guilt etc... To ensure that we do something about it. Even if it's not enough. Even if we wish we could do more. The tiniest tangible action is more meaningful than the loftiest dream.

In all of our lives, we have midbar moments. Pockets of time – however small – where the necessities are taken care of. A minute here or there. Our mission is to transform Midbar Moments into Mishkan Moments. The building we achieve, the trees that we plant, however, small, will grow into far more than the best of our intentions.

Hashem should help us to bring to life the things that are most important by doing the work to make it so.