Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

This week, I had the privilege of spending time with some old friends and colleagues at the YU Alumni Yarchei Kallah here in Boca. (For those that are wondering about the picture, it turns out that Rabbis are pretty good at Axe-Throwing.)

Aside from the learning, connecting and sharing of ideas, simply being together with friends from Yeshiva invites a certain nostalgia. Of course, this experience is not unique to Rabbanim; we all feel it to some extent when encountering people and places that take us back to different times in life.

I have grown to appreciate these moments as an opportunity to reengage with the parts of myself that made the decision to become a Rabbi. Speaking to like-minded friends in similar positions reminds me of the excitement, passion and joy that I have for a life of community service, learning and teaching.

Truthfully, dedicating time to reflect on these thoughts and emotions is something that I don't do enough of in any area of my life. I'm working on getting better at it. But from discussions with friends, colleagues and guys in shul, I don't believe I'm the only one struggling with this issue.

To crystallize the problem: At some point in time, we fell in love with an activity, an idea, a dream, or a person. That passion drove us to choose to make it a priority in our lives. But in the weeks, months and years since that choice, passion has given way to a sense of obligation. And all too often we grow resent those obligations.

I hear this from good, well-meaning, loving parents all the time. Recently, a close friend told that for years he and his wife had davened and yearned for children. But now he's feeling strangely guilty since their tefillos were answered. A few years later the daily grind and the constant obligations of child raising have stolen the joy of parenting. It is not as inspiring and uplifting as he once dreamed.

The staggering divorce rates in our communities prove that the same happens in marriages. At some point, the spark which was so bright under the Chuppah is barely flickering.

Ba'alei Teshuva and converts have often described feeling this way about Yiddishkeit in general. “I fell in love with something, but I don't even know what it is anymore. I certainly don't feel the same way.”

We have all felt and thought these things in the worlds of dieting, exercising, starting a company, learning the Daf, coming to minyan, learning a new language, or mastering a musical instrument. At some point, enjoyment fades and obligation sets in. As time marches on, it seems less and less likely that the results we once dreamed of will ever come to fruition.

We begin to wonder why we made these choices, why we obligated ourselves in the first place. We question if perhaps these decisions were simply made by younger versions of ourselves that were more naive and less practical. But most tragically, we feel the acute loss of those pristine idealistic dreams that are now muddied with the hard truths of reality.

All this raises the question: Is this just a sad reality of life? Or is it possible to be stuck in the daily grind, and still enjoy, appreciate and love what we do?

I'd like to suggest that this question, and these feelings are not a bug, but a feature. This is built into the way that Hashem made us, and made the world. These experiences are so common, that it seems to be by design. But to what end?

Before we begin, we need to understand that there are two types of work in the Torah: מלאכה and עבודה. The HaKsav V'HaKabblah (ר׳ פרשת ויקהל) explains that while both are translated as “work”, they have entirely different meanings. מלאכה is purely results oriented; which is the reason that it is this type of work which is forbidden on Shabbos. For one day each week, we do not change Hashem's world; and we are prohibited from performing the 39 Melachos. עבודה, on the other hand, can exist even without any result. Foe example: Shlepping furniture from one room to another is עבודה, but it is not מלאכה.

With this in mind, we can understand why the Mishkan was constructed with מלאכה. There was a goal, a result – something that Klal Yisrael brought into existence.

In general, all of the dreams and aspirations, the hopes and goals that we have for our lives are achieved with מלאכה. Raising children, building a home, a business and career, all require calculated work to produce these result. Likewise, training for a marathon, losing weight and learning Daf Yomi are all geared towards a goal.

Understanding this nature of מלאכה is essential to progress. It allows us to change course when things are not working well and ensure that our destination is reached. But at the same time, it is this perspective that leads directly to the burnout, exhaustion, frustration and cynicism that we struggle with. Anytime that our efforts fail at achieving a result, we have wasted precious time that cannot be reclaimed.

Setbacks are disheartening and frustrating; and we lose sight of our dreams and goals.

The antidote to this problem, however, is addressed directly in our Parsha. The previous four parshiyos have cemented in our understanding that the Mishkan was constructed with מלאכה. This work is quintessentially and definitionally מלאכה. And yet, when the Mishkan is finally completed, the Torah (שמות לט:לב) tells us:

וַתֵּכֶל כׇּל עֲבֹדַת מִשְׁכַּן אֹהֶל מוֹעֵד – And the Avoda of the Mishkan Ohel Moed was completed...

Why is the Torah now switching to עבודה?!

Both the Netziv and the Malbim explain that the Melacha of the Mishkan was ensuring that each detail was successfully completed. But the entire project was ultimately an עבודה.

When we schlep heavy things from one place to another and back again, there is no change or result in the item. But we become stronger. When we practice our craft, nothing is created, but we become more skilled.

Melacha is about changing the outcome, but Avoda is about transforming the self.

If the entirely of our lives are about the result, we will always feel drained, strained and tired. Marriage, parenting, careers, learning etc... are not supposed to be exclusively about the goals. Of course, results matter; but beyond it all, the ultimate goal is the change in ourselves. To this end, Yiddishkeit is defined by Avodas Hashem. We are not changing Hashem, we changing ourselves.

What then was the Avoda of the Mishkan? The Netziv explains:

The goal of ונתתי משכני בתוככם – Hashem residing inside of the Jewish people – was finally achieved.

Through the careful consideration of each and every detail of the building, Klal Yisrael were getting better, getting stronger, becoming greater people. This transformation of self is what enabled Hashem's presence to be felt in their hearts, minds and lives.

We can do them same. When we view our challenges as a training ground to become greater, then every moment, every failure is an opportunity to get better and stronger.

That's the real goal of the Mishkan of our lives: To create the space and time to become different people. This way, despite any setbacks, our passion, dreams and aspirations live on.