Building a shelter to house the presence of God on our Earth was an extraordinary, demanding undertaking. Engineers, craftsmen, and artisans joined hands to erect a temporary temple, shaping its structure from wood, metal, and fabric.
The achievement was all the more arresting because it unfolded in the heart of the desert, with scarce resources and no settled infrastructure, surrounded by wilderness rather than civilization. To build a home for the divine under such conditions was a bold declaration of faith.
It was a palace of beauty and house of dignity, meant to convey the luster of the Divine Presence. It was also highly distinctive. Each article of the Tabernacle was crafted for a functional purpose, yet also designed to symbolize a different element of religious life.
This symbolism was not merely general; even the finest details – the materials, the placement, and the manner of construction – carried layered religious meaning. To walk into the Tabernacle was to embark on a metaphorical journey, through the various layers of religious experience.
There was also great symbolism in the measurements of each element of the Tabernacle. God created the world upon mathematical structure and logic. The universe displays mathematical order and symmetry. Studying mathematics allows us to better understand the foundations of the Creator’s universe, and apply that understanding toward improving the human condition.
If mathematics serves as the underlying structure of the divinely created universe, we would expect the Tabernacle to be fashioned according to precise mathematical principles and forms. The altar was a perfect square. The table that held the weekly loaves was a rectangle whose length was exactly twice its width. The menorah was a study in symmetry. Each article of the Tabernacle was carefully crafted, and its measurements reflected deliberate mathematical balance and proportion.
Except for its most iconic element.
Measured imperfection
The aron – “the ark” – housed the tablets upon which the Ten Commandments were inscribed. A Torah scroll was also placed inside the ark, or possibly positioned on a shelf attached to it. This ark, which contained the divine word, stood in the inner sanctum, a space entered only once a year on Yom Kippur by the high priest.
It was crowned with golden angelic figures, directing attention heavenward and toward the Divine Presence. For a religion that resists visual representation, this was the most visibly arresting feature. It did not depict God, but it unmistakably drew the eye’s attention. Among all the elements of the Tabernacle, the ark was by far the most symbolic.
And yet, its measurements are strikingly awkward and incomplete. It measured two and a half cubits in length, one and a half cubits in width, and one and a half cubits in height. There is little symmetry, and all the dimensions are fractional rather than whole. Would it not have been more fitting for the most sacred object in the Tabernacle to be measured in complete, rounded numbers? Why was the most iconic vessel of the Mishkan constructed with partial measures?
Imperfect religious experience
The ark Aron symbolizes human beings implementing the divine will and housing the word of God. Torah in heaven requires no ark; on Earth, it does. Here, the divine word must be protected and sustained within human space. The ark therefore represents the effort to translate God’s will into lived reality, to give it a home within the contours of earthly life.
That effort is often imperfect. Human nature is fragile, and our performance of the divine will can falter. Living a commanded life does not mean that we always succeed: It means that we accept all of God’s commandments, without selectively embracing those we prefer and discarding those we resist. It means striving, again and again, to fulfill His will, even when consistency proves difficult.
Failure to fulfill every commandment, however, does not mean that we have failed at religion. It means that we must regroup, steady ourselves, and search for ways to improve.
Many people who struggle repeatedly in particular areas of religious life accumulate guilt over time. Eventually, in order to escape that weight, they convince themselves that their failures have disqualified them, that they no longer belong within a religious world.
The ark teaches otherwise. Even when our practice is partial, we remain engaged in the work of implementing the divine will. We must not aim for partiality, nor can we excuse half-hearted effort. But when we summon maximal commitment, even if we fall short of maximal achievement, we are still housing God’s word – carrying it forward in a demanding world, and often under difficult conditions.
No approach is whole
There is an additional layer of symbolism embedded in the fractional measurements of the ark. The ark does not only symbolize our effort to implement the divine will through obedience to commandments. It also represents the interface we construct between the eternal will of God and the shifting world around us. It is the place where Torah meets reality, where timeless divine truth is carried into historical context.
How do we translate God’s will to areas of life not governed directly by explicit commandments? How do we process cultural changes such as democracy and the rise of individualism, the spread of modern technology, or evolving social roles of women?
How do we interpret historical upheavals such as the Holocaust and the emergence of the State of Israel? How do we respond to a non-Jewish world that has, at times, moved toward rapprochement with our people – and how do we respond when antisemitism resurges? These questions do not belong to Halacha but to hashkafa – to the outlook and interpretive lens through which we understand our world.
That outlook, too, is symbolized by the ark. Aron. Just as it houses the divine word within human space, it represents the framework through which we bring God’s will to bear upon a complex, changing, and often unsettled world.
Especially over the past 150 years, as the world has changed in so many ways and at such speed, different approaches have given rise to different Orthodox communities. In particular, the Ashkenazi world has segmented into multiple outlooks – hassidic, Lithuanian/haredi, Modern Orthodox, and Religious Zionist, to name a few – with many containing further internal divisions.
Communities have coalesced around sets of “answers” to modernity that underlie these various approaches. Today, it is not uncommon to be asked directly: “What is your hashkafa?” These contemporary issues did not exist 200 years ago and will almost certainly look different 200 years from now. Yet within the milieu we inhabit, these outlooks provide a lens through which we process the world. We inevitably absorb impressions and assumptions that shape our own personal ark – our own religious outlook.
Here, too, we are reminded that every ark, every hashkafa, is partial and imperfect. Life is too complex for simple or comprehensive formulas. Every outlook and every communal model carries strengths alongside limitations, by definition.
Perfection is not achieved by rigidly inhabiting a single label, nor by following a checklist derived from communal codes. It is approached by striving, individually and personally, to build as complete a religious life as possible, while remaining aware of the limits of any single framework.
The hashkafic questions we face matter deeply, and they often generate passionate and legitimate debate. The ark reminds us that no single ark and no single outlook will ever be whole. We are attempting to apply the divine will within a compressed and crowded world – one that is always fluid, always changing.■
The writer, a rabbi at Yeshivat Har Etzion, was ordained by YU. His books include To Be Holy but Human: Reflections Upon My Rebbe, HaRav Yehuda Amital. mtaraginbooks.com