Temples at the End of History
The Power of Betzalel's "No"
“There will be plenty of metaphorical wars—corporate lawyers specializing in hostile takeovers who will think of themselves as sharks or gunslingers, and bond traders who imagine, as in Tom Wolfe’s novel The Bonfire of the Vanities, that they are “masters of the universe.” (They will believe this, however, only in bull markets.) But as they sink into the soft leather of their BMWs, they will know somewhere in the back of their minds that there have been real gunslingers and masters in the world, who would feel contempt for the petty virtues required to become rich or famous in modern America. How long megalothymia will be satisfied with metaphorical wars and symbolic victories is an open question. One suspects that some people will not be satisfied until they prove themselves by that very act that constituted their humanness at the beginning of history: they will want to risk their lives in a violent battle, and thereby prove beyond any shadow of a doubt to themselves and to their fellows that they are free. They will deliberately seek discomfort and sacrifice, because the pain will be the only way they have of proving definitively that they can think well of themselves, that they remain human beings.”
Francis Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man
They took over from Moses all the gifts that the Israelites had brought, to carry out the tasks connected with the service of the sanctuary. But when these continued to bring freewill offerings to him morning after morning, all the artisans who were engaged in the tasks of the sanctuary came, from the task upon which each one was engaged, and said to Moses, “The people are bringing more than is needed for the tasks entailed in the work that the LORD has commanded to be done.” Moses thereupon had this proclamation made throughout the camp: “Let no man or woman make further effort toward gifts for the sanctuary!” So the people stopped bringing. (Exodus 36:3-6)
Bezalel and Oholiab are often credited as the genius architects behind the Tabernacle and its accoutrement, but wherein lies their talent, their discernment, their skill? Arguably, it is apparent not in the handiwork required to execute complex designs, but in the psychological temerity—the “people skills”—to tell the people, “Enough.” We don’t need any more.
Vayakhel, this week’s Torah reading, is not just about the people’s desire to contribute to a holy endeavor, but also about the leader’s ability to say, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Bezalel and Oholiab aren’t nay-sayers. They are recipients of the generosity of the people, charged with channeling it into the right form. But a crucial moment in the completion of their process comes when they discern that not all acts of creativity are constructive. There is an excess to the creative process, after which what is needed is editorial scrutiny, a liberating “No.”
God rests on Shabbat. It is God’s moment of “enough.” Creation finds completion in knowing when and how to end. The painter Gerhard Richter is well known for destroying his paintings many times over, re-painting and re-painting them, often with a squeegee. Some paintings are the result of hundreds are processes of creative-destruction. “When are you done? How do you know when you are done,” he was once asked. His response: “When I can no longer destroy the painting anymore.” The Tabernacle is not done when the final pole is fashioned, but when Bezalel and Oholiab say there is no more need to give.
On a basic aesthetic level, we know that less is more. But on a spiritual level, the point also stands. Is the Temple impressive because it is filled with fancy stuff, or is it impressive because it is a site where God rests. Generosity is needed to underwrite a beautiful space, but at a certain point of excess the Temple becomes an idol, a gaudy testament to human ostentation, a pointer that points to itself instead of a home that opens up to mystery. We need decorum to mark certain times and places as elevated. But too much stuff crowds out the holy. Finding the right balance in our lives is everything. It is the difference between a Betzalel, a master, and a materialist, who thinks that if everything problem can be solved with more $.
One of the core insights of Francis Fukuyama, drawing on Hegel and Plato, is that life is not just about having more stuff, but about the struggle for recognition. For better and for worse, it is the desire for recognition that animates so many conflicts, personally and geopolitically. If we were just “economic animals” we might solve these conflicts with trade. But to be willing to trade in the first place requires a kind of trust or desire for reciprocity that, viewed historically, is rare. Anyone can build a building. But how many keep the lights on in a thousand years? How many can create a culture that is strong enough to endure even when the building has crumbled?
Cultures that worship buildings die. Cultures that see buildings as manifestations of a shared endeavor thrive. To create the latter means knowing when to turn down funding. It means knowing the difference between a gift and a debt, between riches and wealth, or between GDP and what the economist Tyler Cowen calls “Wealth Plus” (a measure that includes intangibles like how fulfilled and empowered people feel pursuing projects that don’t show up on the balance sheet).
The details of the Tabernacle are long and abstract. When they are depicted in Jewish art they are often quite kitschy. I’m sure the Tabernacle was a splendorous spectacle, especially in a desert wasteland. But where is the Tabernacle now? It is in the text. Betzalel’s project, measured tangibly, is a failure. Measured intangibly, it is a success. We are here, reading of it, deriving new meanings from it.
In a society oriented around achievement and competition, one measures achievements. There is no greater achievement than being in a position where one can be post-achievement and can become a giver. But if we are not careful, we can come to relate to gift-giving, too, through the lens of achievement. The act of giving can become a form of self-flattery, even narcissism, where the more I give, the better I am. Betzalel’s “no” is a reminder that the point of giving isn’t only to make the giver feel generous, it’s also to create a home for God. The lesson, here, isn’t exclusively about philanthropy. It’s about virtue, in general. When does a sense of piety become a form of self-worship or self-aggrandizement. When does being a culture warrior turn from being about making the world better to feeling superior to others?
Wars have economic causes, but economic facts alone rarely predict why groups fight. After a certain threshold, human life is about thymos, not utility. The Temple has some utility, but it is not reducible to its utility. Religion, and Judaism, offer benefits that might show up in a “wellness 360” but that is not their essence. The Temple is a place where God dwells. The acacia wood in itself is really not the point.
Rav Soloveitchik describes two aspects of the human condition, a creative aspect and and a submissive aspect, an aspect devoted to making and an aspect devoted to wonder and contemplation. The people who give their possessions over to Betzalel express a human need that is beautiful and good. Betzalel’s “No” completes it with the other side, the side that recognizes a world that is only of our making, that is all just an experiment or a projection is devoid of holiness. The people give, in part, because, their thymotic desire is animated by the prospect of belonging to something beyond themselves. But to prevent this desire from becoming megalothymic, they have to be told “No.” At some point the struggle for recognition that is a basic expression of human dignity becomes an assertiveness that is just what Nietzsche called “The Will to Power.” Betzalel’s “No” is a rejection or curtailment of our Nietzschean nature.
In The End of History and the Last Man, Fukuyama wonders whether people will be happy in a free world or whether, having what Nietzsche derisively called “last men,” they will long for a fight. The jury is out on this. A successful Temple requires us to contain our desire to be superior, while also according us an opportunity to be participants. The Biblical God may be presented to us as megalothymic so as to relieve us of and protect us from our own desire for deification.
Shabbat Shalom,
Zohar Atkins @ Etz Hasadeh
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