The Sinai Memory Project

More impressive than the entirety of human knowledge at our fingertips, more astounding than the ability to video chat with family in Los Angeles or friends in Tel Aviv, more remarkable than the convenience of depositing a check without having to go to the bank—the greatest achievement of the age of smartphones is the ability to capture, store, and share thousands and thousands of photos.

My brother and his wife just had a baby? I get a notification any time there are new photos of the little fella. My best friend runs a marathon? I get to see the look of achievement on his face as he crosses the finish line. Leah and I take a trip to Sequoia National Park? Now, any time I’m stuck underground on the F Train, I can be transported back to California and stare up in wonder at the 300-foot tall General Sherman Tree and remember how small I am, how old is our planet. Our smartphones allow us to carry our memories with us.

In this week’s parashah, we find the Israelites working to carry their memories with them. They’ve spent many weeks at the base of Mount Sinai. They’ve experienced the thunder and the lightning, the shofar that grew louder and louder, the voice of the universe uttering the words “I am.” But soon it will be time to journey onward. And so, they’ve been working to build a Tabernacle, a portable sanctuary, a smart-technology by which they can capture and carry the memory of Sinai.

It is a massive undertaking. But at long last, after weeks of drawing up blueprints, gathering supplies, weaving linen curtains and constructing wooden altars, finally in this week’s parashah, Moses puts the finishing touches on the Sinai memory project. And as Moses finishes the work, vay’chas he-anan et ohel mo’ed, u-ch’vod YHVH malei et ha-mishkan, “the Cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of God filled the Tabernacle.” As if with the touch of a finger, the Israelites—like an awestruck visitor to Sequoia National Park—capture the electricity of Sinai, forever able to access that Sinai feeling.

There’s a certain comfort in carrying our memories with us. I know that my baby nephew’s adorable little face, though I see it in person only occasionally, is just a touch screen away, as near as my pocket. I can imagine that for the Israelites—who, unbeknownst to them, are about to spend nearly 40 years wandering through an unfamiliar desert—there is great comfort in the ability to tap in, any time, into the familiarity of that Sinai feeling. This is what the Tabernacle is for: to remind us, even in the most mundane of places, that sparks of holiness are everywhere—as near as our pocket.

The final verses of the Book of Exodus tell us that the Presence of God sometimes filled, and sometimes was absent from the Tabernacle. When the Presence filled the Tent, the Israelites would set-up camp. And when the Presence was absent from the Tent, the Israelites knew it was time to move on, time to continue along their journey.

Now, we might expect that the absence of God would lead to an absence of faith among the Israelites—a forgetting of the holy, a failure of the Sinai memory project.

But exactly the opposite is true. As the Hasidic master Rabbi Ya’akov Aryeh of Radzimin taught: the Tabernacle, when vacant of God’s presence, becomes a symbol of human longing—a candle waiting to be lit, a cup of opportunity wanting to be filled. God’s absence doesn’t cause the Israelites to forget the holy; it causes them to want it even more. And after all, we’re driven to greatness not from the places in which we’re fulfilled, but rather from the places in which we yearn for something more.

So maybe I’ve led us all astray. Maybe the Tabernacle shouldn’t be called “the Sinai memory project.” Maybe it’s not like an iPhone after all, not a technology by which we carry our memories with us. The Tabernacle is not about what we carry from our past; it’s about what we yearn for in our future. It transforms Sinai from a mountain into a horizon.