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The Torah opens with the story of Creation, moves through the events of ancient humanity, unfolds the stories of the Patriarchs and their sons, describes the Exodus from Egypt and the wanderings in the desert, and enumerates the 613 commandments covering all aspects of life. But ultimately, everything revolves around and aspires to one thing: building the Temple.
The entire aim—to reach the Temple—is hinted at in its very first letter. The Torah opens with the second letter of the alphabet, the letter beit, which literally means “a house,” suggesting that the purpose of Creation is to evolve and be perfected until it itself becomes a kind of house, a vessel that contains the Divine light from which it was created. This is how the sages interpret the verse capping off the creation story, “which God created to do”[1]: He “created” (bara) so that we may “do” (la’asot), i.e., perfect the world through action.[2]
Twice we built a house for the Creator in this world. But in both cases, we were not worthy of it, and it was destroyed. The day we experience the absence of our Divine home more than any other is Tisha B’Av, the 9th day of Av. On this day, we remember that in a sense, we are all homeless, mourning the loss of the Temple and yearning for a new home where we and God can dwell together forever. But in the days and weeks after Tisha B’av, we should shift our focus to think about the future third Temple and what kind of home it is supposed to be?
On the most basic level, it is a literal house—a house of prayer, repentance, and offering sacrifices, to be established “in the place that God will choose.”[3] This is the literal interpretation, and as a rule, “a scripture never lacks literal meaning.”[4]
However, the external house is also a metaphor and garb for another house, an inner and spiritual one, to be established within us. The very verse that commands its construction hints at this from the start: “Let them make me a sanctuary,” it says, “that I may dwell within them.”[5] The verse does not say “within it,” the sanctuary, but rather “within them,” referring to the hearts of its builders. Indeed, one of the most central offences the prophets decried was the performance of the external service of the Temple without the inner service of the heart.
The question, of course, is how? How do we carve a space within the heart and bring our Creator into it?
Who’s the Host?
The command to build a house for God is paradoxical. On the one hand, it implies that we are the homeowners, He is the guest, and we invite Him into our home.[6] On the other hand, who really hosts whom in this world? After all, the real situation is exactly the opposite: of the Holy Blessed One it is said that, “He is the place of the world, and the world is not His place,”[7] and so we are as fleeting guests—passing through His world, having a cup of tea, at best leaving a gift, at worst leaving a mess, and then saying farewell and departing. How can we think of ourselves as homeowners hosting God in His own world?
An initial resolution of the paradox is provided by the halachic (pertaining to Jewish law) distinction between the “private domain” and the “public domain.” At face value, “private domain” refers to a person’s home and the “public domain” refers to the area between houses.
But these are not just halachic terms. They also express two modes of understanding reality. From an earthly perspective, our world is a sort of “public domain”—an open space shared by a multitude of beings, each with a different experience, perspective, will, and opinion. However, from a more spiritual viewpoint, our world can also be seen as the “private domain” of the Holy Blessed One—an enormous private house that He manages, and in which, His spirit resides—in all its wings and rooms. This perspective may be far from our everyday experience, but it represents a higher truth.
Now notice, these two perceptions exactly reflect the two sides of our paradox. According to the perception that the world is a public domain, we are the homeowners and God, as it were, wanders the streets and knocks on our door asking us to let Him in. In contrast, according to the perception that the world is a private domain, God is the homeowner, and we are guests in His house. The hosting paradox is thus a product of two viewpoints: one seeing the world as God’s private domain and the other seeing it as a public domain.
Both perceptions are true and reflect real aspects of reality, but if they are separated and disconnected, they create an irreconcilable rift between Godliness and life. An ancient example of such a dualistic perspective is Gnosticism, a pagan theology that argued for the existence of two sovereigns of the world, one evil who governs this world and one good who governs the world beyond. Indeed, the Talmudic term used to describe the Gnostics’ faith is “two domains”[8] (shtei rashuyot), thus directly alluding to the concepts of “private domain” and “public domain,” which are also called rashuyot in rabbinic texts.
Hosting the Host
The solution is, of course, to integrate the two perspectives—to acknowledge the fact that we are God’s guests with the command to become God’s hosts. Each experience has its benefits and drawbacks, thus complementing one another.
If we are only guests, then on one hand, we are full of humility and gratitude, free from any sense of ownership or dominance over this world; but on the other hand, no matter how much God invites us to “make ourselves at home”, we will feel alienation and disconnection, like nomads finding shelter under the wings of a master. What we lack here is the homely feeling that we are where we belong, as well as the sense that the host dwells within us and loves us.
If, on the other hand, we are only hosts, and God is our guest, then on the one hand, we feel how He fills the chambers of our heart, how He enters and illuminates every detail of our personal lives; but on the other hand, we may feel too comfortable, develop a haughty sense of ownership (to the extent that we may deify ourselves in our own eyes), and forget that it is because of our “guest” that we have a home at all, since everything actually belongs to Him (as it is said, “Give unto Him what is His, for you and yours are His”[9])!
Combining these two experiences is exactly what the vision of the Temple invites us to do. The first stage is remembering that we are God’s guests, residing in His vast home called “Creation.” But the house is so large, full of so many rooms, and so richly laden, that we tend to lose ourselves in it until we completely forget about the homeowner. Therefore, we must move to the second stage: to find a suitable corner within the house, to set up our own little home there, and then to invite Him into it.
We can see how these two stages are expressed in the life of Abraham. According to the Midrash,[10] God first revealed Himself to Abraham when the latter realized that the world there must have a “landlord” who owns it and runs it. By virtue of this feeling that he was God’s guest in His home, Abraham later merited the great commandment of hosting the angels, God’s representatives in the world. By first being God’s guest, he was able to become His host.
It is interesting to note that the Hebrew words for “guest” (אוֹרֵחַ) and “host” (מְאָרֵחַ), both derive from the word meaning “road” (אֹרַח). Indeed, we may regard the host and the guest as situated on two ends of a road: on one end stands the guest, walking towards the house, and on the other stands the host, opening the door for him. When we think of God as existing in His private domain and of ourselves as inhabiting the public domain, the road becomes the path taken by the soul—the channel by which it descends into this world from its source and ascends back at the time of its departure.
Who Will Build the Third Temple?
Let’s examine the subject from another angle. There is a fundamental disagreement among the commentaries regarding the manner in which the future Temple is supposed to be built. According to Maimonides,[11] the third Temple will be built by man by entirely mundane means. However, according to Rashi,[12] it is destined to miraculously descend from the heavens, completely built and perfected.
From a spiritual perspective, the two opinions reflect two opposing modes of spiritual development, which can be likened to the process of building a sanctuary in our hearts. The opinion according to which the Temple will be built in a mundane manner represents gradual self-growth—perfecting ourselves until we attain higher knowledge. The opinion according to which the Temple descends from the heavens miraculously, on the other hand, describes receiving Divine inspiration from above, allowing us to leap to a new spiritual level all at once.
Here too, we can identify a benefit and a drawback in each vision. There is something wonderful about things descending from the heavens, inspiring us from above. On the other hand, receiving inspiration from above goes a bit over our heads and fails to take root in our hearts. Conversely, when we do everything ourselves, although the insights we arrive at stem from within us and are connected to us, we lack the Divine and miraculous dimension of revelation, and there is a danger that, being so immersed in our world, we forget the purpose for which it was created.
These two opinions parallel exactly the two experiences described above, that of being guests and that of being hosts. The Temple that descends from the heavens corresponds to the feeling that we are guests, waiting in the living room while everything is prepared and served to them, while the Temple that is built from the earth corresponds to the experience that we are the hosts who labor and prepare everything and then wait for the guest to enter.
This analogy is strengthened when we realize that the two opinions regarding the building of the third Temple reflect something of the Temples that already were: the Tabernacle, which was Divinely inspired and accompanied the people of Israel in the wilderness, was akin to a Temple descending from heaven, while the two Temples built in the land of Israel, in Jerusalem, by royal command were akin to an earthly Temple built by man.
Indeed, the wilderness generation and the generations that lived in the land correspond distinctly to the experience of the guest and the host, respectively. Wandering in the wilderness is an experience of being a homeless guest in a world that belongs entirely to God, even receiving one’s meals prepared from heaven. Such a guest also feels alienation and struggles to appreciate the magnitude of the kindness shown to him. Settling in the land and controlling it is a distinct feeling of being a homeowner who invites the guest to stay with him. But, on the other hand, the homeowner develops a sense of entitlement that leads to neglect, and as a result, to the home’s destruction.
To summarize all we have seen, let us construct it in table format:
| world is a “private domain” | we are God’s guests | the Tabernacle | the Temple descends from heaven |
| world is a “public domain” | we host God | the Holy Temple in Jerusalem | the Temple is built by mundane means |
A Toiling Host, a Grateful Guest
The two opinions regarding the manner in which the Third Temple appears can help us better understand how to build a Divine sanctuary within us. Just as explained above, we need to combine the experiences of being a host and being a guest. Likewise, when it comes to the Temple, we must somehow merge the images of a Temple built from below with the image of a Temple descending from heaven.
So, picture in your mind an active and diligent person, rising to his daily labor and working hard all day, but doing so gratefully, without complaining, as if this is exactly what is expected of him. This person works hard but seeks neither publicity nor recognition, and when praised for his deeds, he has nothing to say but “Blessed be God,” for his experience is that what he did was not by his own prowess but by the strength given to him as a gift from above. Such a person is both a host and a guest: he toils on building his home, but does so as a grateful guest, feeling that he is not the one working here, but that a higher power is working through him.
Similarly, we can imagine ourselves building the Temple in an earthly manner and without miracles, but with such a lack of arrogance and self-importance that through our handiwork, we manifest its descent from heaven.
To Build and Be Built
What we are discussing here is deeply related to the question that has been occupying our people for the last hundred years—what kind of Judaism should exist in our generation, especially in the Land of Israel?
Two thousand years in exile after the Temple we built with our own hands was destroyed accustomed us to a state of mind akin to that of our forefathers who wandered in the wilderness: we are merely guests in this world, living by the grace of heaven and deserving what we get only if it descends from heaven. This way of life greatly refined us and enhanced the sense of God’s Presence in our lives; but to the same extent, it also weakened our active involvement in shaping our fate.
In response to this, many Jews in recent generations have decided that we should no longer feel like guests subject to the grace of the Creator; instead, we must become masters controlling our lives and fate. This movement led to a great immigration to the Land of Israel, the establishment of public institutions, and finally the founding of the State of Israel. However, this “national home” does not show much interest in hosting the Creator, to whom it owes its establishment, and is only willing to provide Him with a small and out-of-the-way guest room. God was barely even mentioned in the State of Israel’s Declaration of Independence, and the mention that was made (tzur Israel, meaning, “rock of Israel”) was deliberately ambiguous so that it could be interpreted as referring, once again, to the Jewish people and not to the Creator.
These two polar approaches are reflected today in the rift within our people, between those who seek to see the establishment of God’s Temple yet expect it to descend from heaven without any practical effort on our part, and those who seek to build the Temple with their own hands from the ground up, but not for the sake of God but for themselves.
The idea that building the Temple means to host our Host offers us a vision by which the rift can be bridged. A true and complete Israeli society and culture would combine guest consciousness with host consciousness: at first, it would cautiously and respectfully step back into the halls of traditional Judaism, without a sense of ownership, like a guest getting to know his host’s home, always careful not to break anything. Afterwards, Israeli society would begin “hosting” the Jewish tradition within it—studying and incorporating it into the chambers of its heart, and also feeding and nourishing it so that it continues to grow and flourish.
May we be blessed to build a Divine Home for our Host, to let Him into the chambers of our hearts and so be let into His.
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[1]. Genesis 2:3.
[2]. Bereishit Rabbah 11:6.
[3] Deuteronomy 14:23.
[4]. Shabbat 63a.
[5] Exodus 25:8.
[6] Yalkut Shimoni Bereishit §82: “Hosting guests is greater than receiving the Divine Presence,” but in the case of the Temple, it involves hosting the Divine Presence itself!
[7] Bereishit Rabbah 68:9.
[8]. Chagigah 15a.
[9]. Avot 3:7.
[10] Bereishit Rabbah 39:1.
[11] Hilchot Beit HaBechirah 1:1.
[12] Rashi on Sukkah 41a.
