G-d commanded Moses: “Make an ark of acacia wood, 2-1/2 cubits long, 1-1/2 cubits wide and 1-1/2 cubits high. Cover it with a layer of pure gold on the inside and outside, and make a gold rim all around its top” (Shemos 25:10).
The Talmud explains that the practical way of doing this is to make three boxes: a large one of gold, a smaller one of wood, and a smallest one of gold. The three are then placed one inside the other, so that the Biblical commandment is fulfilled.
Since it is written, “Cover it with gold on the inside and on the outside,” the Talmud (Yoma 72) derives from this that any talmid chacham whose inside does not match his outside is not really a talmid chacham, The level of spirituality that we display on the outside should match our true level of spirituality – that which is found on the inside.
But if the Ark represents a talmid chacham, why is it not made of solid gold? What is the acacia wood doing there? Should not the Torah scholar be pure rather than just veneered with spiritual beauty?
While studying in yeshiva in Jerusalem 45 years ago, I was sitting at a table with some friends during a Shabbos kiddush and discussing a trip to Bnei Brak. A friend suggested I visit the famous Ponevezh Yeshiva. There, he continued, I could catch a rare glimpse of a malach. He was referring to Rabbi Yechezkel Levenstein zt”l who was world-renowned for his piety.
Our Rosh Yeshiva, who was sitting close by, overheard this and exclaimed, “You are mistaken. The greatness of Rav Yechezkel is that he is not a malach at all. He is flesh and blood like the rest of us.” This is the symbolism of the acacia wood. We must understand that as holy as we can become on the outside and on the inside, we nevertheless remain human beings. Our core is not gold but wood, which represents our humanness. If we become so holy and spiritual, then we no longer have a place in this world, only in the world to come.
Once I found myself sitting next to someone on a flight, and we started talking about Judaism. He claimed to have tried out Yiddishkeit at one point of his life but did not feel comfortable with it. “I must feel comfortable with it,” he said. “Otherwise, it isn’t for me.”
He went on to explain that even today when he is called upon to contribute to Jewish causes, he refuses because he does not feel really good about giving away his money. I told him that, in my opinion, there is only one kind of person that feels really good about giving away his money: a meshugenah. If we were angels we would feel really good about giving our money away, but we are not.
We may be gold inside and outside, but in between is that layer of acacia. It’s not that we do not want to give, but there is a part of us that resists. It is exactly under these circumstances that we are required to do mitzvos. You can be sure that everyone, even a Rosh Yeshiva, finds it a nuisance to get up early in winter to make morning minyan. But this is what is required of us, even though we would rather sleep late.
All of us, even tzaddikim, are human. According to the Chofetz Chaim, the definition of the mitzvah of chesed is performing a kindness against one’s natural feelings. The humanness within each of us is to be treasured. Sanctify it and cover it with gold.
