One verse, five voices. Edited by Nina Litvak and Salvador Litvak, the Accidental Talmudist
They will thereby recognize that I am God, their God, who brought them out of Egypt so that I may abide in their midst; I am God, their God.
– Ex. 29:46
Nili Isenberg
Pressman Academy Judaics Faculty
After all the efforts of building the Tabernacle, there will be certainty: “They will know (Veyad’u) that I am God.” The Children of Israel will bring the materials, fashion the implements, adorn the priests in special garments, light the menorah, prepare the sacrifices, burn the incense, and will be prepared to have a lasting relationship with the Divine.
However, that is not how our story goes. During the wandering in the desert, upon settling in the land, and under the rule of judges and kings, again and again the people turn away from God, ultimately experiencing the destruction of the Temple and the Diaspora.
Perhaps we have always lived in a world of “Mi Yode’a” – “Who knows?” At this time of year, we recall this phrase from the Purim story, when Mordechai points out the providential coincidence of Esther becoming Queen of Persia at the time of Haman’s evil decree against the Jews (Esther 4:14). Like Mordechai, we sense the hand of God in our lives, but can we ever be certain? We live in a world where it is indeed sometimes hard to tell the difference even between Mordechai and Haman, in a state of “Ad D’Lo Yada” (Megillah 7b).
“The book of Ezekiel (the usual haftarah for Tetzaveh) speaks repeatedly of a future time when all the world will know God. Until then, Purim encourages us to lean into uncertainty. We may make mistakes and we may be fools, but that is the key to our humanity.
Rabbi Benjamin Blech
Professor of Talmud, Yeshiva University
How do we know there is a God? At first glance, the Torah’s formulation in Exodus 29:46 seems strange: One would expect that Israel knows God because of the miracles of Egypt — the plagues, the splitting of the sea, the unmistakable suspension of natural law. Yet that is not how the verse ultimately frames religious knowledge.
The Torah states that God took Israel out of Egypt in order to dwell among them. The Exodus, dramatic and overwhelming as it was, was not the major proof of God’s reality but only the prelude. Its purpose was to create the conditions for something deeper and more enduring: a daily, intimate relationship between God and His people.
Miracles, by their very nature, are episodic. They astonish, but they do not last. The Mishkan — and later Jewish life itself — represents a different kind of encounter. God is not known primarily through the rare suspension of natural law, but through His constant presence within it. It is in the ongoing interaction of everyday life — sustenance, health, moral responsibility, forgiveness, blessing — that God becomes truly known.
Paradoxically, these daily encounters are easier to overlook. Because they are familiar, we fail to recognize the divine hand within them. Yet the Torah insists that this is precisely where authentic knowledge of God emerges. God, the verse suggests, is not distant, abstract, or confined to moments of spectacle. He is present. He dwells among us. In a strikingly human metaphor, God is not only our King or our Creator;. He is our Friend and He is our Neighbor. Recognizing that truth transforms faith from belief in a distant power into awareness of a living presence beside us, every day. And that is the greatest miracle of our presence on earth.
Aliza Lipkin
Writer and educator, Maaleh Adumim, Israel
Hashem established the Tabernacle and the priestly system so the nation could experience His Presence among them. At Mount Sinai, the people had a direct, unprecedented encounter with Hashem, which was a powerful, transformative connection with the Divine. Overwhelmed and awestruck, they trembled and begged Moshe to serve as their intermediary, fearing they would die if the direct communication continued. Hashem graciously agreed, ending the nation’s unmediated contact with Him. Yet this created a challenge; Hashem desired to dwell among His people so they could feel His nearness and maintain a way to connect with Him. Therefore, He commanded them to build the Mishkan and appointed the Kohanim as intermediaries.
This accommodation reflects one of Hashem’s many acts of love and compassion toward the Jewish people. The very verse that concludes the instructions for the Mishkan and the priests (Shemot 29:46) uses the word “yada” (to know): “They shall know that I am Hashem their God, who brought them out of the land of Egypt to dwell among them.” In the Torah, “yada” signifies the deepest level of intimacy and relational knowledge.
Its first appearance is in Bereishit 4:1: “And the man knew Eve his wife, and she conceived and bore Cain.” Just as a loving husband on his wedding night restrains his desires to align with his bride’s pace, Hashem established this system so the people might truly “know” Him, thus fostering an intimate relationship through compassion, despite what could be perceived as rejection at Sinai.
Rabbi Eliot Malomet
Host of “Parasha Talk” on YouTube
Sometimes, reading the Torah feels like we’re eavesdropping on a conversation. With the Tabernacle instructions, God talks to Moshe and we are listening in. It’s quite the catalogue of what-to-take and what-to-make — for Heaven’s sake. Towards the end of this compendium, we get the rationale for the whole project: “Build this so that Israel will know that I took them out of Egypt to be their God and dwell among them.”
Three takeaways: 1. Nebbuch, God is homeless. While His commandments are powerful sparks of godliness, God simply wants to be accessibly present in the world. His God-saturated Sabbaths and Festivals are sanctuaries in time, but a God-saturated place will be a sanctuary of godliness in space. 2. God cannot dwell with Israel in the death-saturated land of Egypt. He extracted them from there to dwell with them in the life-saturated land of Israel. 3. God promised Abraham that the whole world will be blessed through him. But to enable that, God will need to be present among his descendants.
Friends, when God says to Moshe in private, “I liberated Israel to dwell among them,” he is really saying: “Moshe, Me and Israel go way back. I have a story with them. True, I’m everywhere in the universe. But somehow, Moshe, with them I’m at home. And quite honestly, where else am I going to go?” God speaks to Moshe and we are listening in. Our conclusion? God wants to be at home. With us. In our story.
Dr. Erica Rothblum
Head of School, Rabbi Jacob Pressman Academy
This parsha comes in the middle of the Torah’s instructions about how to build the Mishkan. It is technical and repetitive. It’s the how. And then this parsha comes – and it’s the why. This verse reframes the entire Mishkan project. It is not about building a house for God; it is about creating a people capable of being in relationship with God. “So that I may dwell in their midst” is striking. Not in it. Not above it. Among the people themselves.
In context, this parsha answers a subtle fear: after Sinai’s thunder fades, will God disappear? Ramban explains that the Mishkan is not a new revelation but a continuation of Sinai. The glory that descended upon Sinai now rests quietly within the camp. The Exodus was not simply about liberation from Egypt; it was about creating the conditions for sustained Divine presence. Sinai was a moment. The Mishkan makes that moment livable.
Many of us long for Sinai, the dramatic moments when everything feels clear. But this parsha suggests that what God desires is not drama, but consistency. The question is not whether we have felt inspired but what we build afterward. Do we create routines that protect what we feel? Do we carve out time for conversation, for learning, for gratitude? Do we repair relationships instead of retreating when the feeling fades? Sinai may ignite us, but it is the steady, unglamorous work of daily commitment that allows holiness to remain in our midst.
