Any person with an ounce of self-reflection takes stock from time to time. Am I a good person? Am I doing the right things?
And as we age and become increasingly aware of our mortality, we ask “bigger picture” questions: What have I achieved? Do I leave any kind of legacy? Have I made the world a better place for having lived in it?
For people who work with their hands, this is actually not a depressing exercise. Someone who has worked in construction or plumbing or electrics or carpentry has demonstrably built and maintained real things: building and homes, bridges and power stations. Looking at the things we have made, eating the fruit of the labor of our hands (psalm 128), is deeply satisfying.
And of course, there are lots of ways to build things: software code is building, and so is creating a body of academic work (especially if that work actually advances human knowledge and achievement). Perhaps most common (and critical) is to understand that we can build relationships: marriages, families, communities and even nations.
What is not satisfying is a life not spent in building anything. Such a life – one spent without investing in something larger than oneself – is really no life at all. And so we must not shortchange the work in front of us – even if it is work we are compelled to do.
Indeed, the command to not fall short is an instruction from Pharoah himself!
“You shall no longer provide the people with straw for making bricks as heretofore; let them go and gather straw for themselves. But impose upon them the same quota of bricks as they have been making heretofore; do not reduce it (לֹ֥א תִגְרְע֖וּ), for they are shirkers; that is why they cry, ‘Let us go and sacrifice to our God!’ (E. 5:7) … “You must not reduce (לֹא־תִגְרְע֥וּ) your daily quantity of bricks.” (5:19)
What is astonishing is that this phrase, “do not reduce” (לֹא־תִגְרְע֥וּ), is only found in 4 verses in the Torah. The first two are the commandment from Pharoah. Even though Pharoah was surely cruel, the work we did, even under duress, remains part of our legacy.
The last two uses of this word are found much later in the text, when G-d commands:
You shall not add anything to what I command you or reduce (לֹ֥א תִגְרְע֖וּ) from it, but keep the commandments of the Lord your G-d that I enjoin upon you. (D. 4:2) … Be careful to observe only that which I enjoin upon you: neither add to it nor take away (לֹ֥א תִגְרַ֖ע) from it. (D. 13:1)
Look at the contrast! Working for Pharoah, for Egypt, was physical labor. We were commanded not to shirk the labor.
And 40 years later, we are similarly told to not shirk fulfilling G-d’s commands. The use of the same words in both places (and nowhere else) gives us a comparison and contrast with Pharoah’s commandments!
What is the link? Doing commandments, the mitzvos, is a way to create, and is at least as important as the work of making bricks for Egypt’s storehouses. G-d’s commandments are another form of building, of creating something bigger than ourselves.
The link fits neatly into the Torah’s view of Egypt and Israel. The text contrasts the two civilizations from Genesis through to the end. Egypt is fertile in every way – but it fixates on death. Egypt harmonizes with nature and seeks predictable stability within a hierarchy. Egypt is represented by the corn in Pharoah’s dream – 7 physical ears of corn on one stalk – wealth from matter, physical creation.
Israel is the mirror image of Egypt. For us, fertility is always a challenge, and only comes through divine blessing. We live for life and never for death. We seek to improve on nature, and we recognize the value of each human soul, which means that our society and communities are inherently dynamic and unstable and only accepting hierarchy to the extent it is necessary. Lastly, Torah Judaism is represented by the Menorah – 7 arms of light on one stalk – wealth from energy, spiritual light.
The Jews in the Torah start with one kind of building block, and progress to another. In a sense, it is like 6 days of the week, and the 7th day being Shabbos: physical work followed by a day of spiritual connection. We engage in both kinds of work, but we recognize that it is Shabbos, the day of very limited creation, that is actually the pinnacle of a week. We work so that we can create Shabbos – just as we build the Mikdash, the tabernacle, so we can use it to grow closer to G-d.
The progression itself is fascinating, because in Egypt, the bricks must be interchangeable, and as identical to each other as possible. This kind of building is really only interested in the final product: the resulting building. The bricks themselves are largely beneath notice. Building is always managed from the top down.
The spiritual building blocks of Israel are quite different. Each person has their own soul, and the choices we make are all unique. Just as our personal relationships are our own, so, too, is our relationship with G-d. In a way, this reflects the potential we each have: our bodies are each, like bricks, definably human and limited. But our souls have far more variety and potential: our creations through love, music, arts, engineering or science, are seemingly unlimited in terms of distinctiveness. Each soul creates, so society is inherently bottom-up.
This is the path the Torah gives us. Filtered through a prism of Torah, we are commanded to never shirk from the commandments. The commandments do not force us into a developmental wasteland; on the contrary, they offer us an endless palette of creative and holy options to strive for our potential and build the world.
There is nothing wrong with building using our hands, just as there is nothing wrong with working for six days. Indeed, the Torah commands us to work for six days! But there is a progression in our history, in our week and in our lives – from making bricks to building holiness.
As long as we never shirk from the work, we’ll be all right.
Creativejudaism.org