Beyond Space, Beyond Time
Principles Three and Four
Ask someone, “What do you yearn for?” and you’re unlikely to get a shopping list of mundane wants and material desires. Yearning and longing lie in the domain of the soul.
What does our innermost soul crave? Self-definition, security, connection. A sense of identity and belonging. We long for a place we call “home.” Rabbi Tatz tells us that the feelings of wistfulness and nostalgia evoked by memories of home are rooted in the universal desire of the neshamah to reconnect with its Source. We are terribly homesick for the place where we belong.
In fact, HaMakom, “The Place,” is one of Hashem’s Names. The Gemara explains: “the world is not His place, rather He is the place of the world.” Prior to creation, there was no space — there was only Hashem. The world cannot be described as a place that contains Him. Instead, He is the place, He contains the world.
The place, or habitat, of a living thing does not merely contain its inhabitants; it gives them identity and presence, and it supplies the environment where they can thrive and grow. When we say that Hashem is the Place of the world, we mean that not only did He create the world, but He also supports and sustains it every moment.
No Limits
The fact that the world is not His place also tells us that Hashem has no physical properties. The third principle of the Rambam’s thirteen articles of faith states: “I believe with complete faith that the Creator is not physical, that no physical attributes apply to Him, and that there is nothing that can be compared to Him at all.”
If an entity can be confined in a space, then the entity has parameters of size, mass, and shape. None of these properties apply to the infinite, limitless Creator. As Shlomo Hamelech declared, “Behold, the Heaven and Heaven of Heavens cannot contain You” (Melachim I; 8:27).
There are many verses cautioning us not to attribute any corporeality — physical components and actions — to Hashem. When Moshe Rabbeinu reviews the experience of Matan Torah with his people, he emphasizes that it’s prohibited to record the event by fashioning any images of Hashem: “Take heed, for you saw no form at all on the day that Hashem spoke to you.” Nor may we attribute any emotion to Him. The verse says, “I, Hashem, do not change” (Malachi 3:6). Accordingly, it’s improper to refer to Him as One Who has variable states of mind, such as “happy,” “angry,” and the like.
Yet many verses do seem to attribute physical elements, corporeal form, and emotions to our Creator: He will take us out of Mitzrayim with a strong hand (Shemos 6: 1); His eyes scrutinize the earth (Zechariah 4:10); He is a “man of war” (Shemos 15:3); the Torah scholar makes Him happy (Avos 6). Our Sages explain that the Torah employs terminology that we can understand. His constant supervision of mankind is more readily understood when we think of “eyes”; the reward that He bestows upon the Torah scholar is compared to the reward a human king would bestow on one who brings him happiness.
Attributing characteristics, or middos, to Hashem seems to imply that He has a particular nature, limiting Him to a certain pattern of behavior. However, what we term the “middos” of Hashem — merciful, patient, and so on — are not innate characteristics; rather, they’re the manifestations of His management of the world.
In a similar vein, the Midrash states, “I am portrayed by My actions [My Essence cannot be portrayed]. When I judge mankind, I am called ‘Elokim’; when I demonstrate compassion, my name is ‘Havaya.’ ” The Ramchal explains all prophetic images in the same manner. When Hashem wants to reveal His compassion, He appears to the navi as a benevolent elder; when the message is focused upon the protection He’ll offer His people from the enemy, He manifests as a young warrior.
There’s a still deeper understanding of this pattern. Rabbi Tatz points out that a metaphor is always imperfect; it’s a useful comparison, but it’s essentially false. Hashem does not have eyes! Nor is He a warrior! Yet, the Torah, which is Toras Emes, refers to His eyes and calls Him a “man of war”! How do we explain this paradox?
Perhaps we have confused the mashal with the nimshal, the metaphor with the reality. The Ramchal explains that when the Torah says we were created in the image of Hashem, it means that Hashem is the reality — the only reality — and we were modeled after Him. We are the metaphor!
Every word in the Torah is true — Hashem does have eyes, but they are not physical and they’re beyond our comprehension. Since we cannot fathom Hashem, we would have no comprehension of His scrutiny — unless we ourselves were created with eyes. Our human eyes are the mashal that enables us to grasp the truth. As Iyov (19:26) states: “From my own flesh I can perceive Hashem.” Precisely because we cannot comprehend lofty realities, Hashem gave us our eyes.
Just as Hashem is incorporeal and beyond the confines of space, so is He eternal and beyond the limitations of time. The Rambam’s fourth principle states: “I believe with complete faith that the Creator is the very first and the very last [i.e., He preceded all creation and is everlasting].”
Ancient theories — as well as the current theory of evolution — maintain that matter always existed, in one form or another. We claim: Bereishis! There was a chiddush ha’olam, a beginning of the world; it is the Creator, not the world, Who always existed, and, when He saw fit to do so, He created the world yeish mei’ayin, ex nihilo — from absolute nothingness. Accordingly, this principle is often called “kadmus Hashem,” the precedence of Hashem over all existence.
Beginnings and Ends
The Rambam refers to the principle of kadmus Hashem and chiddush ha’olam as the “great principle of Toras Moshe,” for it is the basis of many crucial elements of the Torah. If there was no beginning of creation, there’s no reason to think there are any endpoints. There would be no concept of Shabbos, which commemorates the completion of the creation Hashem began. Even more crucial: Rabbeinu Bachya tells us that since Hashem brought the world into being, He must have a plan and a goal for it — since there was a beginning of the world, it must also have a culmination.
There’s more. Since Hashem brought the world into existence from nothing at all, He “owns” it. The first Rashi in Chumash tells us that the story of Bereishis is the basis for the Jews’ claim to Eretz Yisrael: “If the nations of the world will say to Yisrael, ‘You are thieves, for you conquered the land of the seven nations,’ they will reply, ‘The whole world belongs to HaKadosh Baruch Hu. He created it, and gave it to the one who is proper in His eyes.’ ”
Of course, not only the Land, but all of creation belongs to Hashem. The Midrash pointedly expresses this, based upon the verse, “Mi hikdimani v’ashaleim — Who preceded Me, so that I must pay him?” (Iyov 43:3): “Who is the person who praised Me before I gave him a soul? Who circumcised a child for My Name before I gave him the son? Who was able to post a mezuzah for Me before I gave him a house? Who can fashion tzitzis for Me before I give him the clothing? Who separated challah for Me before I gave him the dough? Who designated an offering for Me before I gave him the animal?”
In all these cases, we could not have served Hashem had He not first given us the object that created the opportunity. Even when we perform a mitzvah, He doesn’t owe us — rather, we are beholden to Him. He is our “Place” of origin, and He is also the original Owner of all creation!
Who is in the Center?
The Rambam writes in Moreh Nevuchim that the Greek philosophers denied the crucial principle of kadmus Hashem. They posited that matter always existed and that the world operates automatically, according to the laws of nature. Even those who believed in a Supreme Being argued that He did not create the world from nothingness, and that He’s neither interested nor involved in our lives. The Midrash finds an early allusion to the Greek empire in the words, “And choshech, darkness, was on the face of the deep” (Bereishis 1:2).
Yet Chazal speak of chochmas Yavan, Greek wisdom, for they were the first enlightened society aside from the Jews. They rejected the primitive and barbaric civilizations of the time; they valued intellectual and cultural development. How do we reconcile enlightenment with darkness?
The Greeks had potential, but they missed the point. They were thinkers, but they didn’t contemplate spirituality. They denied the existence of anything not rational, visible, and measurable. Instead, the ethos of Yavan centered on man, whom they viewed as superior and autonomous. They revered the human physique for its strength and beauty, and they championed man’s accomplishments in science, philosophy, and the arts. Their goal was to assert the supremacy of man over the world.
Klal Yisrael’s worldview is centered on Hashem, who is present in every place and at every moment. We are the people who said naaseh v’nishma, surrendering our rational minds to the Divine will. We focus on the perfection of man’s character, not his body. Science and the arts may improve the quality of one’s life, but only the Torah can better the person himself. The guf is only important because it’s the vessel that performs mitzvos and serves Hashem; this world is only significant because it’s the entrance hall that leads to Olam Haba. Our goal is to assert the supremacy of Hashem over the world.
As their empire expanded and flourished, the Greeks sought to impose their culture and philosophy on the societies they ruled. Thus the stage was set for the clash between the Greeks and the Chashmonaim. Although the latter won the war and merited the Chanukah miracle, the ideological battle continues, in varied forms, until the present day, for Yavan was the forerunner of Western civilization.
Where Heaven Kisses Earth
The fulcrum of the battle with Yavan at the time of the Chashmonaim was the Beis Hamikdash. It is referred to in the Gemara as “the place where heaven kisses earth.” Miracles regularly occurred there that defied the natural laws of time and space: the ner maaravi, the western lamp of the menorah, burned longer than its natural capacity every day; during each festival, the people stood crowded in a crush of humanity, yet had plenty of space to bow down; and, in the words of Chazal, the aron did not take up any space. Fascinatingly, the dimensions of the Holy Ark and the space surrounding it were greater than the measurement of the Kodesh Hakodoshim, the chamber that contained it!
It is striking that Har HaMoriah, the mountain upon which the Beis Hamikdash is built, is also referred to in the Torah as hamakom, “the place.” When Yaakov stopped there on his journey, the Torah writes, “He met the place (Bereishis 28:11).” As we have explained, a “place” provides the space for objects to exist. Rav Wolfson reminds us that this mountain was the starting point of Creation. Since every other place draws its existence from there, it is “the place of all places.”
It is fitting that this makom, which transcends both time and space, is the dwelling place of HaMakom, the Creator, Who is above time and space. It is here that His presence is most keenly felt. We can now understand why the Greeks chose to damage the Beis Hamikdash. They saw no reason to destroy it; the Temple was a fine work of architecture. But they sought to defile it, arguing that here heaven does not kiss earth, for there is no transcendence, no spirituality at all, in the natural world.
Hashem’s answer to Yavan’s assault was the neis Chanukah. It demonstrated that the laws of nature are not rigid, permanent, and automatic. The small flask of oil broke the barriers of time and space. It replicated the miracle of the ner maaravi whose enduring flame was “testimony that the Divine Presence dwells among Yisrael (Shabbos 24b).” Each year, when the Chanukah menorah lights up our homes, we are “publicizing the miracle,” reminding the world of Hashem’s creative powers.
We are homesick in this galus. We miss the place where we belong, we ache to reconnect to our Source, we yearn to step foot inside the Beis Hamikdash, the “place of all places,” dwelling place of HaMakom. Rav Hutner points out that the festival of Chanukah prepared us for our many years of displacement during galus Edom. When the menorah moved from the Beis Hamikdash into each Jew’s private domain, we learned that any place that welcomes the Divine Presence can transcend itself and become sacred ground. The menorah soothes our longing, for it provides a small taste of home, presaging our ultimate homecoming.
Sources: Rav Chaim Friedlander, Rav Ezriel Tauber, Rav Bentzion Epstein, Rav Pinchas Stolper, and others
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 460)
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