When Hashem tells Moshe to build the Mishkan, He doesn’t only provide verbal instructions. Chazal tell us that God shows Moshe a fiery rendition of the Mishkan’s structure and its vessels. But why fire? Why not something more solid, more practical, more realistic? Why would God offer Moshe a partial picture, instead of showing him precisely what he and his artisans needed to produce?
Yes, Hashem wants Moshe to have a clear sense of what he needs to craft. But at the same time, it seems that these flames are an additional, more pressing, message for Moshe—a reminder that is intended for his heart and his soul.
This is not the first time Moshe has seen a display of fire from God. Just a year or two earlier, Hashem appears to him for the first time from within a burning bush and instructs Moshe to go to Pharaoh and ask him to free Bnei Yisrael. Moshe’s immediate, humble response is, “Who am I to go to Pharaoh? Can I possibly take out Bnei Yisrael?”
Hashem assures him that he is up to the task, but Moshe demurs four more times, insisting that he is not the right man for the job: Bnei Yisrael won’t find him credible; he has a speech impediment; Aharon would be the better candidate. Through it all, Hashem is patient and responsive, supplying Moshe with His sacred name, Divine signs, and words of encouragement.
Addressing Moshe’s fear of public speaking, God tells him, והוריתיך אשר תדבר. The word הוריתיך has the same Hebrew root as the word מורה, a teacher. Hashem is assuring Moshe that He will be his teacher, supporting him as he stands before Pharaoh, providing him with the tools and skills he needs and enabling him to gain confidence in his role. God doesn’t guarantee instant success, but He does promise to guide Moshe along the path to leadership— even if right now Moshe can only imagine himself as a Midianite shepherd.
When Moshe returns to Egypt with his brother Aharon, there are ups and downs. At first, the elders of Bnei Yisrael wholeheartedly believe their promise that freedom is imminent. But when Moshe and Aharon confront Pharaoh, he rejects them outright and doubles down on his work orders to the slaves. The morale of Bnei Yisrael sinks rapidly and Moshe turns to God with desperate words: “למה הרעותה לעם הזה ולמה זה שלחתני—” Why have you brought bad to this people and why have you sent me?” Moshe has never believed in himself as a leader, and now, sadly, he feels armed with evidence of his failure.
But Hashem has a “longer-range” plan. In the coming months, He tells Moshe again and again how to warn Pharaoh about each plague and how to unleash them one at a time, as Pharaoh stubbornly refuses to release the slaves. For readers, these 10 pre-plague interactions can feel painfully repetitive: Does Moshe need such similar instructions so many times?
Before we answer this question about Moshe, I’d like to shift the focus to a different terrain: Yeshiva high school. As a teacher of freshmen and sophomores, I am fortunate to spend time with many charming, personable young women who take their jobs as students seriously. But if I were to ask some of them about their daily tefillah routines or what Torah topics they study in their spare time, it’s likely that they would shrug politely and tell me this isn’t who they are. They don’t see themselves in these roles. Not yet.
It seems to me that the teenage years are the most dynamic ones in a student’s life. They are also the most vulnerable years, a time when confidence fluctuates and values and allegiances similarly oscillate. What students observe and absorb in school—inside and outside the classroom—has a gradual but meaningful impact. Over time, as they engage with teachers and administrators, with upperclassmen, or even with the school’s alumni madrichot, they discover messages that speak to them. Whether they are actively searching for a role model, or just breathing the school air, students become intrigued. They see the heartfelt tefillah of an upperclassman and they want that passion for themselves. They hear the parsha shiur of a madricha alumnus and they imagine themselves inspiring people with Torah. They notice a weekly student-teacher chavruta and they start to consider what topic or what sefer interests them, if they were to arrange a chavruta. Eleventh graders start thinking about the seminaries they want to attend, and as they run through the choices, they wonder, “What kind of Torah learner am I?” or, “What kind of ovedet Hashem do I want to become?”
Let’s return to Moshe Rabbeinu. Why did Hashem have to “hold his hand” through the 10 plagues, directing him to repeat the same words to Pharaoh so many times? Hadn’t he memorized the words “Let My People Go” after plague number one or two?
Back at the burning bush, when Moshe doubted his ability to speak to Pharaoh, God had told him והוריתיך אשר תדבר : I will be your teacher, Moshe, I will be your guide. You will absorb my patient modeling as many times as you need, building familiarity and comfort and confidence all the while. I know you can do it, Moshe. But I want you to experience this for yourself. I want you to be able to happily picture yourself in this new role. And soon, very soon, you will.
Mrs. Lori Linzer is a Tanach teacher at Ma’ayanot.
