We have a double portion this week, Vayakhel-Pekudei, and we are concluding the Book of Shemos. This Shabbos we say, “Chazak, chazak, v’nischazek” — give us strength, and let us be strengthened. In addition, we will take out a second Sefer Torah for Parshas HaChodesh.
By Divine Providence, this connects very deeply to what we recently experienced with the siyum of the Sefer Torah. Originally, we had planned to complete the Sefer Torah on the Sunday immediately following the yahrzeit, on Zayin Shevat. But as everyone knows, there was an unusual storm. It was not even a question whether to proceed or not — it was simply impossible. Roads were closed, travel was impossible, and there was no way to bring the sofer or gather properly. So we had no choice but to postpone it.
Naturally, that was disappointing. But this brought to mind the Torah portion we read recently about the Luchos. When Moshe Rabbeinu came down and saw the Jewish people worshipping the Golden Calf, he broke the first tablets. Later, Hashem told him to come back up and prepare new tablets, and Hashem would write on them again. What is striking is that in the Aron there were not only the second Luchos, the complete ones, but also the broken pieces of the first Luchos.
Why were the broken Luchos kept? On the surface, they seem to represent failure. Why preserve them? And furthermore, why did Moshe have to break them? If he did not want to give them to the people, he could have hidden them. Yet not only were they broken, but those broken pieces were preserved in the Aron itself.
Chazal tell us that Moshe was very distressed over having broken the Luchos, and Hashem reassured him: do not be upset, because with the second Luchos I will give you even more. The second Luchos included not only what was in the first, but additional depth, including more of the Oral Torah.
That raises a profound question: why did the Jewish people have to go through the breaking of the Luchos in order to receive something even greater? Why could that greatness not come from the beginning?
The Rebbe explains that sometimes a person becomes a greater vessel דווקא through brokenness. When a person is humbled, when he feels a sense of loss, when he is not full of himself, then he becomes a vessel for greater blessing. There is a saying that there is nothing as whole as a broken heart. A broken heart does not mean despair. It means humility, openness, and the awareness that one is not self-contained. That is precisely what makes one able to receive more.
This is also the idea of the half-shekel. If a person sees himself as complete and self-sufficient, he may lose the ability to receive. But when a person knows he is only a half, then he can become whole.
So the broken Luchos remained in the Aron as an eternal lesson. Even as the people received the second, greater revelation, they still needed to remember humility. In the Amidah we say, “V’nafshi k’afar lakol tihyeh” — may my soul be like dust before all — and then immediately we ask, “P’tach libi b’Torasecha” — open my heart to Your Torah. Humility opens the heart to Torah. Torah is not just intellectual information; it is Hashem’s wisdom. Only a humble vessel can truly receive it.
In a very personal way, this also spoke to our experience with the Sefer Torah. We were disappointed when we had to postpone the siyum, but in the end it worked out better. The weather was better. More people were able to come. And it gave more time to prepare and strengthen the event.
There was even a practical example of this. We originally wanted to get a real silver crown for the Sefer Torah, but it was a tremendous expense. We finally decided to go ahead with it, but by the time the purchase was being arranged, the price of silver had gone up sharply. So reluctantly, we went with a silver-plated crown instead. Then, because the siyum was postponed, I started thinking: if this Torah has a crown, what about the other Torah that will be taken out with it? So in the end, we kept the plated crown for the second Torah and used the real silver crown for the new Torah. In other words, what first felt like a setback turned into something fuller and better.
And this really reflected the qualities of Levi Yitzchak and Menachem Mendel Plotkin themselves. They were humble people. They were not people of ego. They did not hold grudges. They did not rush to judge others. They were always ready to give in for the sake of peace and to help another person quietly and sincerely. That humility itself became a vessel for added blessing.
Now turning to the parsha itself: in Pekudei, at the very end of Sefer Shemos, the Torah describes how the Mishkan was set up. Hashem tells Moshe that on the first day of the first month — Rosh Chodesh Nissan — the Mishkan is to be erected.
Then the Torah says that Moshe should dress Aharon in the holy garments. Aharon, as Kohen Gadol, had eight garments. But when it comes to Aharon’s sons, the Torah only says that Moshe should dress them in their kutonos, their tunics. Yet an ordinary kohen had four garments. So why are only the tunics mentioned?
Some commentaries explain that the Torah mentions only the main garment, but the Rebbe does not accept that explanation so simply. The Rebbe explains that during the seven days of milu’im, the inauguration period, Moshe Rabbeinu himself functioned in the role of the kohen. He was training Aharon and his sons. By the eighth day, however, Aharon’s sons were already entering into their own avodah. Therefore, they could put on most of their garments themselves. What still needed to be done by Moshe, as part of that transition, was the donning of the kutonos. That act marked the handover.
With Aharon, however, it was different. His becoming the Kohen Gadol brought the full Divine presence into the Mishkan. Since Moshe was the one who erected the Mishkan and brought it into being, his role extended also into dressing Aharon in all the holy garments.
The Rebbe then focuses on another detail in the parsha. The Torah mentions the yisdos, the stakes or pegs of the Mishkan and of the courtyard. Rashi explains that the curtains and coverings were secured to the ground with pegs and ropes so they would not flap or blow away in the wind.
The Rebbe asks: why would the Torah need to emphasize something as simple as pegs? You do not need a great artisan for that. Anyone can hammer a stake into the ground. Why is this part of the Torah’s focus?
The Rebbe derives a powerful lesson in education and influence. A person may think that what matters are only the grand ideas — the beautiful curtains, the lofty teachings, the great inspiration. But the truth is that if you do not have the stakes, then everything can blow away. It is the simple, anchoring details that make the whole structure endure.
This is true in chinuch, in teaching, and in every form of influence. A person may want to teach only big ideas, lofty concepts, and profound philosophy. But if he does not also provide the simple anchors — the small practical habits, the daily acts, the ordinary forms of discipline and care — then all the inspiration can be lost in the first strong wind.
The stakes are what hold the Mishkan in place. The same is true in life. The small things are not small. They are what make the larger things endure.
And that, too, reflects what Levi and Mendel stood for. They did not look only for dramatic moments. They cared about every Jew, every mitzvah, every small act of help. Those were not small things. Those were the stakes in the ground. And when a person lives that way, what he builds lasts.
Summary
This class ties together the end of Sefer Shemos, the second Luchos, and the recent siyum of the Sefer Torah. The central lesson is that humility and even brokenness can become vessels for greater blessing, and that in Torah, education, and life, it is often the “small” anchoring acts — the stakes of the Mishkan — that make everything endure.