Profane Matters in the Purity of Holiness: The Proper Attitude to the Secular World (Column 700)

With God’s help

Disclaimer: This post was translated from Hebrew using AI (ChatGPT 5 Thinking), so there may be inaccuracies or nuances lost. If something seems unclear, please refer to the Hebrew original or contact us for clarification.

In an opinion column I wrote on behalf of the Third Path for the Shabaton weekly this Shabbat (Parashat Vayakhel), I briefly discussed the question of the relationship between the sacred and the profane. Here I would like to broaden the canvas a bit on this topic which, due to its importance, is worthy of appearing in the festive Column 700 (apologies to all who were expecting a different column). In my view there is a very fundamental point here, one that underlies quite a few of the arguments and positions presented on this site. And so I begin with thanks to the Holy One, blessed be He, that my strength has not flagged (“tash” — 700) until this day.

The Meaning of Labor and Creativity on Weekdays

In several places in the Torah, the command to rest on Shabbat is accompanied by a (quasi-)command to do work during the six weekdays. So it is at the beginning of Parashat Vayakhel (Exodus 35:1–3):

“Moses assembled the entire congregation of the children of Israel and said to them: These are the things that the Lord has commanded to do: Six days shall work be done, and on the seventh day you shall have holiness, a Sabbath of complete rest to the Lord; whoever does work on it shall be put to death. You shall not kindle fire in any of your dwellings on the Sabbath day.”

So too in the verses of the Ten Commandments in Parashat Yitro (Exodus 20:8–11):

“Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son, your daughter, your servant, your maidservant, your animal, and the stranger within your gates. For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is in them, and He rested on the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and sanctified it.”

And likewise in Parashat Ki Tissa (Exodus 31:12–17):

“The Lord said to Moses, saying: Speak to the children of Israel, saying: Surely My Sabbaths you shall keep, for it is a sign between Me and you for your generations, to know that I, the Lord, sanctify you. You shall keep the Sabbath, for it is holy to you; whoever profanes it shall surely be put to death; for whoever does work on it, that soul shall be cut off from among its people. Six days work shall be done, and on the seventh day is a Sabbath of complete rest, holy to the Lord; whoever does work on the Sabbath day shall surely be put to death. The children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath, to make the Sabbath throughout their generations an everlasting covenant. Between Me and the children of Israel it is a sign forever, for in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, and on the seventh day He ceased and was refreshed.”

And also in Parashat Emor (Leviticus 23:3):

“Six days work shall be done, and on the seventh day is a Sabbath of complete rest, a holy convocation; you shall not do any work; it is a Sabbath to the Lord in all your dwellings.”

Why does the Torah everywhere insist on juxtaposing the obligation to desist from work with the doing of work? One could understand it as background: on six days one works—that is the way of the world—and the command is to make an exception and rest on Shabbat. But that does not explain the Torah’s insistence on repeating this in every place.

One might have understood it as a negative prohibition implied by a positive command (see on this in columns 414–418). At times the Torah expresses itself as if it were a positive command, and the Sages understand that it is a negative derived from a positive. I explained in the past that in such places one must add the word “only” in reading it. That is, we should read: “Only in six days shall work be done,” which comes to exclude Shabbat, on which work is forbidden. According to this, whenever one does work on Shabbat, one transgresses both a negative prohibition of working on Shabbat and nullifies a positive command that work be done only on weekdays. But if that were the case, we ought to see enumerators of the commandments listing this as a negative derived from a positive among the positive commandments.

In the midrash Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai (on Exodus 20:9) this is taken to teach an additional commandment:

“‘Six days you shall labor’—Rabbi says: This is another decree: just as Israel were commanded by a positive command regarding Shabbat, so were they commanded regarding work. R. Elazar b. Azariah says: Great is work, for the Divine Presence did not rest upon Israel until they did work, as it is said: ‘And they shall make Me a sanctuary and I shall dwell among them’ (Exod. 25:8). R. Yose the Galilean says: Great is work, for the Omnipresent decreed death upon a person only due to idleness, as it is said: ‘And he expired and died and was gathered to his people’ (Gen. 25:17). R. Akiva says: Great is work, for one who benefits by a peruta’s worth from consecrated property must bring the trespass-offering and its fifth, whereas workers engaged in Temple labor take their wages from the chamber’s collection. R. Shimon says: Great is work, for even the High Priest who enters on Yom Kippur not at the time of service is liable to death, whereas at the time of service the impure and blemished are permitted to enter.”

That is, the preface about doing work is itself an additional command: to do work in the six days. It still remains unclear why this command is not enumerated. It may be because doing during the week is part of the command of Shabbat: to live the weekday in the light of Shabbat. It is one commandment that comprises the complex of working on the days of action and resting on Shabbat. Were I not hesitant, I would add that this is a package deal: only one who is engaged in work during the six days is included in resting on Shabbat. Still, the matter requires further thought.

What Is the Work We Were Commanded to Do?

We may wonder: what is the labor we were commanded to do on the days of action? If we compare weekday to Shabbat, then it would be the thirty-nine categories of labor and their derivatives: what is forbidden on Shabbat is what we were commanded to do on weekdays. Does this mean cooking meals at home, turning on lights, selecting, and the like? That is unlikely. Such prosaic tasks are matters of daily functioning, and it is not plausible that there is a special commandment about them. It makes no sense that every time we do something that counts among the thirty-nine principal categories and their derivatives (carrying something in one’s pocket from private to public domain, or removing refuse from food) we are thereby fulfilling a commandment.

It stands to reason that we are speaking of labors that amount to creativity in the world. That is, what defines the labors forbidden on Shabbat is the creativity within them. Developing the world is what we were commanded to do on weekdays. The overarching mitzvah is to create and perfect the world in the six days of action and then desist from that on Shabbat. In this we imitate what the Holy One did in the six days of Creation. The command is to emulate His entire course: both creation during the six days and cessation on Shabbat. Moreover, in halakhah it is clear that the cessation on Shabbat is all about remembering the six days of action in which the Holy One created the world; that is, the cessation comes only to sharpen and highlight the action, but the action itself is primary. If so, we may view our action in the six working days similarly. Shabbat serves the weekday, not the other way around.

Two Approaches: Hasidism and the Opponents

We have seen two approaches to the status of the weekdays: one holds that the six days of action are a preparation and background to Shabbat; the other sees them as having intrinsic value. More broadly: according to the first approach, the weekday can be seen as lacking value. The weekday is a challenge; our goal is to avoid it and focus on holiness. On this view, weekdays have no purpose in themselves other than that we cease from them on Shabbat. In contrast, the second approach holds that all our activity in the world is intended to serve detached holiness; to raise the world to the level of holiness. One could say that, according to it, the goal is not to avoid the secular but to sanctify it.

These two approaches characterize the dispute between Hasidism and the Mitnagdim (“opponents”). The opponents see the world as a threat (see at length in column 693). For them, our purpose here is to be saved from the threat, to overcome it, or to avoid it. The profane world has no meaning other than to present a challenge to our focus on holiness. In contrast, Hasidism sees all the world as holy. In its view, our main task in the world is to elevate sparks of holiness from all the expanses of the profane. When we engage in prosaic activities like eating and sleeping, we are in fact sanctifying the profane or elevating the sparks hidden within it. When we work during the six days with proper intention, we thereby turn them into a kind of Shabbat. Shammai the Elder, when he would see a fattened cow during the week, would immediately set it aside for Shabbat. In his eyes, all the weekdays are a preparation for Shabbat.

These are really two answers to the immortal question: “So why isn’t every day Shabbat?” Hasidim answer: because this is precisely our mission—to turn all days into Shabbat. Indeed, every day is Shabbat in potential; our task is to actualize it. The opponents answer: if every day were Shabbat, it would cease to be Shabbat. For them, weekday is merely the backdrop that defines Shabbat as Shabbat and presents an alternative that challenges us. Their dispute concerns the relationship between holiness and the profane: whether to see the profane as le-khatchila (ideal) or as something merely bedi‘avad (after the fact).

I have already noted that in many cases when I encounter a dispute, I find myself disagreeing with both sides. That is also the case here. As I understand it, there is no point in having every day be Shabbat, and therefore there is no need to seek an answer to that question. Below I will detail this by proposing a third way to relate to holiness.

Shabbat and the Mishkan

Immediately after the verses at the beginning of Parashat Vayakhel, the Torah returns to the description of the Tabernacle’s construction. The Sages derived from the juxtaposition of Shabbat and the Mishkan that the labors forbidden on Shabbat are those employed in the Tabernacle’s work. As is known, the Torah repeatedly emphasizes that the building of the Mishkan rests on wisdom and creativity. It employs expressions such as “artistic work” (melechet machshevet), “cunning work,” “all who are wise-hearted,” and the like. Consequently, the Shabbat labors themselves are defined as “artistic work,” with various halakhic ramifications (see Bava Kamma 60a and elsewhere).[1] This, of course, reinforces our earlier conclusion: what is forbidden is creativity—precisely what is required during the six weekdays.

The connection between Shabbat and the Mishkan raises, from a different angle, the question of the relationship between holiness and the profane—that is, the value of creativity and wisdom. The opponents tell us there is no value to creativity; it is the counsel of the evil inclination, and at best it should be harnessed for the sake of holiness. Secular wisdom has no value unless it serves holiness. Betzalel’s wisdom, in their view, was “corrected” by harnessing it to a sacred end: building the Mishkan. In this view, art means weaving a curtain for the Ark or for the Torah scroll. Likewise, science is meant so that we can be healthy and engage in divine service in the narrow sense (study Torah or perform mitzvot), or to ease our lives so that we have time for study and mitzvot. By the same token, we sleep and rest so that we will have the strength to learn and to perform commandments.

Hasidim, by contrast, are willing to see value in all realms of life—such as art and wisdom—if this is done for the sake of Heaven. In their view, we thereby extract sparks from the profane, repair it, and elevate it to holiness. On this view, the Mishkan sections teach that one may take the wisdom and creativity of the profane and harness them to holiness—to build the Mishkan. Hasidim see this as a paradigm for our worldly activity: clarifying and elevating sparks of holiness embedded in the profane, thereby making it worthy and legitimate too.

Seemingly there is a yawning gap between Hasidim and opponents regarding the secular world around us; yet in practice the differences are rather narrow. Both sides see value in labors and wisdom so long as they serve to create the Mishkan. The difference is that Hasidim try to create additional “sanctuaries” in other places. Thus you will find, among both Hasidim and opponents, the view that sleep is in order to have strength for commandments. Both sides use skills and powers of the profane for sacred ends. The difference between “elevating sparks” (Hasidism) and viewing the profane as a means or as a challenge (the opponents) lies mainly in the way they look at it. Both groups place holiness at the center and are willing to use the profane only for its sake. Among Hasidim this is done with a somewhat broader gaze (holiness is present in additional places, even if hidden), but not essentially different. And indeed, in our day it is hard to see a significant difference between Hasidim and opponents in these matters. I have written more than once that the true heirs of the original Hasidism today—those who genuinely try to bring Torah and holiness into all realms of life rather than withdraw—are the religious-Zionists or the modern Orthodox. It is no accident that they engage so intensively in Hasidic thought and literature (well, nobody’s perfect).

A Third Approach: Profane Matters in the Purity of Holiness

But these two are not the only possibilities. One may view the relation between the profane and the holy quite differently. The fact that those forms of wisdom and labor serve to build the Mishkan may also indicate that they have intrinsic value. If holiness is founded upon them, then this is a worthy substrate. In this view, holiness is meant to reveal that the profane itself has value. The profane was not created only so that we might “repair” and elevate it (“Mind that you not ruin and destroy”), but conversely: holiness was created to give meaning to the profane and reveal its importance to us.

At first glance, this is precisely the Hasidic approach. In Hasidic thought, all creation is holy. The profane wraps holiness in a veil that hides it from us, and our task is to blur and erase that veil. The divine “contraction” (tzimtzum) of the Ari is taken there as a metaphor and mere illusion. God did not truly contract Himself, for “the whole earth is filled with His glory,” and “there is none besides Him.” I have often argued that this is a strange conception. If we ourselves do not truly exist (since “there is none besides Him”), whose illusion are we? Descartes’ cogito (see column 363), “I think, therefore I am” (cogito ergo sum), shows that this claim is refuted: if I think something (or even am deceived by something), then necessarily the subject doing the thinking exists.

What I propose here is a more radical version of the Hasidic approach. The profane is not meant to be elevated into holiness, but to be lived as itself. It has value in its own right, and the fact that holiness rests upon it proves this. We need not sift “sparks” hidden within the profane and shrouded by it, for the profane as a whole itself has value. Therefore it does not require “repair” (for profane does not mean defective or corrupt). One may say that holiness is the soul within the body, and the profane is the body itself. Turning the entire human being into a “soul” is to kill him. The body is not a limitation or defect of the person; without a body there is no person. This world was created because the Holy One wants it as it is, but to be lived in the purity of holiness. We must not transform it into holiness and erase the profane; rather, we must live the profane as such, while taking care to live it properly, according to halakhah. Halakhah and Torah did not come to replace reality but to guide and accompany it.

My assumption is that the Holy One created the material world because He wanted matter—not because He wanted us to erase it or replace it with spirit. He already had pure spirituality without the world. He created it because He desired to dwell below. He created wisdoms and talents so that we would use them in all planes and aspects, not only to build a Mishkan or weave a curtain for the Ark or the Torah scroll. The world’s purpose is the profane itself, not that the profane was created only to serve as the clothing that wraps sparks of holiness.

The Meaning of Screens and Curtains: The Third Path

Later in Parashat Vayakhel we find various curtains and screens that separate between different zones of holiness and between them and the profane. According to my proposal, these separations are neither an illusion nor something we are meant to erase and blur. They teach us that it is important to distinguish between sacred and profane. And no, this is not only to protect the sacred, but also to protect the profane from being swallowed and nullified by the sacred. The separation is needed because the profane has an independent standing that must be preserved. Science, wisdom, and art have value; they are not merely accessories of holiness. To see all this as holiness or as mere envelopes for holiness is to empty them of intrinsic content. The curtains do not only guard holiness; they also guard the profane from an imperialism of holiness that threatens to annihilate it. My claim is that even the Hasidic approach gives primacy to holiness and thereby threatens the profane. The opponents nullify the profane directly, but a doctrine that sees our entire task as “repairing the profane and elevating it to holiness” also nullifies the profane—albeit more indirectly.

Beyond the two paths plainly before our eyes—the path of the profane and that of the holy—there is also a third path: profane matters in the purity of holiness. This path sees value in the life of the profane, not merely a means. Le-khatchila, not only bedi‘avad. The world was created so that we live in it and fulfill it—not so that we separate from it (as the “opponents” say), and not so that we extract from it hidden holiness (as the Hasidim say). It is important that we also have holy vessels—people and spaces focused on pure holiness—but apart from those few individuals and certain domains, the prosaic, worldly life should stand at the center of our lives and tasks. The realm of the profane has its own standing, perhaps even a higher one than that of holiness.

Profane Matters in the Purity of Holiness: A Clarification

In columns 219 and 472 I discussed this distinction regarding Torah in the state. In the essay “On Holiness and Profane in Hanukkah and in General,” I broadened this to the relationship between sacred and profane overall. There I showed the harm that can result from an imperialistic stance—of holiness and/or of the profane—and I will not repeat that here. The role of screens and curtains is to prevent imperialism from both directions and to bring about a third model of profane matters in the purity of holiness. Let me clarify: this is not a compromise born of capitulation to the inclination, meant to allow us to live worldly life with a good conscience. It is the ideal—le-khatchila.

In column 557 I asked who contributes more to the world: a devoted synagogue beadle or Einstein? From a simple “Torah” perspective one might say: the beadle. What mitzvah is there in discovering the theory of relativity? Some will say it contributed indirectly to holiness (scientific and technological progress in various fields improves our lives and allows us to serve God). Hasidim will say that Einstein revealed another facet of creation and of God’s ways. But my intuition rebels against such constricted views (and hence I so loved the poem cited in that column). I, in my small way, say: Einstein discovered more wisdom and thereby completed us—even apart from any relation to God or to our relation to Him, and apart from any indirect contribution to holiness (if there is such). Engaging with wisdom is a universal value; as Jews it exists for us as well, in addition to our particularistic values (halakhah).

Implication: One’s Emotional and Cognitive Stance Toward the Profane

The Talmud in Nedarim 62a cites a saying of R. Eliezer b. R. Tzadok:

“Do things for the sake of their Maker, and speak of them for their own sake; do not make them a crown with which to aggrandize yourself, nor a spade with which to dig; and all the more so: if Belshazzar, who used only sacred vessels become secular, was uprooted from the world, one who uses the crown of Torah—how much more so.”

In Nefesh HaChaim, Gate 4, he brings the Rosh’s explanation of this passage:

“Do things for the sake of their Maker”—for the sake of the Holy One, Who made all for His sake.

“And speak of them for their own sake”—all your speech and business in Torah matters should be for the sake of Torah: to know, to understand, to add acquisition and analysis, not to quarrel or boast.

He explains that there is a difference between performing mitzvot and studying Torah. Mitzvot must be done for the sake of Heaven—for the Name of God. But Torah must be studied for its own sake (not for the sake of God). It is a value in itself, not merely a means of connection to God. In Nefesh HaChaim there he explains that his definition comes to oppose the Hasidic conception. He comes to say that study is not a means to connect to God (as Hasidism claims), but is itself the connection. Therefore even the intention in study should not be directed to holiness or to God. Engaging with the profane (wisdom) is a value in its own right.

So too I wish to say regarding the domains of “reshut” (the discretionary realm). One should engage in them for their own sake—not “for the sake of Heaven” but in the sense of “Torah for its own sake,” which, according to the Rosh, means: for the sake of Torah. They have intrinsic value, not merely as a means to connect to holiness. We saw that Hasidim see everything as instruments of holiness. We saw that Nefesh HaChaim and the opponents exclude Torah study from this—and I would exclude from it as well all the domains of the profane: art, wisdom, and science. Our goal is not only to reveal the Name of God in the world but simply to live it and fulfill it (and thereby, indeed, we apparently do reveal His Name in practice). Just like any non-Jew. I have written many times that the Jew is a two-story structure: the first universal (like any human: ethics, science, wisdom, art) and the second particularistic-Jewish (halakhah and faith). My claim is that the difference between us and the nations is on the second floor—mitzvot and halakhah. But there is no necessity for a difference on the first floor as well.

Does a Domain of “Reshut” Exist?

In the appendix to my essay on leisure, I brought a dispute between the author of Chovot HaLevavot and the Rambam regarding the domain of “reshut.” Rabbeinu Bachya, in “Sha‘ar Avodat Elokim,” ch. 4, writes that none of our actions are truly discretionary: every act is either forbidden or obligatory. By contrast, the Rambam in his Commentary on Mishnah to Avot 1 divides speech into five types: obligatory, proper, permitted, improper, and forbidden. From the Rambam’s words regarding the third type, some have learned that he holds there is a domain of “reshut,” and not everything is forbidden or obligatory. I am not certain of this conclusion, for one could interpret him to mean that the speech itself is permitted, but engaging in idle permitted talk still violates bitul Torah or “vain words.” Here, however, I wish to focus specifically on the second and fourth types: speech that is proper or improper, but neither forbidden nor obligatory. This is not a matter of halakhah; it speaks to every person in the world, not only Jews. This is the domain of reshut, and yet within it there is “proper” and “improper.”

R. Aharon Lichtenstein discusses at length the domain of reshut (see, for example, in his essay “Halakhah and Values as Moral Foundations”—what does that title even mean?!) and among other things explains that this does not necessarily mean a neutral matter in which Torah and God have no interest. There are domains about which halakhah has nothing to say, but that does not mean there is no proper or improper within them, no positive or negative value.[2]

In that essay (and also here and here) R. Lichtenstein explains that one can do all these acts “for the sake of Heaven” in the sense that the doer sees value in them and that God wants us to be value-driven. But this is not “for the sake of Heaven” in the narrow religious sense; that is, there need not be an active, conscious intention at the time of action (he ties this to the distinction between intention and “lishmah”). We do all this in order to be better and more complete people, and that very telos is called “for the sake of Heaven.” The doing and awareness in the profane domains are no different from those of a gentile who does these things. In the Rosh’s language in Nedarim cited above, this is done “to gain knowledge and analysis,” and we need not search for sparks of holiness embedded within these domains. Engaging in them as such is the will of God.

Even the demand “In all your ways know Him,” which requires us to stand before God at every step and at every moment, can be fulfilled in this mode. When we study Torah, we need not experience consciously standing before Him, for in practice that is what we are doing. The same holds when we engage in valuable matters in the domain of reshut. Only in mitzvot—whose value derives from their being God’s command and which have no value in themselves (hence gentiles are not relevant to them)—is intention for the sake of Heaven required to discharge the obligation. In my view, Torah in the person is no different from Torah in the object: both have inherent, intrinsic value; hence there is no need to consecrate them “for the sake of Heaven” for engagement with them to be valuable.

One may of course ask: why is it so important to remove God from the picture? I address this in the next section.

Relation to the Hasidic View: Why Remove God from the Picture?

The difference between the approach I propose and the Hasidic approach (the original one, not our contemporaries) is rather fine. It seems as if I propose to do what they do but to remove God from the picture. I certainly have no interest in removing Him—especially since, in my view, there is no meaning or validity to values at all without God in the background (see column 456). Indeed, He should be in the background. But the demand to forcibly insert Him into the picture—to expect that He be in our conscious awareness at every moment in these domains—can be harmful. First, it is artificial. We engage in these matters and act ethically because we understand that this is how a complete human being conducts himself. Our desire to be whole is indeed connected to God’s expectations of us, but inserting Him into consciousness at every step belittles the value of the step as such. It turns it into a means rather than an end and thus diminishes the value of the profane domains. It causes us to seek, in every step and in every pursuit, aspects that relate to holiness in the narrow sense and to avoid domains where we do not find that. One way or another, the very fact that we engage in matters of value is the fulfillment of His will. You can see a similar conclusion in column 294.

I think this is why the author of Nefesh HaChaim and the Rosh removed God from the required deliberate awareness in Torah study. Torah has intrinsic value; obsessively tying it to God and seeing it as a regular command belittles it and reflects a misunderstanding of its significance. In this case, aiming “for the sake of Heaven” is a form of “not for its own sake,” just as studying Torah or behaving ethically merely to discharge an obligation diminishes ethics and Torah study (see also this essay). So too, aiming at holiness reflects the same misunderstanding. As we saw, it constricts the world of the profane and betrays a misunderstanding of the purpose of creation.

In short: there is nothing inherently wrong with thinking about God while engaging in the profane. But it is not a necessary demand, and at times it can even be harmful. In any case, we must not let this constrict the profane to those domains that we can connect to holiness (e.g., to create only Judaica art, to compose only for the Rebbe’s tish, for the Shabbat table, or for prayers; or to engage only in sciences and technologies that serve religious life). In principle, in these domains we act out of commitment to Him and His will by trying to be as complete as possible—and this happens even without conscious intention. Mitzvot require intention; Torah study and personal cultivation do not.

Two Perspectives

The picture I have presented here reverses the usual conception. It is commonly thought that the profane serves the holy: the profane is a means, and our goal is to impose holiness upon it. Here I set out the opposite conception: holiness serves the profane, and the profane is the goal. The purpose of creation is the profane; yet for it to be done in the purity of holiness, there must be, in the background, a model of pure holiness. This is not a target to reach but a guide that directs and refines the profane.

It is quite clear that both models have a place; the main problem lies in views that grant exclusivity to one of them. Similarly, I wrote in columns 139 and 684 and in my essay about two rabbinic archetypes and about the relation between the rabbi and his community. There I noted that the common conception is that the rabbi comes to serve the community, which actually accords with the conception presented here (that the sacred serves the profane). But my aim there was to present the opposite view: that the community is meant to serve the rabbi (i.e., that the profane serves the sacred). There is no contradiction: the rabbi serves the community, and it serves him—just as the head serves the body and the body serves the head. This is a fractal structure one can enter further and further, yielding more and more perspectives in which one serves the other, with within the first there is a second that serves it, and so on. My claim is that both models and all their combinations have a place; one must not impose one upon the other. As a rule, I still think the world is meant to serve the people of excellence and exists primarily for them.

In principle, even here I fully accept the elitism I favored in those essays. Yet here I wish to add that a “person of excellence” is not necessarily what we commonly take as a Torah scholar in the narrow sense; that is, not only one who dedicates himself entirely to holiness. Engagement with the profane is also a value in its own right.

We can bring here the Rambam’s words in his Introduction to the Mishnah, where he writes sharply in an elitist vein:

“Someone may say: we see a foolish ignoramus having ease in this world and not toiling in it, with others serving him and doing his work—and sometimes the one doing his work is a learned man! The matter is not as he imagines. The reason for that ignoramus’s ease is that he too serves the person who is the aim of the Creator; for on account of his pleasures, wealth, or dominion he commands his servants to build a vast palace or plant a great vineyard, as kings and those who imitate them do, and that palace will be ready for a pious man who will one day happen to shelter in the shade of one of its walls, and that will save him from death; and some wine from that vineyard will be taken on some day to make a balm to save a whole person whom a serpent has bitten. Such is the governance of the Exalted Lord and His wisdom by which He subjugated nature—‘counsels from of old, faithful and true.’ This matter has already been explained by our Sages: Ben Zoma sat on the Temple Mount seeing Israel ascending and said: ‘Blessed is He Who created all these to serve me,’ for he was the single sage of his generation.”

All worldly matters come to serve the pious. People build grand edifices and invest enormous efforts in this—all so that a pious man passing by might benefit from a bit of shade. One could understand him as adopting the course whereby the profane serves the sacred in the narrowest sense.

But this passage is presented as an answer to the following question:

“There remains one question: You have said that divine wisdom created nothing in vain; that of all sublunary beings, man is the noblest; and that the end of humankind is the attainment of intelligibles. If so, why did God create all those people who do not attain any intelligible? For we see that most people are empty of knowledge, seekers of pleasures, while the learned and abstinent man is rare, a marvel—only one in an age.”

It is thus clear that his examples about buildings and vineyards meant for the “pious” do not refer to “pious” in the narrow religious sense, but to a person of excellence—even one who engages in the profane.

His earlier words show the same intent:

“Since we have known that the purpose of all these [beings] is the existence of man, we must inquire why man exists and what his purpose is. When they plumbed the matter, they found that man has very many acts, for all kinds of living beings and trees have only one or two acts and a single end; for example, the date palm has no act other than bearing dates, and so with other trees. Among animals, some only weave, like the spider; some only build, like the swallow; some only store, like the ant. But man does many different acts; therefore they investigated all his acts one by one to know what his end is among all these acts, and they found that his end is a single act, while all the others are only to sustain his existence so that this single act be completed in him: the attainment of the intelligibles and true knowledge. For it cannot be that man’s end is to eat, drink, copulate, build a house, or be king; for all these are passing accidents to him and add nothing to his essence. Moreover, all these acts are shared with other living beings; whereas knowledge adds to his essence and transfers him from state to state: from a low state to a lofty one; for man before he learns is like a beast, for he differs from other animals only by reason, that is, by attaining intelligibles; and the greatest of intelligibles is the cognition of the unity of the Creator, exalted be He, and all that pertains to the divine sciences; the other sciences are only so that one be prepared by them until he reaches the divine sciences; and to speak of this matter fully would be lengthy.”

Here he certainly does not limit his words to one who studies Torah and performs commandments, but to one who engages in wisdom and intelligibles in general.

He emphasizes this again later when he writes:

“This matter was known not only from the prophets, but also to the ancient wise men of the nations who had not seen the prophets nor heard their words: they already knew that a human is not complete unless he includes both knowledge and deed. Suffice it to cite the greatest of philosophers: ‘The Creator’s purpose for us is that we be wise and righteous.’ If a man is wise but chases pleasures, he is not truly wise; for the beginning of wisdom is that he take from bodily pleasures only what is needed to sustain the body. In our commentary to Avot we will complete and properly explain this matter. We likewise find that the prophet rebuked one who claimed to be wise while violating Torah and chasing desires: ‘How do you say, We are wise, and the Torah of the Lord is with us…’ And if a man fears God and is abstinent, distancing himself from pleasures except to sustain the body, conducts himself in all natural matters in the middle way, and is accustomed to all good traits but is unlearned—he too lacks completeness; though he is more complete than the first, for his deeds are not based on clear knowledge and foundational recognition. Therefore our Sages said: ‘An ignoramus cannot be pious,’ as we explained. Whoever says of an am ha-aretz that he is pious denies the Sages’ clear determination and denies reason. Therefore you will find throughout the Torah: ‘You shall learn—then do’; study precedes deed, for through study one comes to deed, while deed does not bring to study; this is what they said: ‘Study leads to action.’”

In light of what we have seen, it is clear that “study” here is not in the narrow sense of oral Torah but the study of wisdom generally.

Here the Rambam writes in a distinctly elitist direction, but he centers his elitism on engagement with wisdom. Building houses and planting vineyards—which the Rambam sees as lower labors meant only to serve—are also perfecting the world and part of life. There is no need to adopt his conception to the end: building houses and planting vineyards, like any development of the world, can surely be part of our telos (beyond the fact that they too contain wisdom and development, as modern research plainly shows).

The Rambam’s resort to house and vineyard as part of life and as an end brings me to the exemptions from military service—and from there to the following examples.

A Halakhic Look: Life as the Goal

I wish to present here two halakhic examples that illustrate my claim about our attitude to ordinary life in our world (house and vineyard) as an end, not a means (I recall bringing them in the past but could not now find where).

The first example is the law of those who return from the ranks of war. The Torah exempts three types of people from battle (Deuteronomy 20:5–7):

“The officers shall speak to the people, saying: Who is the man who has built a new house and has not dedicated it? Let him go and return to his house lest he die in battle and another dedicate it. And who is the man who has planted a vineyard and has not redeemed its fruit? Let him go and return to his house lest he die in the battle and another redeem it. And who is the man who has betrothed a woman and has not taken her? Let him go and return to his house lest he die in the battle and another take her.”

These are one who built a house, one who planted a vineyard, and one who betrothed a woman (it is hard to believe the Rambam’s examples above—building a house and planting a vineyard—are not influenced by this passage). Note that it does not list one who did not yet finish Shas, or someone occupied with an important mitzvah he has not completed (and certainly not “Torah learners” as such). What does this mean? Are these three things more important than all the commandments? Seemingly these are entirely prosaic states, part of the life of action for each of us. Why do they alone exempt one from war?

It seems that war is not meant so that we keep mitzvot but so that we live. And if, for the war, we forfeit our lives, then it is not worth fighting (as in “and you shall live by them”—not die by them; see immediately). Therefore, people standing at foundational life junctions are exempt from battle. This manner of thinking appears in other halakhic contexts.

For example, the Meiri in Mo‘ed Katan 9b quotes the Raavad’s explanation for the rule that any passing mitzvah overrides Torah study (though in terms of importance, Torah study is equal to all):

“If it cannot be done by others—such as where there is no one fit but him, or it is a mitzvah incumbent on his person, such as lulav, shofar, honoring father and mother, and burying a met mitzvah where there are no buriers—then the mitzvah takes precedence; he suspends Torah study to perform it and does not remove its obligation by engaging in Torah study—even for a light mitzvah. And although ‘one who is engaged in a mitzvah is exempt from a mitzvah,’ they did not say this about Torah study, since its essence is to know how to perform other mitzvot; therefore they suspend it for any mitzvah that cannot be done by others. So is the approach of the great commentators.”

The Meiri explains that study is intended so that we perform. (Is that a purpose or merely a definition? See column 479.) If study leads us not to perform, there is no point to the study. Note: this is said even if the other mitzvah is “minor”—i.e., the override is not due to the relative importance of study but due to its purpose. Precisely as I suggested regarding the house and vineyard in the exemption from battle.

Another example appears in Yoma 85a: pikuach nefesh overrides mitzvot (such as Shabbat). The Talmud offers several rationales; the main one remaining is: “You shall live by them—and not die by them.” Another rationale, which is also codified (though not complete, as it does not explain why even doubtful danger overrides), is: “Desecrate one Shabbat for him so that he may keep many Sabbaths.” In column 421 I explained that on the face of it, these two reasons conflict: the second implies that life serves the mitzvot, while the first implies the opposite—that mitzvot serve life (see there for the explanation and caveats). The first rationale essentially says: if, because of the mitzvot, we do not live, there is no point in keeping them (other than the three cardinal sins). The conclusion parallels what emerged from the exemptions from battle: life is the goal; mitzvot (holiness) serve it.

I stress: this is not necessarily a question of what is more severe. The question is: which is the end and which serves it. Holiness can be more exalted, important, and lofty—yet it is meant to serve the life of the profane. Just as the head is the most important limb, yet, in a sense, it serves the body. This recalls what we saw above regarding the complex, two-way relation between rabbi and community.

A Double Gaze at the Purpose of Creation

The picture I have described rests on the assumption that the purpose of creation is life in action, and mitzvot are meant to guide and serve life. On the other hand, in several places I have argued that it is very plausible that the purpose of creation is Torah and mitzvot, since ethics is a means to social repair; hence it is illogical to see it as the purpose of creation—do not create society and there will be no need for repair, thus no ethics. This is the meaning of the verse: “If not for My covenant day and night, I would not have set the laws of heaven and earth” (Jeremiah 33:25). Does this contradict the picture I have presented?

I don’t think so. The question is whether we are looking from God’s perspective or from ours. From God’s perspective, the purpose of creation is likely Torah and mitzvot, as I explained. But that does not dictate how we should see it. If from our standpoint the goal is life and its fulfillment (in the ethical and spiritual sense, not the hedonistic), then that is apparently what God wants us to think and how He wants us to live. A parable: parents seek to induce their child to do something by promising a prize. The child does it for the prize, but the parents give the prize so that the act will be done.

To sharpen: I am not saying that God is willing to accept such a life-stance indulgently, like a parent with a child. I am arguing that this can be the correct le-khatchila conception from our vantage point, and that this is how God wants us to relate to the world and to life. We need not live and act with the same consciousness in which things appear from God’s perspective. Our conscience and understanding were implanted in us by God; if they tell us that worldly life has intrinsic value, then that is apparently what He wants from us. This may also be what confuses many people who are ready to accept ethics as the end of creation. That is indeed how it feels (that life is the goal and the ethics that improves it is the basic value), but that does not mean that this is how God sees it. The dual gaze from these two directions is essential; we should not mix them.

A Concluding Note

I can understand those who would read all this as mere theological wordplay without practical implications. I disagree. This abstract and general outlook on the relation between holy and profane radiates onto how we actually see life and the world; therefore it has practical consequences. If we don’t seek artificial pretexts to justify the pursuits we have chosen, we feel freer to broaden the traditional scope beyond occupations in holiness in its narrow sense. This truly enables us to spread into all realms of life without the need to apologize to others or to ourselves.

It is no accident that today’s Hasidim do not differ essentially in their occupations from their opponent counterparts. This is not merely “decline” and deviation from original conceptions (though that too of course exists). In my estimation, an equally significant reason is that although Hasidic discourse originally appears broader than that of the opponents, in essence both conceptions focused on holiness in its narrow sense. Their difference was largely external—hence the long-term outcome.

In the third conception I proposed here—profane matters in the purity of holiness—art does not need the justification that one can build a Mishkan with it or weave a curtain for the Ark. Science is not valuable only because it saves lives or serves our religious lives. Planting a vineyard and building a house are not only so that we can perform mitzvot and study Torah. The sense that all these have intrinsic value is a healthy intuition; there is no need to ground it artificially upon other values. Despite the straightforward halakhic perspective, intuition teaches that a synagogue beadle is not more important than Einstein, and his contribution to the world and humanity is certainly not greater than Einstein’s—even if formally, in halakhic terms, the beadle is occupied with mitzvot and Einstein was not.

Ponder all this well, for it is no empty matter (and if it seems empty…).

[1] Elsewhere I commented on the meaning of Betzalel’s creative wisdom and that of his artisans, in light of what we saw in the recent series: that one can imitate such creativity mechanically (by AI). I will not return to that here.

[2] He offers there an explanation of why this does not enter halakhah (leaning on the Ramban on “You shall do what is right and good,” and the Kesef Mishneh at the end of Hilkhot Shekhenim who follows him). His claim is that there are things difficult to capture in rigid halakhic form in all their details, and therefore they remain outside halakhah. In my view, this explanation is very problematic, for there are several commandments and laws that are not rigid (such as the command to love, not to mention the command of faith—Positive Commandment 1 in the Rambam). In my view the question does not arise: ethics has no place in halakhah. See, for example, column 541.