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The One-Time Tachash That Covered the Ark of Testimony

The tachash appeared in Moses's time just to provide a hide for the Tabernacle, then vanished from the world having done its one job.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Creature That Came for One Job
  2. The Ark Wrapped in Reverse
  3. Solomon's Doors and David's Prayer
  4. Abraham and the Table of Showbread

The Ark did not travel uncovered.

When Israel broke camp in the wilderness, the holiest object in the camp had to move like everyone else. The Ark of Testimony, the place of Torah and divine nearness, was wrapped layer by layer before the Levites carried it into the dust. The outermost covering came from a creature that existed only for this purpose and then was never seen again.

The Creature That Came for One Job

Bamidbar Rabbah 4:13, part of Numbers Rabbah compiled from earlier midrashic traditions, reads Numbers 4:5-6 as a ritual of concealment. Aaron and his sons take down the screening curtain, cover the Ark with it, and then place a tachash hide over the entire assembly. The tachash skin is the outer layer, the face of the Ark that the world sees when the Ark is moving.

The Talmud and midrashic tradition describe the tachash as a rare and brilliantly colored creature, possibly with a single horn, that appeared only in Moses's time for the construction of the Mishkan, the desert sanctuary. Its skin was necessary because no ordinary hide would do for the object that carried the Ten Commandments. When the sanctuary was complete and no more tachash hide was needed, the animal disappeared from the world.

Some beings are created for one moment of service and then leave. The tachash is the clearest example in the midrashic world. It did not live alongside Israel in Canaan. It did not have descendants. Its hide covered the Ark through the years of wandering, and when the Ark reached its permanent home, the tachash had already done everything it was made to do.

The Ark Wrapped in Reverse

Bamidbar Rabbah notices a distinction in the wrapping instructions. The other sacred vessels receive blue cloth first, then other coverings. The Ark receives the screening curtain first, then the tachash hide, then a blue cloth over everything. The order is reversed.

The midrash reads this reversal as a statement about rank. The curtain that hung before the Holy of Holies becomes the Ark's innermost wrap, touching it directly the way a garment touches skin. The tachash hide goes on over the curtain. The blue cloth goes on last, presenting a uniform surface to the traveling camp.

The Ark, in other words, carries the Holy of Holies with it on the road. The curtain that once separated the most sacred space from the rest of the Tabernacle becomes the Ark's personal boundary. Even when the Ark is moving, it maintains around itself the distinction that the curtain once created for an entire room.

Solomon's Doors and David's Prayer

Bamidbar Rabbah connects the Ark's wilderness journey to its later arrival in Jerusalem. The midrash preserves the story of Solomon bringing the Ark into the Temple's Holy of Holies and finding the great doors refusing to open. He prayed twenty-four prayers. The doors would not move. Only when he invoked the merit of his father David and asked God to remember David's faithfulness did the doors finally open and the Ark entered its permanent home.

The same Ark that had traveled through the wilderness under its tachash covering now stood at the threshold of a stone building that had been built for it. The covering was gone. The permanent structure had been prepared. But even permanence required the living merit of those who had loved the Ark before the building existed to protect it.

Abraham and the Table of Showbread

Bamidbar Rabbah draws a line from the wrapping of the table of showbread to the house of David. The sky-blue wool that covered the table in travel corresponds, the midrash says, to the righteousness of David, because God entered a covenant of kingship with him and his sons that paralleled the covenant made with the sanctuary's furnishings at Sinai.

The table and the Ark were both covered in blue and in tachash hide during travel. The kingdom that would eventually house them was being built at the same time the furnishings were being wrapped. The wilderness coverings were temporary, the tachash hide that vanished after its use, but the covenant they traveled inside was not temporary at all.


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Bamidbar Rabbah 4:13Bamidbar Rabbah

It wasn't just packing up and hitting the road. Every aspect, down to who touched what and in what order, was meticulously planned and imbued with deep meaning. to just one small part of that process, focusing on the Ark of the Testimony, and see what we can uncover.

Our guide is Bamidbar Rabbah (Numbers Rabbah), a classic Midrashic (rabbinic interpretive commentary) text, specifically section 4. It opens with the verse from (Numbers 4:5): “Aaron and his sons shall come with the travel of the camp, and they shall remove the curtain that screens, and cover the Ark of the Testimony with it.”

It first appears, "Okay, they just cover it up." But hold on! The text highlights a vital distinction: the sons of Kehat, a Levitical family, weren't allowed to directly dismantle the curtain in front of the Ark. Instead, Aaron's sons, the priests, had to do it. Why this division of labor?

Well, the Rabbis teach us that "the priests guard from within and the Levites from without." The priests, with their greater sanctity and importance, were permitted access to areas off-limits to the Levites. It’s all about layers of holiness and responsibility. The priests have greater kedusha, sanctity, than the Levites, and this translates into access.

So, what did the sons of Aaron actually do when they removed the curtain? Rabbi Hama bar Rabbi Hanina tells us they used long wooden poles, some say with gold, others iron, tines at the top. They carefully lifted the curtain off its hooks. But here's the key: they didn't just yank it down. They lowered it little by little, so they wouldn't accidentally glimpse the Ark itself! The text is concerned with maintaining the awe and reverence due to the Ark and its contents.

The text emphasizes just how substantial this curtain, or parochet, was. According to the Rabbis, it was a handbreadth thick, woven with seventy-two strands, and each strand containing twenty-four threads! It was so massive that three hundred priests would immerse it in water for ritual purity, and then two High Priests – Elazar and Itamar – would carry it on poles. After the curtain was in place, they'd cover it with a covering of tachash hide – a mysterious animal, perhaps a badger or dolphin – ensuring no part of the Ark remained visible.

Rabbi Natan makes a powerful comparison: “The crafting of the Ark is as beloved as the supernal Throne of Glory.” He draws a parallel between the earthly Temple and the supernal Temple, between the Ark and the Throne of Glory itself. He references (Exodus 15:17), "The place [makhon] You fashioned for Your dwelling," to illustrate this intimate connection.

The cherubs atop the Ark also played a vital symbolic role, mirroring the heavens and the earth, the very seat of the Holy One. As (Exodus 25:19) states, "One cherub from this end [and one cherub from that end]." Their faces were turned toward each other, reflecting the Divine Presence situated above them. This arrangement mirrors the Throne of Glory, aligned with God, as (Psalm 50:2) proclaims: “From Zion, the epitome of beauty, God appears.”

Even the colors were significant. When traveling, the Ark was covered with sky-blue wool, not purple or scarlet. Why? Because sky-blue evokes the sea, the sea evokes the sky, and the sky evokes the Throne of Glory. (Ezekiel 1:26) supports this, describing “the appearance of sapphire stone [in the likeness of a throne]” above the firmament. The Ark, therefore, was constantly associated with the Divine. The sky-blue covering was unique to the Ark, setting it apart from the other vessels of the Tabernacle.

The text concludes with Rabbi Shimon’s teaching about the three crowns: the crown of Torah, the crown of priesthood, and the crown of kingship. But the crown of a good name, Mishna Avot 4:13 tells us, surpasses them all. The crafting of the Ark, he says, corresponds to the masters of Torah, who are distinguished. And as (Proverbs 8:15) states, “Through me kings reign…”

So, what does all of this mean? It's more than just a historical account of moving furniture. It's about reverence, about layers of holiness, about connecting the earthly with the divine. The meticulous care given to the Ark reflects the profound respect for what it represented: God's presence in the midst of the people. It's a reminder that even seemingly mundane tasks can be imbued with deep meaning and spiritual significance, if we approach them with intention and awe. And perhaps, just perhaps, by understanding the care taken with the Ark, we can learn to bring that same level of care and reverence into our own lives.

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Bamidbar Rabbah 4:14Bamidbar Rabbah

Bamidbar Rabbah turns to David in Heaven.

"On the table of showbread they shall spread a cloth of sky-blue wool, and place upon it the bowls, and the saucers, and the supports, and the covering tubes; and the perpetual bread shall be upon it" (Numbers 4:7). Right away, we're struck by the sheer meticulousness. Everything has its place, its purpose, and its prescribed covering. But why sky-blue wool?

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) makes a fascinating connection here: the crafting of the table, it says, corresponds to the kingship of the house of David. The sky-blue wool covering the table mirrors David’s righteousness, because the Holy One, blessed be He, entered into a covenant with him, "a covenant of kingship for him and his sons." But then, there's a twist. The utensils are separated from the table and covered with scarlet wool, symbolizing the sin of David's descendants and the subsequent division of the kingdom. The colors aren't just decorative; they're telling a story. A story of covenant, righteousness, sin, and ultimately, of hope. Bamidbar Rabbah tells us that eventually, the kingship will return to them as it was initially, symbolized by the fact that the table and its utensils were ultimately covered with a single covering of tachash hide.

Let's get into the nitty-gritty. How exactly was this table prepared? A sky-blue cloth was spread over all the vessels that stood in the Sanctuary. Why? Because the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, rested there, mirroring the supernal realm. Ginzberg, in Legends of the Jews, expands on this idea, painting a vivid picture of the Tabernacle as a microcosm of the cosmos.

After the cloth was laid, the utensils were carefully placed: bowls, saucers, supports, and covering tubes. The "bowls," we learn, weren't just any bowls. They were molds used to prepare the showbread. Imagine the scene: the bread baked in molds, then returned to molds after baking to prevent breakage. The text emphasizes the care taken to ensure the bread remained whole.

And what about the arrangement of the bread itself? Six loaves for each arrangement, with bowls of frankincense placed on top. If the arrangement was off, if there were too many or too few loaves, or if anything separated the frankincense from the bread or the bread from the table, it was invalid. Talk about attention to detail! Abba Shaul offers a specific placement for the frankincense, ensuring it was entirely adjacent to the arrangement.

Then there are the supports – twenty-eight hollow golden rods, fourteen for each arrangement. These rods, according to our text, were placed beneath the loaves to allow air to circulate, preventing the bread from rotting. And get this: they were crafted like half a hollow rod to minimize their weight on the bread. The text even draws a parallel to a sukka, a temporary dwelling, with each loaf serving as a roof for the one beneath it.

The "covering tubes" are described as pillars, four pillars of gold with protrusions upon which the bottom loaf rested. This design, we’re told, was to prevent wobbling, like a ship at sea. The loaves themselves were shaped like a ship, wider at the top and narrower at the bottom.

"And the perpetual bread shall be upon it" (Numbers 4:7) – even during their travels. This detail emphasizes the constant, unbroken connection between the Israelites and the Divine. The bread was always present, a symbol of sustenance, provision, and covenant.

Finally, everything was covered with a scarlet wool cloth and then a covering of tachash hide. The staves were inserted, ready for transport. The journey continued, the Table of Showbread carried with reverence and care.

So, what do we take away from this deep dive into Bamidbar Rabbah? It's more than just a set of instructions for caring for a table. It’s a glimpse into a world where every detail matters, where colors tell stories, and where the mundane is infused with the sacred. It's a reminder that even in the midst of wandering, there's a constant, unwavering connection to something greater than ourselves. The shulchan hapanim, in its meticulous preparation and constant presence, becomes a powerful symbol of hope, covenant, and the enduring presence of the Divine.

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Bamidbar Rabbah 14:3Bamidbar Rabbah

Bamidbar Rabbah turns to When Solomon's Temple Doors Refused to Open for the Ark.

The scene: Solomon, the wisest of men, has built the magnificent Temple in Jerusalem. He's ready to bring the Ark of the Covenant, the most sacred object in Israel, into its designated place within the Holy of Holies. But, according to this Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), something strange happens. The gates refuse to open!

Solomon, confident in his power and piety, begins to pray. He offers twenty-four supplications, drawing from verses like, "But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain You; how much less this house that I have built!" (II (Chronicles 6:1)8) and continuing until "Now therefore arise, O Lord God, into Your resting place, You, and the ark of Your might..." (II (Chronicles 6:4)1). Still, nothing. The gates remain stubbornly shut. He even tries reciting the verse from Psalms – "Lift up your heads, O you gates!" (Psalms 24:7, 9) – but to no avail.

Why this sudden cosmic resistance? What could possibly be holding back the Divine Presence?

The answer, according to our text, lies in Solomon’s own ga’avah – his arrogance. He had proclaimed, "I have built You an exalted house, a place for You to dwell in forever" (I (Kings 8:1)3). But Rabbi Yaakov son of Rabbi Yehuda bar Yeḥezkel interprets this as Solomon taking too much credit. He built a "built building," implying he believed he alone was responsible for this great achievement.

Rabbi Yehuda, quoting Rabbi Yosef, reminds us that everyone assists the king, and surely everyone assists the King of Kings, the Kadosh Baruch Hu, the Holy One, blessed be He. Even spirits, demons, and angels play a part. Rabbi Berekhya even points out that the Temple was built “in its construction” (I Kings 6:7) – implying it almost built itself! Stones miraculously transported themselves into place. Rabbi Abbahu draws a parallel to Daniel, where a stone miraculously appeared to cover the lion’s den (Daniel 6:18), emphasizing that if such miracles happen for mortal kings, how much more so for the King of Kings?

Only when Solomon humbles himself and remembers the merit of his father, David, does the situation change. "Lord God, do not turn away the face of Your anointed; remember the acts of kindness of David Your servant" (II (Chronicles 6:4)2). Immediately, the gates open, the Ark enters, the Divine Presence descends, and fire consumes the offerings (II Chronicles 7:1).

This story isn't just about a historical event; it's a powerful lesson about humility and recognizing our place in the grand scheme of things. It's a reminder that even the most powerful and accomplished among us are not alone in our achievements.

But the text doesn't stop there. It goes on to explore the meaning of "King of Glory" (Melech haKavod). Rabbi Simon explains that God is called the King of Glory because He bestows honor (kavod) upon those who fear Him. This idea of God giving glory to those who are devoted to Him is a recurring theme. The Midrash illustrates this point with several examples. Miriam’s merit caused the Divine cloud to linger (Numbers 12:15). God spoke to Moses in Moses' own voice, showing intimacy and respect (Exodus 19:19). Even in difficult times, God was with Joseph (Genesis 39:2, 23), and his master recognized it.

Another interpretation focuses on the coverings of the Tabernacle vessels, particularly the Ark. While everything else was covered with tachash hides, the Ark had an additional covering of sky-blue wool (Numbers 4:6). This was to distinguish it, to give it extra honor, befitting the King of Glory.

Ḥizkiya points out that the sky-blue dye, or tekhelet, used in ritual fringes (tzitzit) is special because it evokes a chain of associations: grass, sea, firmament, rainbow, cloud, Throne, and ultimately, the Glory of God (Ezekiel 1:28). Wearing tekhelet is thus a way of connecting to that Divine Glory.

The text further emphasizes that unlike earthly kings, who jealously guard their symbols of power, God shares His glory. He allows Elijah to ascend to heaven in a storm (II (Kings 2:1)1), Solomon to sit on the throne of the Lord (I (Chronicles 29:2)3), and Moses to wield His staff (Numbers 20:9). He even bestows glory and grandeur upon the messianic king (Psalms 21:6).

Finally, the story of Joseph is revisited. Because Joseph feared God and resisted temptation (Genesis 39:9), God allowed His presence to rest upon Joseph’s master (Genesis 39:3). Joseph’s piety was so profound that even his blessings were noticed. And as a reward for Joseph's righteousness, his descendant was granted the privilege of offering sacrifices on the holy day (Numbers 7).

So, what does all this mean for us? It's a reminder that true greatness comes not from taking credit but from acknowledging the Source of all blessings. It's about recognizing that we are part of something much larger than ourselves. And it's about striving to live with humility, integrity, and a deep reverence for the Divine. Because ultimately, the gates of glory open not for those who demand entry, but for those who approach with a humble and grateful heart.

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Bereshit Rabbah 43:9Bereshit Rabbah

In the story of Abram and the King of Sodom, found in Bereshit Rabbah (Genesis Rabbah) 43, we see a masterclass in ethical leadership and selfless action.

After Abram's victorious battle, the King of Sodom offers him all the spoils, saying, "Give me the people, and take the property for yourself" (Genesis 14:21). A tempting offer. A chance to amass wealth and power. But Abram, in a moment of profound integrity, refuses. "I have raised my hand to the Lord, God Most High, master of heaven and earth," he declares (Genesis 14:22).

What does it mean to "raise my hand"? The Rabbis, in their insightful way, unpack this phrase, offering different interpretations. Rabbi Yehuda suggests that Abram's gesture was akin to declaring the spoils as teruma, the portion separated from produce and given to the priest. It’s like saying, "This isn't mine to take; it's dedicated to something higher," just as (Numbers 18:26) says: “You shall separate [vaharemotem] from it teruma for the Lord.” Rabbi Nechemya sees it as an oath, binding Abram to his word, like in (Daniel 12:7), "He raised [vayarem] his right and his left to the heavens, and he took an oath by the One whose life is everlasting." And the Rabbis? They interpret it as a song of praise, an acknowledgment that the victory came from God, echoing (Exodus 15:2): “This is my God and I will glorify Him; my father’s God and I will exalt Him [vaaromemenhu].”

Rabbi Berekhya, Rabbi Ḥelbo, and Rabbi Ami, citing Rabbi Elazar, beautifully connect this moment to Moses, saying that Moses used the same expression of praise as Abram: “Harimoti my hand to the Lord,” later becoming “My father’s God and I will exalt Him [vaaromemenhu].” Isn't it amazing how these threads connect across generations?

Abram continues, "Neither a thread nor a shoelace, I will not take of anything that is yours, that you will not say: I made Abram wealthy" (Genesis 14:23). He's not just refusing the spoils; he's refusing even the appearance of being indebted to the King of Sodom. He wants it crystal clear that his wealth and success come from God alone.

Rabbi Abba bar Mamal shares a beautiful midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) here. Because Abram refused even a thread, God promises the mitzva (commandment) of ritual fringes, the tzitzit (ritual fringes worn on garments). As (Numbers 15:38) says, “They shall place on the fringe of the corner a petil of sky blue wool,” and in Aramaic, "a thread of sky blue wool." And because he refused a shoelace? He is rewarded with the mitzva of the levirate marriage, where the widow removes the brother's shoe, as in (Deuteronomy 25:9). These small acts of refusal become the seeds of great commandments for his descendants.

Alternatively, “neither a thread” alludes to the Tabernacle, adorned with blue and purple threads, and “nor a shoelace” alludes to the tachash hides covering it. Some say the "thread" alludes to a red line, or hut, that circumscribed the altar, separating between the upper and lower parts, and the "shoelace" represents the footsteps of those traveling to the pilgrimage festivals, as it says in (Song of Songs 7:2): “How fair are your steps in shoes.”

Abram makes one exception: "Nothing for me, only what the young men have eaten; and the portion of the men who went with me, Aner, Eshkol, and Mamre, they will take their portion" (Genesis 14:24). He ensures that his allies, those who fought alongside him, are justly rewarded.

This idea of equitable distribution echoes in the story of David in I (Samuel 30:22-25). David insists that those who guarded the baggage should receive the same share of the spoils as those who fought on the front lines. "For like the share of the one who descends into battle, so is the share of the one who remains with the baggage; they shall share alike." Rabbi Yudan points out the unusual word used here, vamala, not the standard word for "onward," but something that suggests "beforehand," implying David learned this principle from his ancestor, Abram.

So, what can we take away from this story? It's a reminder that true generosity isn't just about giving; it's about the integrity with which we give. It's about refusing to be beholden to others, acknowledging the source of our blessings, and ensuring that everyone is treated fairly. It's a lesson passed down through generations, from Abram to David, and a lesson that resonates just as powerfully today. How can we apply this ancient wisdom to our own lives and create a more just and generous world?

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