It’s not random. There's a beautiful and intricate choreography to our relationship with the Divine. Take, for example, the dedication of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle.

The Book of Numbers tells us, "And it was on the day that Moses completed (kalot) [erecting the Tabernacle] (Num. 7:1)." Now, the Pesikta DeRav Kahana, a collection of homiletical interpretations, uses this moment as a springboard to explore a deeper connection. It links this verse to a seemingly unrelated one from the Song of Songs: "I have come to my garden, my sister, my bride (kalah)" (Songs 5:1). What's the connection?

Rabbi Azariah, quoting Rabbi Simon, offers a parable. Imagine a king, angered by his matrona, his queen. He banishes her from his palace. Later, he wants her back. But she, being a queen, has standards! She says, "Give me something new, something special, and then I’ll consider returning."

Similarly, Pesikta DeRav Kahana suggests that in ancient times, the Holy One, Blessed be He, received sacrifices from above, celestial offerings. "And God smelled the pleasing fragrance" (Gen. 8:21), right? But now, with the Tabernacle, He receives offerings from below, earthly offerings, made by human hands. Then comes the declaration, "I have come to my garden, my sister, my bride." It's a renewed intimacy, a homecoming.

But there's more. Rabbi Chaninah brings in a lesson in derech eretz, proper conduct. He says this teaches us that a groom shouldn’t enter the wedding canopy until the bride gives him permission! The verse "My beloved shall come to his garden" (Songs 4:16) precedes "I have come to my garden." It’s about invitation, consent, and mutual respect in the relationship. Beautiful, isn't it?

Rabbi Tanchum, son-in-law of Rabbi Elazar ben Avina, in the name of Rabbi Shimon ben Yosnai, adds another layer. It’s not written "I have come to the garden (l'gan)," but "I have come to my garden (l'gani)" – to my canopy (l'ganuni), to the place that was preeminent from the beginning. Where is that preeminent place? The lower regions!

Think about it. Where did God’s presence, the Shekhinah, dwell after Adam's sin? We find in Genesis 3:8, "And they heard the sound of the Lord God [moving about in the Garden [of Eden]]." Rabbi Aba bar Kahana points out that it doesn’t say "walking" (m'halech), but "moving about" (mit'halech), implying leaping and ascending. It's as if the Shekhinah, in response to human failing, elevated itself, becoming more distant.

So, the dedication of the Tabernacle wasn't just about erecting a structure. It was about re-establishing intimacy, about the Divine presence returning to dwell among humanity, in the "lower regions." It was an invitation, a homecoming, a re-engagement after a period of separation.

What does this tell us? Perhaps that our relationship with the Divine isn't static. It ebbs and flows. Sometimes we feel close, sometimes distant. But the possibility of return, of renewed intimacy, is always there. It requires invitation, respect, and a willingness to meet each other, wherever we are. And maybe, just maybe, to offer something new.