The ancient text Sifrei Devarim (Deuteronomy) wrestles with just that idea in a beautiful, almost poetic way. It's talking about the tribe of Benjamin, and specifically, about the location of the Temple in Jerusalem. The text says, "and between his (Benjamin's) shoulders does it (the Temple) rest: whether in ruins or not in ruins."
What does that mean, exactly? Well, it suggests that even when the Temple is destroyed – and tragically, it has been, more than once – its holiness, its significance, doesn't disappear. It still rests, figuratively, on the shoulders of Benjamin. The sanctity remains, an intrinsic part of the place itself. It's a powerful image of resilience and enduring faith, isn't it?
And it’s not just Sifrei Devarim that touches on this. Even in the book of Ezra (1:2-3), we hear King Koresh – that's Cyrus in Hebrew – declaring, "He is the G-d which (i.e., whose Temple) is in Jerusalem." Koresh, a Persian king, acknowledging the presence of the Divine specifically in Jerusalem, even when the Temple was not fully rebuilt.
There's another interpretation offered in Sifrei Devarim, one that uses a striking analogy. It compares the Temple's prominence to the shoulders of an ox: "Just as with an ox, there is nothing higher than its shoulders, so, the Temple is higher than the rest of the world." It’s a powerful metaphor, emphasizing the Temple's elevated status, its spiritual height. And this isn’t just some abstract idea. As it says in Deuteronomy (17:8), "then you shall arise and go up to the place," and in Isaiah (2:3), "Come and let us go up to the mountain of the L-rd." We are called to ascend, to seek out that higher place.
The text goes on to highlight the unique nature of Jerusalem's borders. It makes the point that when describing other boundaries, the Torah uses phrases like "the border curved" or "the border descended." But when it comes to Jerusalem, it says, "And the border ascended by the valley of Ben Hinnom to the southern shoulder of the Yevussi, which is Jerusalem" (Deuteronomy 15:8). According to Rebbi, it is written "And the border ascended," suggesting a continuous upward movement, a constant striving towards the holy city.
Think about that: a continuous ascent. Not just a physical journey, but a spiritual one, too. The Temple, and Jerusalem itself, as a focal point for our aspirations, our prayers, our longing for connection with the Divine.
It's interesting to note that Isaiah doesn’t specify which tribe will go up to Jerusalem. As the text says, "It is not written 'Gad from the east and Dan from the west,' but 'many peoples' (i.e., all go up.)" The invitation is open to everyone, a universal call to seek out holiness.
So, what does this all mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in the face of destruction and despair, holiness can endure. That even when the physical structures crumble, the spiritual significance of a place – or a concept, or a relationship – can remain, resting on our shoulders, urging us to ascend. And maybe, just maybe, it's a call to find those places of "ascent" in our own lives, the things that lift us higher, that connect us to something greater than ourselves.