Every Jew, whether righteous or wicked, has two souls. . . . One soul . . . clothes itself in the person’s blood to animate the body [and is the source of its egocentric drives and desires] . . . and the second soul of a Jew is literally a part of G‑d above [and is the source of the person’s striving to unite with G‑d] . . .

The body is called a “small city”: as two kings wage war over a city, each wishing to capture it and rule over it—that is to say, to govern its inhabitants according to his will, so that they obey him in all that he decrees for them—so do the two souls (the G‑dly [soul] and the vitalizing animal [soul] that derives from kelipah) wage war against each other over the body and all its organs and limbs.

The desire and will of the G‑dly soul is that it alone should rule over the person and direct him, and that all his limbs should obey it and surrender themselves completely to it and become a vehicle for it, and serve as a vehicle for its ten faculties [of intellect and emotion] and three “garments” [thought, speech and action] . . . and the entire body should be permeated with them alone, to the exclusion of any alien influence, G‑d forbid. . . . While the animal soul desires the very opposite . . .

When Noah took to planting, Satan came and stood before him and said to him: “What are you planting?” Said he: “A vineyard.” Said Satan to him: “What is its nature?” Said he: “Its fruits are sweet, whether moist or dry, and one makes from them wine, which brings joy to the heart.” Said Satan to Noah: “Do you desire that we should plant it together, you and I?” Said Noah: “Yes.”

What did Satan do? He brought a lamb and slaughtered it over the vine; then he brought a lion and slaughtered it over it; then he brought a monkey, and slaughtered it over it; then he brought a swine and slaughtered it over it; and he watered the vine with their blood. Thus he alluded to Noah: When a person drinks one cup, he is like a lamb, modest and meek. When he drinks two cups, he becomes mighty as a lion and begins to speak with pride, saying: Who compares with me! As soon as he drinks three or four cups he becomes a monkey, dancing and frolicking and profaning his mouth, and knowing not what he does. When he becomes drunk he becomes a pig, dirtied by mud and wallowing in filth.

If there is no peace, there is nothing.

The Torah recounts each tribe’s gift separately, repeating the 35-item list twelve times in succession.

The Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 13 & 14) explains that while the twelve tribes made identical offerings, each experienced the event in a different manner. … All conform to the same divinely ordained guidelines, all order their lives by the same Torah; yet each flavours the very same deeds with his individual nature and approach.

Often we tend to see a tension between conformity and creativity, between tradition and innovation. On the one hand, we recognize the bedrock of absolutes upon which a meaningful existence must rest, the time-tested truths which transcend cultures and generations; on the other, we are faced with the powerful drive to create, to personalize, to grow and soar with our individualized talents and tools.

Our daily prayers, for example, follow the basic text instituted by the prophets and sages of the Great Assembly more than 2,300 years ago; as such, their content and wording optimally express the manner in which man relates to G‑d. Yet how is the individual in man to be satisfied with a common formula for every person?

Is monotony the price we must pay for perfection? Does creativity compromise truth? Not so, say the 72 “repetitious” verses in our Parshah. An entire nation, including individuals of every conceivable character and calling, can do the very same deed, down to every last detail, and still imbue them with their uniquely personal input. Even as they relate to the ultimate common denominator of their bond with G‑d, they each bring to the experience the richness of their own creative souls.

One might think that this (the fact that only Moses heard the voice of G‑d) was because the voice was low. So the verse stresses that it was the voice—the same voice that spoke to him at Sinai. But when it reached the doorway it stopped, and did not extend outside of the Sanctuary.

A basic tenet of the Jewish faith is that man has been granted the freedom to choose between good and evil, between adherence to his divinely ordained mission in life and rebellion against, or even denial of, his Creator. As Maimonides writes, “Were G‑d to decree that a person be righteous or wicked, of if there were to exist something in the essence of a person’s nature which would compel him toward a specific path, a specific conviction, a specific character trait or a specific deed . . . how could G‑d command us through the prophets, ‘Do this’ and ‘do not do this’ . . . ? What place would the entire Torah have? And by what measure of justice would G‑d punish the wicked and reward the righteous . . . ?”

This is the deeper significance of the “short stop” made by the divine voice at the doorway of the Sanctuary. At Sinai, the words “I am G‑d your G‑d” resounded throughout the universe, permeating every creature and creation. At that moment, there was no possibility of doubt of G‑d’s reality, or of nonconformity to His will. But then the world fell silent, and the voice retreated to hover over the “Ark of Testimony” that contains G‑d’s Torah and to confine itself to the four walls of the Sanctuary that houses it.

The volume was not lowered—the voice is no less infinite and omnipotent than it was at Sinai. One who enters the Sanctuary hears a voice that penetrates and permeates all, a voice that knows no bounds or equivocations. But one can choose to remain outside of the domain of Torah, to deny himself the knowledge and the way of life in which G‑d makes Himself heard. One can choose to remain outside, in the field of G‑d’s self-imposed silence.

It is this choice that creates the challenge of life, making our every moral victory a true and significant achievement.