Sacred Space Between People

“Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Peshischa, one of the last great teachers of Hasidism, is said to have once addressed his pupils thus: ‘I wanted to write a book called Adam, which would be about the whole human being. But then I decided not to write it.’

‘In these naive-sounding words of a genuine sage, the whole story of human thought about man is expressed.’”

These words are not the opening of my teaching today, but rather the opening words of Martin Buber's essay, What Is Man?, which appears in his book Between Man and Man (1947).

Before we move forward, please forgive all the “manly” talk. Buber was actually a great feminist and always referenced men and women in his writings equally. The translation from the gendered German may speak about “man,” but it refers to everyone.

Martin Buber (1878–1965) needs little introduction, but I do encourage anyone who is unfamiliar with his work to explore it.

In the lines above, Buber begins his essay by arguing that it is impossible to formulate a theory that fully captures the meaning of what it is to be human. Later, he explains that this is not because the task is too complex. It is because the secret of human existence cannot be discovered by examining the isolated individual, nor can it be found in the study of broader social trends and movements. Instead, the essence of humanity resides in the sacred space that exists between people.

In his masterful work I and Thou (1923), Buber argues that the essence of our humanity is revealed when two people encounter one another authentically. When a relationship is not based on utility or self-interest, and when we truly see another person for who they are rather than for what they can provide us, something sacred comes into being between us. What forms between us is the essence of humanity.

An ideal society, according to Buber, is neither one made up of fragmented individuals who keep to themselves nor one that enshrines the collective by erasing the individual. An ideal society is one in which distinct, fully developed, and fulfilled individuals form true connections with one another and continue to develop these networks of connection within a structured system.

Buber's thinking echoes a beautiful idea that emerged from our Torah portion this week, Shoftim.

Our portion famously begins with the commandments to enact law and order in society and, more importantly, to establish a justice system that is uncorrupted and fair. Immediately after, these beautiful commandments appear in the following verse:
 

״וְלֹֽא־תָקִ֥ים לְךָ֖ מַצֵּבָ֑ה אֲשֶׁ֥ר שָׂנֵ֖א יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֶֽיךָ׃״

"Do not erect a stone pillar, for such a thing, Adonai, your God detests."

Rashi explains:

"A monument of one stone... An altar of stones and an altar of earth He has commanded you to make; this, however, He hates, because it was a religious practice among the Canaanites."

In other words, Rashi looks at the word matzevah (pillar) and says that a monument made of one large piece of stone shaped like a pillar was a Canaanite form of worship. God specifically asks us to build an altar from either many stones or from the earth.

This isn't a petty or arbitrary choice. In our tradition, the type of structure carries meaning.

The Book of Kings states the following:
 

וַיִּקַּ֣ח אֵלִיָּ֗הוּ שְׁתֵּ֤ים עֶשְׂרֵה֙ אֲבָנִ֔ים כְּמִסְפַּ֖ר שִׁבְטֵ֣י בְנֵֽי־יַעֲקֹ֑ב אֲשֶׁר֩ הָיָ֨ה דְבַר־יְהֹוָ֤ה אֵלָיו֙ לֵאמֹ֔ר יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל יִהְיֶ֥ה שְׁמֶֽךָ׃ וַיִּבְנֶ֧ה אֶת־הָאֲבָנִ֛ים מִזְבֵּ֖חַ בְּשֵׁ֣ם יְהֹוָ֑ה...

Then Elijah took twelve stones, corresponding to the number of the tribes of the sons of Jacob—to whom the word of God had come: "Israel shall be your name"—and with the stones he built an altar in the name of God.

The structure that Elijah built was made of twelve stones representing the twelve sons of Jacob.

But those stones represented something deeper.

In his book Shem Mishmuel, Rabbi Shmuel Bornsztain writes:

"This provides a clear insight into the meaning behind the construction of an altar from several stones. It represents Klal Yisrael functioning as one. Each tribe, symbolized by a stone, makes its unique contribution to an integrated, united nation, symbolized by the complete altar. Divine worship, as portrayed by the altar, must contain this synthesis. The individuals must be present, but they must merge into a single, national entity in order to worship God."

Bornsztain touches upon the same tension that Buber was exploring: the tension between preserving the individual and forming a cohesive unity that does not erase individuality.

A pillar made of one stone might represent individual, selfish needs and would therefore be considered idolatrous. The same single piece of stone can also represent one nation, but a nation in which no individual is visible; instead, it functions as one unnuanced whole. That type of pillar, that type of worship, that type of society, is a society that God "hates," according to our verse.

If we translate this idea into modern economic systems, we might say that a capitalist society is made up of fragmented individuals who compete to pull ahead and survive without considering others, while a communist or fascist system might create a unified whole at the expense of erasing the individual altogether.
It is the multiplicity of stones forming one whole that God desires.

Back to Buber, who writes in Paths in Utopia (1949):

"In the monstrous confusion of modern life, only thinly disguised by the reliable functioning of the economic and State apparatus, the individual clings desperately to collectivity. The little society in which he was embedded cannot help him; only the great collectivities, so he thinks, can do that, and he is all too willing to let himself be deprived of personal responsibility: he only wants to obey. And the most valuable of all goods—the life between man and man—gets lost in the process; the autonomous relationships become meaningless, personal relationships wither; and the very spirit of man hires itself out as a functionary."

What Buber says here is that our natural tendency is to find a community and cling to it. Unfortunately, because modern life has largely done away with traditional communities—the tribe, the village, the guild, and so on—we satisfy this need by joining large communal structures that ultimately tend to erase our individuality.

Buber suggests:

"The real life that takes place among human beings and their fellows does not unfold within the abstract state, but in the places where togetherness lives in its local, functional, emotional, and spiritual forms—in the community; that is, in the rural and urban community, in the work group and the enterprise, in the circle of friends, in the religious fellowship... We must restore to all of them the circulation of blood, the vital force, and the fullness of reality. We must liberate the real life that exists between one human being and another."

Buber's idea is not to go back in time, but rather to begin forming new traditional communities in which people can create genuine connections and allow the sacred space that forms between them to exist.

Let us build our pillars from distinctly different stones, and let us make sure that the space between them is not only sacred but also binding, so that our structure is strong and stable—and so that God doesn't hate it.