THE DETAILS MATTER

Recently, I visited the Bahia Palace in Marrakech. It is a jewel of craftsmanship — unusual, intricate, and visually arresting.

At first glance, it is almost impossible to absorb. You pass through an unremarkable gate off a noisy, chaotic Marrakech street, and suddenly you are somewhere else entirely. Ceilings carved with floral arabesques so intricate they appear woven rather than chiseled. Tilework arranged in geometric precision that seems mathematically impossible.

Every surface is alive with pattern, color, intention. Not a single inch was left plain. Not a corner escaped careful ornamentation. Every space, down to the smallest niche, was shaped by human hands — deftly, deliberately, lovingly.

You don’t just see the detail. You feel it. And then you come home.

In much of the West, design has moved in the opposite direction. Detail has given way to restraint. What we encounter are clean lines, white walls, open space. The reigning mantra is: “declutter your life.” Remove the excess. Strip things back. Nothing unnecessary.

Minimalism has become more than a style — it is a philosophy. Modern taste worships simplicity. And to be fair, there is real beauty in that. A minimalist room can be calming. Elegant. Even liberating. It suggests control and clarity.

Which raises a fascinating question. When it comes to sacred space — when it comes to holiness itself — which aesthetic does the Torah favor?

Does the Torah lean toward the clean and uncluttered? Toward spiritual minimalism? Or toward something else entirely?

The answer lies in Parshat Terumah, where we encounter the instructions for the sacred space known as the Mishkan.

The structure itself is modest: portable and temporary. And yet the level of detail is astonishing. Gold. Silver. Copper. Deep blue. Royal purple. Crimson. Acacia wood. Fine linen. Hooks. Clasps. Loops. Sockets. Curtains layered upon curtains. Drapes within drapes. Textiles woven with deliberate precision. Even the coverings — dyed skins — are described with exacting care.

And then there are the vessels. The Ark crowned with gold. The Menorah hammered from a single piece of gold, adorned with almond blossoms, knobs and flowers emerging from its branches. The Table. The Altar. Each constructed with glittering specificity — measurements defined, patterns prescribed, materials layered.

Nothing is casual. Nothing is approximate. So the question becomes unavoidable: why so much detail?

If you asked a modern architect to design a sacred tent, surely they would propose something streamlined and efficient — especially if it needed to be portable. Something easy to assemble. Easy to dismantle. Practical in its function.

But the Torah does not give us a blueprint for “efficient spirituality.” It gives us a project saturated with detail. So, what is the message?

The Mishkan is not just a structure. It is a mirror. As *it* must be built, so must *we* be built. The Mishkan is the blueprint for the nation itself.

Notice where it appears. Immediately after the revelation at Sinai. What is the very first national undertaking that follows thunder, lightning, and the voice of God? Not a speech. Not a philosophical treatise. Not a manifesto of belief. A construction manual.

For the first time, the Jewish people are asked to take what they experienced at Sinai and translate it into something tangible.

Sinai was inspiration. The Mishkan is implementation.

Sinai was revelation. The Mishkan is discipline.

Judaism is not a religion of airy sentiments. It is a religion of detail. If our faith were sustained only by feelings — inspiration, ecstasy, spiritual peaks — it would be like smoke in the wind. Beautiful for a moment, impossible to hold. Moments pass. Emotions fade. Even the most powerful experience becomes a memory. What lasts is practice.

Which is why the Torah does something so counterintuitive. Immediately after Sinai, it does not give us another transcendent moment. It gives us measurements.

The Ramban explains that the Mishkan is a continuation of Sinai. Revelation cannot remain spectacle. You cannot live forever at the foot of a mountain. The Mishkan translates revelation into routine.

The Sforno teaches that space shapes consciousness. A chaotic space breeds a chaotic mind. A space ordered with care trains an ordered heart.

Build with precision — and you begin to live with precision.

Build with discipline — and you begin to think with discipline.

The more ordered the space, the more ordered the soul.

The very first national project of the Jewish people was not abstract theology. It was exact construction. Because inspiration alone cannot sustain a nation. Only structure can.

And we see this everywhere in Jewish life.

How much matzah must you eat at the Seder? Not “some.” A defined measure.

Which blessings are recited before eating? Not “say something meaningful.” Specific words. Specific order.

How do we wash our hands? How many times? In what manner?

How many knots must there be on tzitzit?

What direction do we face in prayer?

How do we build a sukkah? How high? How many walls? What materials?

The answers are detailed. Sometimes complicated. Often demanding.

You could say, “I’ll build a shed and call it a sukkah.” But you would have missed the point.

You could say, “I’ll tie a few strings to my jacket and call it tzitzit.” But you would have missed the point.

Because every detail matters. If one beam in the Mishkan were misaligned, the structure would collapse. If one socket were misplaced, the symmetry would be ruined.

Detail is not bureaucracy. Detail is covenant. Detail is how love becomes action.

When we attend to detail — in mitzvot and in life — we train ourselves into a disciplined relationship with God. We are saying: this matters enough for me to care about the specifics. This relationship matters enough for me to learn its language.

Because real relationships live in detail. The detail is not there to burden us. It is there to build us.

In the Bahia Palace, an artisan may have spent weeks carving a single wooden panel. You can see it. You can feel it. Every curve deliberate. Every line measured. Every pattern layered with intention.

He was not carving to impress tourists centuries later. He carved because detail mattered.

Judaism is no different. And that is why Judaism has survived where many movements — even powerful ones — have faded.

We did not build our faith on abstraction alone. We built it on practice.

We did not rely only on emotion. We relied on system.

The poet Mary Oliver once asked, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” The Torah answers: Live it with intention. Live it with exactness. Live it in the details.

Because when we honor detail — even when it is inconvenient, even when it feels demanding — we affirm something deeper than inspiration alone can sustain. We shape ourselves. We turn our bodies, our actions, our time, our homes into a Mishkan.

In an age that worships reduction, the Torah insists on detail.

In an age that prizes ease, the Torah prizes precision.

In a world comfortable with less, the Torah dares to demand more.

That is why the Jewish journey, in the wilderness after Sinai, did not begin with abstraction but with architecture. With detail layered upon detail. Because through the details, we build who we are.

And when the sanctuary is built — carefully, deliberately, lovingly — וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם – God dwells among us. And that is what Judaism is all about.