In a letter to James Madison dated Sept. 20, 1785, written from Paris, Thomas Jefferson expressed his fascination with the urban aesthetics of the French capital — and his eagerness to return to the Monticello estate, in Charlottesville, Virginia, so he could incorporate the architectural ideas he had encountered in Europe into his own home. “Architecture is my delight, and putting up, and pulling down, one of my favorite amusements,” he wrote.

Truthfully, a visit to Monticello has been on my bucket list for years, and yet — somehow — I’ve never made it there. It’s just over two hours’ drive from Washington, DC, and I find myself in DC often enough.

But my visits are usually short, packed with meetings and events, and I’ve never yet managed to carve out the time to detour into Virginia’s rolling countryside to see Jefferson’s famous mountaintop retreat. One of these days, I’ll make it happen. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

What makes Monticello so compelling — beyond the fact that it was home to the man who wrote the Declaration of Independence and helped shape modern democracy — is that it’s not just a historical site. It reflects Jefferson’s unique mind — his creativity, his obsessions, and, perhaps most of all, his deep love of architecture.

Monticello wasn’t simply a house or a home — it was Jefferson’s lifelong project. He tinkered with it constantly, designing and redesigning, experimenting and innovating. It was, in his own words, his “delight.”

Jefferson wasn’t a trained architect, but he taught himself by studying the works of classical masters like Palladio and Vitruvius, poring over pattern books, and sketching countless designs and plans. Monticello’s neoclassical style — its symmetry, domed roof, and columned portico — reflects Jefferson’s belief that architecture wasn’t merely functional, but philosophical. To him, the form of a building could embody ideals: balance, order, rationality — the very foundations of an enlightened society.

And he never left it alone. The Monticello we see today is actually Version 2.0 — Jefferson tore down large sections of the original structure and rebuilt them to align with his ever-evolving vision. Inside, Monticello is filled with quirky innovations and clever inventions, revealing Jefferson’s obsession with efficiency, design, and technology.

There’s a dumbwaiter cleverly concealed in the dining room fireplace, designed to bring wine directly up from the cellar without the need for servants to interrupt. There are self-closing double doors connected by a hidden pulley mechanism, so opening or closing one would automatically move the other. And in his study, Jefferson used a rotating bookstand that could hold five open books at once — perfect for a man who often researched multiple sources simultaneously.

Jefferson’s bed was tucked into an alcove wall, a space-saving design allowing him to step directly into his study or bedroom, depending on which side he exited. But perhaps the most remarkable feature of all is the Great Clock in the entrance hall, which Jefferson personally designed.

Powered by an intricate system of weights and pulleys, the clock not only told the time but also tracked the days of the week — with the weights dropping through holes in the floor – although Saturday is visible only in the basement, because the ceiling simply wasn’t high enough to accommodate it upstairs. Every room at Monticello tells the story of a man who couldn’t stop inventing — a restless mind, always looking to bring function and beauty into perfect balance.

To Jefferson, building something wasn’t just about creating shelter, it was about expressing values, turning abstract principles into tangible form. And that idea — the notion that a building can be much more than the materials it is made of — echoes through Parshat Vayakhel, where the Israelites begin constructing something that would express divine ideals in the most concrete way possible.

But unlike Monticello, the Mishkan — the portable sanctuary described in Parshat Vayakhel — was designed from the outset for “putting up, and pulling down.” This wasn’t just a practical feature – it was its defining characteristic. As the Israelites wandered through the wilderness, they needed a movable sacred space that could travel with them, be assembled at each stop, and then carefully dismantled and transported to the next location, always ready to accompany them on their journey.

The Mishkan remained unchanged during the 40 years in the wilderness. It clung to its original design — with no tinkering, no updates, and no expansions. But the story took a new turn once Joshua led the Israelites into the Land of Israel. The Mishkan, still at the heart of the nation’s religious life, began to move from place to place, no longer simply following the needs of a nomadic people, but gradually adapting to settled realities.

Eventually, it found a semi-permanent home in Shiloh, located in the hills of central Israel, just north of modern-day Jerusalem. There, the Mishkan took on a modified form — still fundamentally the same structure, but now set upon stone foundations, replacing the original transportable supports. It became more stable, less temporary, yet it was still not a full-fledged Temple — a kind of in-between space, bridging the mobility of the wilderness with the permanence that was yet to come.

Remarkably, the Mishkan remained in Shiloh for 369 years — almost as long as King Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem, which stood for 410 years. And Solomon’s Temple was, in many ways, a scaled-up version of the Mishkan. While its proportions echoed the original, everything about it was grander, more permanent, and far more elaborate — built with stone, gold, and cedar.

This first permanent temple of the Jews marked a shift from the simple, portable structure of the wilderness to a majestic, enduring edifice, a shift from divine blueprint to royal embellishment.

Centuries later, Herod the Great embarked on his own monumental architectural project: a complete renovation of the Second Temple, transforming it into one of the architectural marvels of the ancient world.

The Talmud (Bava Batra 4a) famously declares, “He who has not seen Herod’s Temple has never seen a beautiful structure in his life.” Its splendor, scale, and symmetry were a far cry from the humble, portable Mishkan of the desert, although it traced its origins to that first sacred space, meticulously crafted according to divine command.

From the Mishkan in the wilderness to Herod’s Temple in Jerusalem, Jewish sacred architecture evolved — from mobile to monumental, from simple to sublime — yet it always remained anchored in core values and ideals, with every detail reflecting a spiritual purpose transcending the material.

The Mishkan was designed to be far more than just a structure — its purpose was to serve as a space filled with prompts and triggers, physical cues that would elevate hearts and minds and lift all who entered to a higher spiritual place. Just as Jefferson infused Monticello with deliberate design elements meant to inspire thought and reflection, the Mishkan was crafted to engage the senses and the soul, transforming the physical into a gateway to the divine.

My fervent hope is that there will soon be a Third Temple in Jerusalem, one that will reflect the Mishkans and Temples of Jewish history, while also incorporating the wonders of modern design and technology — enhancing the original format, recalling its ancient beauty, and becoming an even greater tribute to God and to our enduring faith.

A journey that began in Parshat Vayakhel and has wound its way through history to the present, still awaits its final, magnificent chapter.

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