One of the most mysterious structures in all of Jewish history is the Mishkan, known in English as the Tabernacle. It was crafted to be mobile — packed up and carried from place to place — so that it could be a sacred home for the Divine Presence in the middle of a restless, wandering nation as they traversed the Sinai desert.

But here’s the curious part: when the Israelites finally entered the Land of Israel, and the need for portability supposedly ended, the Mishkan didn’t disappear or get replaced by something more permanent. Instead, it settled in one spot — the town of Shiloh, a modest location in the territory of Ephraim, about twenty miles north of Jerusalem — where it stayed for 369 years.

Think about that. The Mishkan was in Shiloh for nearly four centuries. And yet — how often do you hear anyone talk about Shiloh with the same awe as they do about Temple Mount? Almost never. To be honest — I was no different. For me, Shiloh was a name, a footnote, and nothing more. But last week, I went there, and everything changed. And now, I can’t stop talking about it.

Standing there among the ruins, where scattered stones seem to whisper the stories of ancient priests and trembling pilgrims, where you can almost hear Hannah’s desperate prayer for a child, where the Ark of the Covenant once rested in a humble sanctuary beneath nothing more than a cloth roof — I found myself wondering: Why have we forgotten Shiloh? 

Why has this place, which housed the Mishkan for 369 years, faded from Jewish consciousness? After all, it was here that Samuel the prophet was raised. It was here that the transition to a monarchy first took root. It was here that Jewish life had its first true national center.

The Mishkan was destroyed by the Philistines after the disastrous battle at Eben-Ezer, when the Ark was captured, Eli the High Priest died, and Shiloh was reduced to a ruin. Eventually, King David brought the Ark to Jerusalem. 

His son Solomon built the First Temple on a modest hilltop surrounded by higher peaks — Mount Scopus to the north, so named because you could “scope” Temple Mount from its peak, and the Mount of Olives to the east, from where the people witnessed the sacred Yom Kippur rituals unfold.

Solomon’s Temple stood for 410 years before it was destroyed by Nebuchadnezzar’s Babylonian forces in 586 BCE. Seventy years later, a Second Temple was built by Ezra and Nehemiah. This more modest temple was later expanded — first by the Hasmoneans, following their miraculous victory in 164 BCE, and then dramatically enlarged and beautified by Herod the Great, the architect-king whose building projects across Judea rivaled those of Rome. 

Despite Herod’s reputation for paranoia and cruelty, which earned him the disdain of the Talmudic sages, the Talmud records a remarkable statement (Bava Batra 4a): “Whoever has not seen Herod’s Temple has never seen a truly beautiful building.”

But this edifice was also destroyed — by the Romans in 70 CE — just like Solomon’s Temple and the Mishkan at Shiloh before it. Which brings me back to Shiloh. Because even though the Mishkan was razed to the ground, and even though there are no grand Herodian stones or giant underground catacombs in Shiloh, there is something profoundly moving about the site. Something… pure. 

It was never meant to be permanent, and yet it endured. It was simple and rudimentary, but it worked. And its memory has lasted — at least for those who choose to remember it.

Unlike Temple Mount, where access remains restricted for various reasons, there is no controversy regarding walking freely on the site where the Mishkan once stood. Archaeologists and historians are reasonably sure about the exact location, although some debate remains over whether the Holy of Holies was on the eastern or western side of the site. 

But think about it: you can literally walk on the very ground where the priests once carried out their sacred duties. Where sacrifices were offered. Where the Menorah was lit each day. Where the Ark of the Covenant rested.

Once the Mishkan was destroyed and the Ark relocated, the holiness of Shiloh was gone forever. Interestingly, according to the great medieval commentator Raavad, the same is somewhat true for Temple Mount — at least until the Third Temple is built. Maimonides famously ruled that the sanctity of Temple Mount is eternal, based on a Mishnah in Eduyot (8:6), meaning that even today, entry into sacred zones carries a severe penalty. 

But Raavad, in his gloss to Rambam’s Mishneh Torah (Hilchot Beit HaBechira 6:14), sharply disagrees: “This is his own opinion, and I do not know from where he derives it… it has been revealed to me as a secret of God to those who fear Him: one who enters there today incurs no penalty whatsoever.”

Nevertheless, despite Raavad’s lenient view, we tread carefully. We don’t walk where we are sure the Temple once stood — out of both awe for the hallowed location and respect for the more stringent opinion. 

But the Temple Mount area is far larger than just the footprint of the Temple itself. Herod expanded it into a massive trapezium-shaped platform — roughly 37 acres in size — and it includes vast areas that are unquestionably outside the original sacred zones. Visiting those areas is absolutely permitted. 

Thankfully, more and more Jews are going there. Over Pesach this year, more than 6,500 Jews ascended Temple Mount — an unprecedented number in modern history. And among them was me — not once, but twice.

I’ve visited Temple Mount several times before, but for the first time in my life, I was finally able to pray there, together with my sons — unhindered by the intolerant Jordanian guards and anxious Israeli border police. 

We walked the carefully charted permitted path around the perimeter, singing Hallel and offering heartfelt prayers. We sang joyously — zeh hayom asah Hashem, nagilah venismecha bo — “this is the day that God has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it” — acknowledging that we were witnessing prophecy come to life before our eyes.

The world can deny it, and politicians can ignore it. But the slow, steady reclamation of Jerusalem — of our historic rights to the site of our holiest structure — is happening. And no amount of international indignation can change that.

It all began in Parshat Shemini, where we read about the original dedication of the Mishkan — assembled for the first time by a newly liberated people still finding their way. Then, Moshe and Aaron were at the helm. It was a key spiritual moment that set in motion a chain of events stretching through time: to Joshua and the conquest of the Land; to the Judges and the prophets; to the kings of Israel and the builders of Jerusalem; to Ezra and Nehemiah; to the Hasmonean heroes; to Shimon HaTzaddik and the Great Assembly; to the sages of the Sanhedrin, who once deliberated on Temple Mount. 

This is our story. This is our legacy. And it is coming back into focus.

To be clear, prophecy won’t be realized through passive longing. It can only happen through meaningful action. Through visiting Shiloh. Through ascending Temple Mount. Through reconnecting with the real places where Jewish history unfolded — and where Jewish destiny is being rewritten in our time. 

Because Judaism is not merely nostalgia for a glorious past. It’s about doing what has to be done to ensure a glorious future.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.

The post The Mishkan — and the Torah’s Directions for a Brighter Future for Judaism first appeared on Algemeiner.com.