A Love Deeper than Perfection
Picture yourself, just for a moment, standing atop a mountain. Literally. Imagine the sky stretched in brilliant blue above your head, thunder and lightning still echoing in the distance like the tail-end of a celestial drumroll. And in your hands, two heavy stones. But not just any stones. These were carved by the very finger of G‑d. The living Word etched into cold, lifeless rock. A moment sacred. Weighty. Unrepeatable. Now imagine climbing down from that mountain only to find, not a people waiting in holy awe, but a people dancing around a golden calf, as though they had never left Egypt, at least not in heart. And then, without hesitation, you smash the tablets.
Moses did. And, quite honestly, who could blame him?
The first tablets of the G-d’s instructions, the most precious gift Israel had ever received, were hurled to the ground and shattered at the foot of the mountain. A theatrical gesture? Perhaps. An act of desperation? Certainly. But above all, it was prophetic. Because those broken tablets, as painful as it may be to admit, are also ours. They reflect the human soul: beautifully made, divinely written, and broken.
Here’s something curious. The Bible doesn’t tell us exactly what happened to the broken shards. They might have been swept away with the desert dust, forgotten like discarded sacred clutter. But Jewish tradition preserves something profound. The rabbis teach that the fragments of the first tablets were kept inside the Ark of the Covenant, alongside the whole, restored ones. This tradition is rooted in the words of Deuteronomy. “At that time the Lord said to me, ‘Chisel out two stone tablets like the first ones and come up to Me on the mountain. Also make a wooden ark. I will write on the tablets the words that were on the first tablets, which you broke, and you shall place them (old and new) in the ark.’” (Deuteronomy 10:1–2). And later Moses says, “So I turned and went down the mountain and put the tablets in the ark I had made, as the Lord commanded me, and they are there now.” (Deuteronomy 10:5). This clearly refers to the second set of tablets, but tradition holds that both the whole and the broken were placed together in the holiest place of all.
Imagine that. Inside the sacred Ark, the very symbol of G‑d’s presence among His people, rested not only what had been restored, but also what had been shattered. It’s as though G‑d Himself were saying, “I do not forget your failures. I redeem even your fragments.” And that’s the heart of it. Faith is not built on a collection of flawless victories, but on a love that refuses to walk away even in the face of the most humiliating defeat. The first covenant was broken. The marriage contract torn apart on the wedding night. Literally. The divine pact was shattered by the hands of a grieved prophet. And yet, or perhaps because of that, G‑d offered a second chance. But the new covenant wasn’t quite like the first. The first tablets were entirely divine. G‑d Himself carved the stone and inscribed the words. The second, however, required more from the human side. Moses chiselled the stone this time, and only then did G‑d rewrite the commandments. A subtle shift, but deeply meaningful. The partnership now demanded more human effort. The relationship had matured.
Have you noticed this in real relationships? The first love is often impulsive, idealistic, even naïve. But the second, after reconciliation, tends to be more thoughtful, more grounded, more enduring. Not because we pretend the pain never happened, but because we face it together. It’s tempting to hide the wreckage of our past. We paper over our inner cracks with religious varnish, clever phrases, or shallow promises. But the broken tablets are there to remind us: you have failed. And more importantly, you were loved nonetheless. G‑d didn’t replace the shattered tablets. He didn’t say, “Throw them away.” He said, “Keep them with Me.” He teaches us that what is broken still has value. That there is beauty in restoration. That there is hope in remembrance.
There is something liberating, almost revolutionary, about admitting your failures before G‑d. Not to wallow in guilt, but to build something new upon truth rather than illusion. We must remember where we came from. We must look back and recognise that we were once idolaters, unfaithful, selfish, ungrateful. We built our own golden calves, fashioned from career, vanity, religion, control, or even our own image of a god made in our likeness. But we also need to look forward. Not with arrogance, but with reverence. Not with an illusion of perfection, but with holy fear. A fear rooted in love. A reverence grounded in grace. A covenant renewed not by merit, but by mercy. We are called to begin again. The broken tablets are a calling. A reminder that G‑d’s presence walks with us not in spite of our failures, but through them. True repentance is not self-hatred. It is a movement toward love. A love that does not deny the truth but transforms it.
What’s broken in your story? Do you, like Moses, need to come down from the mountain, confront your idols, and start again, this time with hands marked by the carving of new tablets? Do you need to stop hiding the shards and place them, with tears and hope, before the Most High? The new covenant was not built on the thrill of the Exodus, but on the grief of the golden calf. Not on spectacular miracles, but on a deeper reverence. A persistent love. A sacred awe.
Perhaps this is what G‑d always wanted. Not perfection, but a relationship born out of sincere repentance. A bond that survives disappointment. A people who walk not just with whole tablets, but with broken ones too. So next time you look back and see only the shattered pieces of your mistakes, remember: they are not the end of the story. They might be the beginning of something new. Don’t hide the fragments. Bring them into the Presence. Place them in the Ark. They belong there. Because the One who wrote the first tablets is the same who writes again on the tablets that we have Chiseled. And He does so with love and waits for us to do the same.
Adivalter Sfalsin
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