Rituals of closure are common in both the secular and religious realms. An example of the first is the sounding of retreat and the lowering of the flag marking the end of the official duty day on military installations. An instance of the second is the siyyum, a liturgical ritual and festive meal that is occasioned by the completion of the study of a Talmudic tractate. Closure rituals relate not only to the past but to the future as well. On the one hand, the temporal demarcation of a past event facilitates the emergence of its distinct identity, internal coherence, and significance, thereby providing insight, understanding, and, at times, a sense of accomplishment. At the same time, by declaring an end, a closure ritual creates space in which one can—and must—begin anew; the past is to be neither prison nor refuge.

Immediately after the final verse of Shemot, the book of Exodus, is chanted this coming Shabbat we will call out to the reader, “Hazak, hazak, venit-hazek”, which might be translated as, “Be strong, be strong, and we will take strength from you.” (For some reason, it has not become the custom to modify the above declaration and use the gender appropriate “hizki, hizki” when a woman is reading the Torah.) The “hazak” declaration is a closure ritual, a performative parallel to the graphic demarcation in the Torah scroll of Shemot’s conclusion by means of four blank lines. It announces that the first part of the national saga has come to a close with the construction and completion of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. In that endeavor all of Israel was united in dedication to a common goal; each contribution of resources, talent, and effort was vital, while none was sufficient.

The Mishkan was of course of no worth without the presence of its designated occupant: the Shekhinah, the Divine Presence. “For over the Tabernacle the cloud of the Lord rested by day, and fire would appear in [the cloud] by night in view of all the house of Israel in their journeys” (). With the advent of the Shekhinah’s presence the inert structure is animated and a new story begins: “The Lord called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting” (). Shemot’s static image of the Mishkan as a place of rest is replaced with Vayikra’s dynamic one: the Mishkan is to be a place where God and humanity meet, where God and Moses converse and where Aaron is to enter the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur.

Clearly, a closure ritual is appropriate as we conclude the reading of Shemot. But why choose “hazak” as the ritual? Why the need to urge the reader to be strong and to wish strength for ourselves? A moment of completion is a complex one. We may feel sad that the end has come. In addition, in the moment of completion we often allow ourselves to feel the exhaustion that we have denied in the pursuit of closure, rendering us unready and perhaps unwilling to face the next challenge that lies before us.

So too, with the completion of Shemot. The reading ends with a crescendo, and yet it will be followed by the blessing recited at the end of every aliyah. We the listeners are afraid that, as with the seven lean cows who ate the seven fat ones in Pharaoh’s dream, the drama and power of the words we have heard will be swallowed up by the ordinariness of the blessing that follows. We also know that more lies ahead, including the tragic death of Aaron’s sons, () which will mar the dedication of the building the construction of which has been described so lovingly in Shemot. Therefore, we need strength. We need to be saved from the depression that accompanies endings and we need strength to face and navigate the stories that will follow.

Yet let us ask further: Why do we not simply declare, “Let us all be strong”? Why single out the reader? A teaching of Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler, the mid-20th century author of Mikhtav Me’eliyahu, a collection of mussar essays, provides enlightenment. As we all know, says Rabbi Dessler, there are takers and givers. It turns out, however, that some give in order to take and some take in order to give. Suppose that someone agrees to donate a million dollars to a synagogue but then attaches all sorts of conditions to his gift, conditions that serve the needs of his ego but not those of the congregation. This man is giving in order to take; he’s a giving taker. On the other hand, let’s imagine a dedicated doctor who works night and day to spare his patients from illness and pain. One day, he tells his patients that he is suffering from exhaustion and will be taking a week’s vacation. Only a fool or an ingrate would see this as selfishness. This doctor is taking in order to give; he is a taking giver.

So too with us and our Torah reader. She is our Moses, declaring God’s word to the congregation. Reading Torah is a demanding and exacting task, even for those who have years of experience. (Not incidentally, Vayak-hel Pekudei is the second longest of the weekly Torah readings.) The reading is over, the reader is exhausted. We say: you give us inspiration through your chanting of the Torah. We wish you strength, both out of love for you and because we rely on your strength. You can give to us only if we also give to you.

We want our leaders to give us what we need and desire. Too often we are oblivious to their needs and to the limits of their time and energy. They want to give but unless we give too they will ultimately have nothing to give us. Let us make our leaders strong, through love, encouragement, and material assistance, so that we can be strengthened by them.

This commentary was originally published in 2018.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Immediately after the final verse of Shemot, the book of Exodus, is chanted this coming Shabbat we will call out to the reader, “Hazak, hazak, venit-hazek”, which might be translated as, “Be strong, be strong, and we will take strength from you.” (For some reason, it has not become the custom to modify the above declaration and use the gender appropriate “hizki, hizki” when a woman is reading the Torah.) The “hazak” declaration is a closure ritual, a performative parallel to the graphic demarcation in the Torah scroll of Shemot’s conclusion by means of four blank lines. It announces that the first part of the national saga has come to a close with the construction and completion of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. In that endeavor all of Israel was united in dedication to a common goal; each contribution of resources, talent, and effort was vital, while none was sufficient.

The Mishkan was of course of no worth without the presence of its designated occupant: the Shekhinah, the Divine Presence. “For over the Tabernacle the cloud of the Lord rested by day, and fire would appear in [the cloud] by night in view of all the house of Israel in their journeys” (). With the advent of the Shekhinah’s presence the inert structure is animated and a new story begins: “The Lord called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting” (). Shemot’s static image of the Mishkan as a place of rest is replaced with Vayikra’s dynamic one: the Mishkan is to be a place where God and humanity meet, where God and Moses converse and where Aaron is to enter the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur.

Clearly, a closure ritual is appropriate as we conclude the reading of Shemot. But why choose “hazak” as the ritual? Why the need to urge the reader to be strong and to wish strength for ourselves? A moment of completion is a complex one. We may feel sad that the end has come. In addition, in the moment of completion we often allow ourselves to feel the exhaustion that we have denied in the pursuit of closure, rendering us unready and perhaps unwilling to face the next challenge that lies before us.

So too, with the completion of Shemot. The reading ends with a crescendo, and yet it will be followed by the blessing recited at the end of every aliyah. We the listeners are afraid that, as with the seven lean cows who ate the seven fat ones in Pharaoh’s dream, the drama and power of the words we have heard will be swallowed up by the ordinariness of the blessing that follows. We also know that more lies ahead, including the tragic death of Aaron’s sons, () which will mar the dedication of the building the construction of which has been described so lovingly in Shemot. Therefore, we need strength. We need to be saved from the depression that accompanies endings and we need strength to face and navigate the stories that will follow.

Yet let us ask further: Why do we not simply declare, “Let us all be strong”? Why single out the reader? A teaching of Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler, the mid-20th century author of Mikhtav Me’eliyahu, a collection of mussar essays, provides enlightenment. As we all know, says Rabbi Dessler, there are takers and givers. It turns out, however, that some give in order to take and some take in order to give. Suppose that someone agrees to donate a million dollars to a synagogue but then attaches all sorts of conditions to his gift, conditions that serve the needs of his ego but not those of the congregation. This man is giving in order to take; he’s a giving taker. On the other hand, let’s imagine a dedicated doctor who works night and day to spare his patients from illness and pain. One day, he tells his patients that he is suffering from exhaustion and will be taking a week’s vacation. Only a fool or an ingrate would see this as selfishness. This doctor is taking in order to give; he is a taking giver.

So too with us and our Torah reader. She is our Moses, declaring God’s word to the congregation. Reading Torah is a demanding and exacting task, even for those who have years of experience. (Not incidentally, Vayak-hel Pekudei is the second longest of the weekly Torah readings.) The reading is over, the reader is exhausted. We say: you give us inspiration through your chanting of the Torah. We wish you strength, both out of love for you and because we rely on your strength. You can give to us only if we also give to you.

We want our leaders to give us what we need and desire. Too often we are oblivious to their needs and to the limits of their time and energy. They want to give but unless we give too they will ultimately have nothing to give us. Let us make our leaders strong, through love, encouragement, and material assistance, so that we can be strengthened by them.

This commentary was originally published in 2018.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Where is love? Does it fall from skies above?
Is it underneath the willow tree that I’ve been dreaming of?
Who can say where she may hide?
Must I travel far and wide,
‘til I am beside the someone who
I can mean something to?

In the musical Oliver, the title character seeks love in far off places. Where does love reside? Can love be found in the sky? Underground? Who can say where love lives? Oliver lives a dismal life, sold into servitude, hemmed in by cruelties that could leave him robbed of even the capability of love, and justifiably so. He can neither see nor sense love around him. Yet he never gives up looking for it, and in the end, love does come to him. And as it turns out, he didn’t need to look very far. More remarkable than Oliver’s eventual success in finding love is the mere fact that although love seems to him to be a distant, far-off dream, he never gives up the search.

Oliver’s quest for earthly love echoes our daily quest for divine love. Where is God? Is God, as our liturgy of transcendence suggests, a far-off Creative Source, distant from us in some supernal realm in the skies above? Or is God an imminent, personal Parent, close by, and underneath the nearby willow tree?

Our quest for the Divine is not a new one; we’ve been playing “hide and seek” with God since we left Egypt. In Parashat Pekudei, our ancestors also strove to come close to the Divine Presence, through assembling and dedicating the Tabernacle as a place for encountering the Divine: “When Moses had finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of Adonai filled the Tabernacle” (Exod. 40:33–34). The dedication of the Tabernacle, God’s “dwelling place” on earth, was completed as God’s Presence filled and rested upon it. 

Yet God’s Holy Presence wasn’t just hidden inside the Tent of Meeting, where only the priests would be able to see it. The closing line of Exodus provides us with an image of that Presence being outside the tent as well, for all of Israel to see. “For over the Tabernacle a cloud of Adonai rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the house of Israel throughout their journeys” (Exod. 40:30).

Today we may not have the physical dwelling place of the Tabernacle in which to encounter God. But we do continue to create holy spaces in which to connect to The Holy One. Our tradition further teaches that each of us ourselves is a holy space, a mishkan me’at, a small personal sanctuary for the Divine. When we pray, our tallit becomes that sheltering cloud of God’s Glory and we continue to seek God’s presence from within it. And like Oliver, that love and comfort we seek does come to us. Every time we pray and wrap ourselves in the tallit, we are presented with the gift of a chance to envelop ourselves in a manifestation of God’s love. At our most vulnerable moments, our Creator, our Compassionate Parent, is there to protect us.

Each morning, in the dim light of dawn when I wake up, eyes still glazed, body still stiff and creaky from the night’s sleep—I am vulnerable. Barely able to formulate a complete thought before a cup of coffee, I turn to God in prayer. Many mornings, I would much rather wrap myself back in my blanket and fall back into bed. Yet the moment I take my silky tallit, the color of the sky, out of its bag, and let it fall over my shoulders, I feel protection and a warmth that no simple blanket could provide.

From the first light of dawn, until the very last ray of evening twilight, we embark on our daily quest for God, often finding that love elusive and hard to locate. Yet perhaps, like Oliver, we have looked too far, and have called out too loudly. S.Y. Agnon, in his short story “,” describes a Yom Kippur that epitomizes our search:

Whenever the cantor wrapped his tallit around his face and invoked “Chei Haolamim, The Force that Makes Life in the Universe,” I would be perplexed, for the cantor called to God in a loud voice even though God was right there! Why did he cover his face? If he uncovered his face, the whole congregation would be filled with a great joy such as I felt when I played peek-a-boo with my father. We used to look for each other until, finally, I would reveal my face, and then we found each other.

Perhaps we are trying too hard. Perhaps, like Oliver, we are looking far and wide for what is beside us all along. Perhaps like our ancient ancestors in the wilderness, we expect God’s Presence to greet us in a particular time and space. The cantor covers his face and shouts out for God. Yet, as the young narrator senses, God is right there! Uncover your face, says the narrator. Or perhaps simply open your eyes—God is there, in the tallit, surrounding you. Like a child covering his face to play peek-a-boo, we don’t let ourselves see what is right there.

Yet the lesson of the tallit suggests that the opposite might be true; perhaps only when we cover our face, freed from distractions, sheltered in God’s protecting embrace, and enveloped in the love of the tallit, when we enter our own personal, intimate Tent of Meeting with God, can we truly know God is right there. Somewhere in the balance of this twilight, between the covered and the uncovered, lies the answer. Perhaps we must surround ourselves in God’s love, feel the embrace of the tallit, and only then uncover our eyes and come out of the Tent, to allow ourselves to truly see that God is right there.

May each of us have the clarity of vision in these twilight moments, to know that God is right there, surrounding us, engaged in this delicate game of peek-a-boo with us. May we, like the child whose hands can cause a familiar face to disappear momentarily, allow ourselves that joy of rediscovery that comes in that revelatory moment when our faces are again uncovered. May we, like the Israelites in the wilderness, look up to see God’s holy Presence right in our very eyes. For while we may let ourselves become distracted from the divine comfort and love that surrounds us, we need only open our eyes and let God in. 

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

Two years later, when most of the Covid patients were being managed on medical floors, the ICUs could once again be used for regular intensive care patients. The close-knit staff on “the unit” were having trouble with this transition, and they called me. They needed help to turn “the unit” back into their ICU. “The unit” was where people went who could not be helped. The ICU was a place of sophisticated technologies and medical miracles. They had witnessed so much loss and trauma in this space, they could not imagine the ICU treating patients who were going to heal and go home.

“It’s not that we believe in ghosts, rabbi, but we literally see the ones we lost—so many of them. Their faces are everywhere”.

When my staff and I entered the unit, we were astonished. It really didn’t look like “the unit” anymore. The walls had been spackled and painted, the floors had been waxed, the windows cleaned. But the staff could still see the faces of thepatients they had lost. I could see them too. We all could. The goal of our visit was to rededicate “the unit,” restoring it to a place of physical healing and a sanctuary for God’s presence.

We began to sing:

“Oh Lord Prepare me, to be a sanctuary, Pure and holy, tried and true

With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living Sanctuary for You.”

Our rededication of the hospital’s ICU echoed for me the original Jewish sacred space described in the Book of Exodus. The double Torah reading for Vayak-hel and Pekudei provides God’s blueprint for a traveling sacred space that the Israelites would build during their journey through the wilderness. As they travelled, they would carry a place for the presence of God and for revelatory encounters between God and the high priests on behalf of the people. It would be a space for doing sacred work and for being with God.

The Torah embeds its design plan with a series of doubles—names, spaces, and imagery.

First, this double Torah reading provides two different parts of the construction that appear to be referred to by different names: the tabernacle (Mishkan) referring to the central space, and the tent (ohel) referring to the covering spread over it and enlarging its area.

In Exodus 40:19 we read:

  וַיִּפְרֹשׂ אֶת-הָאֹהֶל, עַל-הַמִּשְׁכָּן, וַיָּשֶׂם אֶת-מִכְסֵה הָאֹהֶל עָלָיו, מִלְמָעְלָה–כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּה ה’ , אֶת-מֹשֶׁה

And he spread the tent (ohel) over the tabernacle (mishkan), and put the covering of the tent above upon it; as God commanded Moses.

The instructions for building the Mishkan contain distinct parallels to the creation of the world, resulting in a kind of doubling. In both the creation of the world and the creation of the Mishkan, work ceases on Shabbat (Gen. 2:1–3; Exod. 35:1–2).  In the descriptions of the creation of both the world and the Mishkan, the work is judged to have been appropriately done (Gen. 1:31; Exod. 39:43), after which the same Hebrew verb כ.ל.ה. is used to describe the completion of both the Mishkan and the world (Gen. 2:1; Exod. 40:33). Just as God had built a space for humanity, humans were to build a space for God. 

The Torah devotes 31 verses to the creation of the world, and between 300–400 to the Sanctuary. Why does this project with two names and two parts and doubled imagery receive so much attention? And if it is so important, why would it have dual purposes?

A verse earlier in Exodus gives us a hint. In Parshat Terumah (Exodus 25–27), the first of the four construction parshiyot, verse 8 explains very simply to the Israelites why they will build this “Mishkan”:

 וְעָשׂוּ לִי, מִקְדָּשׁ; וְשָׁכַנְתִּי, בְּתוֹכָם.

And let them make Me a Sanctuary that I may dwell among them.

From this verse we learn that God understands the people need tangible evidence of the indwelling of the Divine Presence—a place for God to be. The following midrash from Shemot Rabbah responds with great relational sensitivity to the idea that God will “live” among the people. It explains that theSanctuary was created for two purposes: a place for God to be and a place for encounters with God to be enacted.

The midrash tells of a person who gives his only daughter in marriage to a suitor from another place. The person says to their daughter, “I cannot ask you not to move away, but it makes me so sad to know you will be far from me. Please, wherever you live, build an extra room for me, so that I can come to visit you.” The Israelites are like the daughter, creating a space in their home for God even when God feels distant, and a place for encounters with God when God does visit.

This parable explains that the people needed two things from this relationship; to be assured of God’s presence among them during their journey, as well as a place for special moments that elevate their worship. The people can experience God as a powerful encounter that comes from the formal worship of the high priests, or as a constant presence of protection and comfort. And so the project needs to be both; the Mishkan—a place for God’s presence as well as an ohel moed—a sacred space for Divine encounters.

After our voices quieted, I talked about how “the unit” had been a sanctuary. It once held unforgettable sacred encounters. I had counseled many times there that surely God too, was deeply saddened by the fragility of human life they’d witnessed. It was also, I stretched, a place of God’s comforting presence, joining them through the work of their tender hands and hearts. Now, through this time together, it would be a tabernacle with two distinct, sacred purposes: an ohel moed, a tent of meeting, for coming together to encounter God in doing the sacred work of healing, and a Mishkan, a space for God’s presence to dwell among them.

Quiet tears on smiling faces showed that we had in fact rededicated this Mishkan. This ritual of naming the awful experiences of the past foreshadowed the way the medical staff could envision themselves as God’s partners moving forward and working together to heal the sick.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

Rashi, the prolific medieval commentator, illuminates our understanding of this verse: “The verse does not state that Bezalel made all that he was commanded but rather that Bezalel made all that God had commanded Moses. The significance of this language is to communicate that even regarding such things which our teacher Moses did not instruct him, Bezalel’s own opinion was in accord with what Moses had been told at Sinai.” Rashi goes on to quote an insightful midrash from Berachot 55a which gives more texture to the character of Bezalel:

At the moment [of commanding the building of the Tabernacle] God came to Moses and said, “Go to Bezalel and tell him to make the Tabernacle, ark and its appurtenances.” Moses went to Bezalel and reversed the order instructing Bezalel to make the vessels first and then build the Tabernacle. Bezalel pushed back on Moses stating, “Moses, my teacher, surely it is the way of the world that one first builds a house and then tends to its furnishings! These furnishings that I will fashion, where shall I put them? Perhaps God said to you, first make the Tabernacle and then the furnishings?!?” Moses replied to Bezalel, “You must have been sitting in the shadow of God (b’ tzal El), for certainly this is how God commanded me!”

Rashi’s commentary joined to the literal sense of our verse teaches us volumes about the sacred relationship between teacher and student. First, God instructs Moses regarding the building of the Mishkan. Second, Moses relates the instruction to his talented artisan Bezalel. Third, far from responding in a mechanical way and simply doing what Moses describes, Bezalel thinks deeply and critically about the task at hand and suggests that the container must be built before the contents. Fourth, note well how respectful Bezalel is in his demeanor with his teacher and boss, Moses. Rather than speaking in an aggressive and critical way, declaring that “Moses, you must be mistaken,” Bezalel uses the language, “Perhaps God said to you”—gentle language that gives Moses the ability and space in which to correct himself. Bezalel, in our midrash, comes to teach us derekh eretz, a moral and ethical way of speech. It is in this explicit sense (and I believe in many more implicit ways), that Bezalel goes beyond following mere instructions and heeding the guidance of his teacher. Bezalel is proactive and reflective in his learning and execution. Certainly, this is what makes him worthy of his name: he is literally and figuratively creating “in the shadow of God.” It is this closeness to God that gives our masterful artisan the ability and perseverance he needs—and the graceful, loving strength to rival his teacher Moses—to bring the Tabernacle into being.

May we learn both from the artistic talents of Bezalel and, perhaps more importantly, from his exquisite model of menshlikhkayt.

With wishes for a good week and Shabbat shalom.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

I would drape myself with necklaces and stack rings on my fingers and bracelets on my wrists. I did not follow the rule that one should always remove an item of jewelry so as not to appear over-laden. I loved a full-on blast of bling.

Like my grandmother’s jewelry box, the Mishkan—Israel’s portable sanctuary—was a treasure chest. Parashat Vayak-hel-Pekudei describes the colorful fabrics, rich woods, and precious metals that comprise the Mishkan, its furnishings, and the costumes of the priests who served within it.

The Mishkan must have shimmered with its purple, red, and blue hues, sparkled with its emeralds and sapphires, and glowed with its gold, silver, and copper. It was a full-on blast of bling. It must have been beautiful.

Beauty is essential to all religious life. Exodus 15:2 declares: “This is my God and I will glorify God.” From this verse, develops the idea of hiddur mitzvah—the idea that beauty enhances ritual observance.

The Talmud interprets this concretely and specifies that the silks that wrap our Torah scrolls, the fringes worn on our garments, the shofarot we blow, the sukkot we sit in should be beautiful (BT Shabbat 133b). The physical beauty of these objects reflects the glory of God.

The Mishkan radiates hiddur mitzvah. Its grand, overwhelming beauty is a physical testimony of God’s glory. I imagine that a worshipper who enters the Mishkan is struck by its beauty, and spontaneously shouts out the words of Psalm 24: “Who is the sovereign of glory? The Lord of Hosts is the sovereign of glory!”

There may be times when God chooses to dwell in something as mundane as a small desert bush (Exod. 3:2), but God’s bejeweled and bedazzled house reflects God’s fullest magnificence and communicates Israel’s awed awareness of it.

Yet, the beauty of the Mishkan does more than reflect God’s glory. The Mishkan is a product of Bezalel and Oholiab and of other artisans who are endowed with the skill and creativity to design and craft its woven curtains, carved furnishings, and hammered ornaments (Exod. 35:30–36:1).

As such, the Mishkan is a work of art whose beauty reflects the glory of the human spirit and is a testimony to human creativity and artistry.

Beauty is essential to religious life because it reflects and celebrates God’s glory and because it reflects and celebrates the glory of the human spirit and its capacity to make beauty and art.

Beauty is manifest in many forms. Visual beauty—displayed in the Mishkan’s spectacular details—is particularly powerful. Visual artists—painters, crafters, dancers, architects, directors, fashion designers—manipulate materials that effectively communicate their wondrous ability to imagine and create new objects and whole worlds.

But there are other manifestations of beauty that are equally powerful, although less tangible than visual beauty. There is the transformative beauty of music and of written and spoken language, the elegant beauty of logic, and the profound beauty of deep emotion.

We see and need all forms of beauty in religious life. We need golden lampstands and crimson cloths. We need drums and lyres. We need psalms and talmudic arguments.

We need it all to worship our God who infuses our world with beauty. We need it all to express our human spirit and to celebrate our capacity to create beauty.

Right now, I crave beauty. I have not been to a museum or to the theater in a year because of COVID. Without Shabbat dinners and festive occasions, there is no reason to dress up and wear my grandmother’s jewelry. Unable to travel far, I have seen limited natural beauty.

But the beauty I have seen, heard, and experienced has helped me through this time. It has fed my spirit and has inspired me to see beyond the constrained darkness of the moment, to see the beauty in God’s world and the beauty in the worlds we humans create.

We need beauty to express the glory of our creator and the glory of our creativity. We need a world that sparkles and shimmers, that hums and sings, that’s crafted and elegant. And sometimes we need a world with a full-on blast of bling.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Since the 17th century, when immigrants from Sweden and Finland brought with them a tradition of working-class street celebrations, Mummers celebrations have been chaotic, iconoclastic, irreverent—and sometimes vulgar and racist. The City of Philadelphia has a complicated relationship with the Mummers, at times attempting to suppress the parades unsuccessfully and at other times working to co-opt their popularity and enthusiasm to benefit the City. Racism, in the form of blackface and other unacceptable behaviors, is undeniably a stain on the history of mummery, and some small number of Mummers persist in perpetuating this shameful tradition. Accordingly, even today, some people in Philadelphia dismiss Mummers as drunken nuisances and racists.

These critiques of Mummers are valid, but they do not tell the whole story. Mummer clubs are important social organizations that help to create cohesive communities in South Philly and beyond. Sons, as well as daughters more recently, march in the same clubs as their fathers and grandfathers. They hold fundraisers for children with special needs and people who are sick in the community. Some Mummers are so devoted to their clubs that they get buried in their costumes.

In addition to building community, Mummers also create unbelievable art with sequins, feathers, paint, and musical instruments. In particular, the “Fancy Brigades” create Broadway-caliber entertainment with phenomenal costumes, dancing, and sets. The fact that the Mummers are not professional painters, dancers, or musicians makes their achievements all the more impressive. The Mummers’ passion for their art strengthens their sense of community, while in turn their commitment to community makes their art so inspiring.

Our Torah teaches us that communal passion can indeed be dangerous because it is nearly impossible to control—the Israelites’ fervor to build the golden calf nearly destroyed their community. But our Torah teaches us this week that the same passion can also yield a unique beauty that can never be achieved by one artist, no matter how talented or well-trained. Given my fascination with the Mummers, I was reminded of the beauty of communal art when I read the first part of this week’s double Torah portion, Vayak-hel.

In Vayak-hel, the Israelites cooperate to craft the Mishkan, a dwelling place for God’s presence, and simultaneously strengthen their community. As one might expect, the Mishkan was made with the finest materials: gold, silver, precious stones, and fine wool. The craftsmanship was of the highest artistic and technical standards. So it may come as a surprise that both the biblical text and later commentators emphasize that the building of the Mishkan was a communal enterprise. “Moses stated to the entire community of Israelites, ‘This is the thing God has commanded [me] to tell you’” (Exod. 35:4, per Rashi’s explanation).

Moses goes on to explain how the entire community can participate in the building of the Mishkan: everyone whose heart is inclined (“nediv libo”) should contribute financially, and everyone who is skilled (“hakham lev”) should participate in the work (35: 5 and 10, per Ramban’s explanation).

The Israelites heed Moses’s command. In fact, they bring so many donations that Moses is compelled to ask them to stop. Women are explicitly included among those who contribute both financially and artistically. Interestingly, the established leadership, the chieftains of the tribes, do not appear to contribute at all.

In addition to those groups Moses has invited to participate, another group joins in: “kol ish asher nesa’o libo,” literally “everyone whose heart lifts him” (v. 21). Ramban, a 13th-century commentator, notices this new category of contributors and suggests that they are different than those who donate monetarily. Perhaps they are also different than the experts (“hakham lev”) Moses has invited. Ramban points out (on Exod. 31:2 in last week’s portion) that very few of the Israelites would have had the opportunity to develop as professional artisans who worked with fine metals and precious stones, since they had been slaves in Egypt confined to working with bricks and with mortar. He writes of the men and women “whose hearts lift them,” “None of them had studied these crafts from instructors, nor had they trained at all, but rather they found that they knew what to do intuitively.” In other words, they were enthusiastic amateurs.

Similarly, God chooses Betzalel and Oholiab to lead the construction of the Mishkan. A wonderful midrash explains why Moses could not lead the construction himself. Apparently, Moshe Rabbenu (“Moses our teacher”) was not particularly gifted mechanically, struggling to understand how to create the menorah for the Mishkan, even after God has explained several times and even demonstrated with a menorah of fire (Bemidbar Rabbah 16:10-11). We all have our strengths and weaknesses. Perhaps to compensate for Moses’s weakness, God endows Betzalel with a divine spirit that allows him to excel at every craft.

So why does God need to appoint Oholiab as well? Ibn Ezra, a 12th-century commentator, suggests that while Betzalel was skilled in every craft, it was hard for him, as it is for many creative geniuses, to teach others. Since Betzalel descended from Miriam and enjoyed distinguished social standing, while Oholiab was from the more modest tribe of Dan, I would add that Oholiab’s upbringing also may have made it easier for him to relate to “everyone whose heart lifts him.” Oholiab’s great contribution to the Mishkan was his ability to instruct these untrained volunteers, to channel their enthusiasm towards artistic beauty.

Perhaps Oholiab is the unsung hero of this week’s portion. Perhaps he understood that amateurs can create vibrant art together, exciting because it is the product of an outpouring of communal love. Even more, as our Torah specifies, he may have also understood that shared pursuit of beauty and joy, whether for the Mishkan or the Mummers parade, causes people “to draw near” (Exod. 36:2) to their art, to each other, and to their Creator.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Just a few weeks earlier I had previewed the route, and on that sunny day we could see for miles and miles. Not today. I felt terrible for the students—so much effort, and then no vista for a reward. But they responded with delight to the glorious cloud cover. Deprivation of the senses allowed for an expansion of spirit. We knew that there was a substantial reality just beyond the clouds, but our inability to observe it directly made it that much more majestic. I relaxed and joined my students, my teachers, in gratitude and wonder.

I think often of that moment on Giant Mountain when I read the dramatic closing lines of Exodus. After all the effort to design, build, and assemble the Tabernacle, the divine glory enters the structure as a cloud, driving out Moses and obscuring the sacred precincts from view. In the priestly sections of the Torah, the divine glory (kavod) is enveloped by cloud cover, apparently to protect the people. Israel Knohl argues that these depictions also “serve to stress the impersonal aspect of divinity and to avoid anthropomorphic imagery” (Sanctuary of Silence, 130). Yet it could be that the clouds make divinity more approachable and give license to the imagination to find God in the mysterious mist. Divine presence will no longer be limited to the mountaintop but will be accessible to all, right in the center of the camp.

But not for long. After the incident of the golden calf, Moses moves the Tabernacle outside the camp—an apparent rebuke to the people for their insolence and “stiff necks.” Still, the Torah states that anyone who seeks God can step out of camp and approach the Tent of Meeting. Indeed, everyone could watch Moses doing just that, speaking face to face with God, who appeared in the guise of a cloud, (Exod. 33: 1–11). The divine glory has departed the camp, but not gone too far. All it takes is willingness to step outside to where the cloud and the glory await spiritual seekers.

Generations later Solomon will dedicate the Temple, saying, “The Lord has chosen to abide in a thick cloud” (I Kings 8:12; cf. II Chron. 6:1). This text, which is our haftarah for Shabbat Pekudei, demonstrates the persistence of the cloud as an Israelite metaphor for divine presence. The Midrash (Mekhilta Derabbi Yishmael, Pisha 12) asks: When did God choose to dwell in the cloud? It answers with another verse, Lev. 16:2, “For I appear in the cloud on the cover [of the Holy Ark].” What is interesting here is that the cloud of Leviticus refers not to a supernatural wonder, but to the smoke made by the High Priest: as we read in v.13, “He shall put the incense on the fire before the Lord, so that the cloud from the incense screens the cover that is over the [Ark of the] Pact, lest he die.” God dwells also in clouds created by humans.

There is a progression at play from the remarkable and unrepeatable moment of revelation on Sinai to the ongoing experience of our ancestors in the Tabernacle and Temple. God dwells in thick cloud—but where can that cloud be found? We who have not had the direct experience of Sinai, nor witnessed the clouds of glory over the Tabernacle, nor even seen the priest enter the Temple to burn incense on our behalf—where can we experience the divine glory?

We have two access points, both necessary. We may not be high priests, and we may not burn the sacred incense, but we do have the power to pray. In Psalm 141:2, David says, “Take my prayer as an offering of incense.” The Rabbis cite this verse to prove that prayer can take the place of sacrifice (BT Berakhot 6b; Sifre Devarim 41). God dwells in the mystery of invisible energy when a person or a group of people create a metaphorical cloud of glory. I cannot explain the power of prayer, but I know that it is in worship that I come closest to experiencing the divine presence.

The snowy forest. Photo by Rabbi Nevins, February 2019.