Terumah

AllClass of 2026 Senior Sermons

I once visited this spot with a group of Christian clergy and found myself suddenly weeping over this ancient tragedy. A Catholic deacon named Mark asked that we all embrace and pray together in order to repair some of the hatred and violence of that scene with our friendship and respect. I appreciated his instinct, and it helped. And yet, the image of the Menorah above our heads reminded me of the destruction of our Temple and the two millennia of exile and oppression which followed the sack of Jerusalem.

Sad as the sight of this arch is, I must admit that it is also fascinating. After all, this is the closest that we can get to an eyewitness account of the design of the ancient Menorah, at least as it appeared in the Second Temple. The Torah’s description of the seven-branched lamp stand in our portion () is extremely detailed. It is to be fashioned of beaten gold, with a central shaft and six branches, three on each side. There are almond blossoms and lily cups, all made of pure gold. How radiant it must have been when its lamplight played off the blossoms of beaten gold!

For all of this detail, important dimensions are absent. How large should the Menorah be? Are its branches curved or straight? Are its seven lamps of identical height or not? It would be impossible from the Torah text alone to recreate the Menorah built by Moses. This led to the idea that the Torah is not providing details to build from scratch, but only an allusion to a prior model of Menorah. But where would that have been found?

Ancient Jews imagined that not only the Menorah but indeed the entire Tabernacle was already created in heaven, and that the terrestrial one was meant to be a copy. So for example, a work written shortly after the destruction of the Second Temple, but set before the destruction of the First Temple, reads:

[The true temple] is not this building that is in your midst now; it is that which will be revealed, with Me, that was already prepared from the moment I decided to create paradise. I showed it…to Moses on Mount Sinai when I showed him the likeness of the tabernacle and all its vessels. (2 Baruch 4:3,5, as in James Kugel, The Bible as It Was, 420)

According to the Midrash, Moses struggled greatly to discern how to make this brilliant object. In the , Rabbi Yosi b. Rabbi Yehudah is quoted saying that a menorah made of fire descended from the sky to illustrate the design, which Moses faithfully copied. While this Midrash sounds fanciful, it relates to a close reading of the text which emphasizes that Moses built according to the image shown him on Mount Sinai (, 40 and ).

The medieval rabbis confirmed this account, with Rashi stating that a menorah of fire was shown to Moses—although Rashbam prefers a less spectacular reading, that Moses was able to see it “from himself,” apparently through inspired imagination. The consensus of ancient and medieval interpreters seems to be that the Menorah, and indeed all of the Temple vessels, were not originals but rather copies of the celestial Temple and its objects. This reading is suggested by the Torah’s emphasis that Moses “was shown” models on Mount Sinai.

Although the image of a heavenly hologram is quite appealing, perhaps the Menorah made by Moses is not the first to take solid form. After all, the Menorah is basically an illuminated tree. It alludes back to the Tree of Knowledge described in , and perhaps also to the burning bush described in . The burning bush, too, is a tree that is on fire, yet it is not consumed, just as the golden Menorah is on fire and is not consumed. These images of burning trees are rich and resistant to simple interpretation. They seem to be associated with a special form of intelligence—the flow of secret knowledge from heaven to earth.

When the Tabernacle—and then the Temple—stood, golden trees in their sacred precincts symbolized the possibility of enlightenment. The eroded marble sculpture of a menorah on the Arch of Titus symbolizes the extinguishing of that light, which was a tragedy not only for the Jews, but for the world. And yet, just as the Menorah was not an original but a copy of the divine model, so too are we able to recapture the experience of enlightenment through our own efforts.

We live in a time of division and hatred and violence. The vulgar parade of Titus, intent on replacing a house of peace (symbolized by the Menorah) with cruel entertainment (symbolized by the Colosseum) is a reminder of how far humanity can fall. It is our responsibility to look clearly and discern our ideals so that we too can build an enlightened religious culture.

This commentary was originally published in 2017.

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

And you shall cover it with pure gold, inside and outside you shall cover it,
and you shall make for it a crown of gold surrounding it. ()

These are architectural details of the Ark of the Covenant, the central element of the Holy of Holies, where the tablets of the Ten Commandments will be held and carried. The Ark has a covering of gold, inside and out, and a crown of gold. Four gold rings are attached to it, two to each side wall, and through these rings poles of acacia wood are inserted, which remain in place, even when the Ark is at rest. To what may this Ark be compared? To parents. How so?

The Ark provides a home for the precious items inside it. So too, parents provide a home for the central precious ones in their lives: their children.

The Ark provides protection for these items. So too, parents provide protection for their children, at least when they are young.

And the Ark is clad in gold, inside and out. How might this compare to parents?

The Talmud teaches, in the name of Rabbi Yohanan () that the detail of gold inside and out is analogous to the good student of Torah, who must be the same kind of person inside and out. In , Rabban Gamliel declares the importance of integrity to the serious student of Torah, that one’s inner life and outer life must be consistent (תוכו כבורו). Just as the Ark was covered, inside and out, with the same precious material, the good student of Torah must have integrity, and may not practice hypocrisy. As parents know only too well, children see through parental inconsistency, lack of clarity, and lack of honesty with laser-like focus.

And what about the acacia poles? The Ark was designed to travel. Even at rest, it must always be ready to go. So too, parents are instrumental in helping their children move forward, giving them the training to one day make an independent life for themselves. Parents offer a home, protection, and a way forward. They do so most credibly when they are honest with their children and pure in their intentions, “golden” inside and out.

The Ark of the Covenant is also said by the Rabbis (in�����Ի���) to represent one of the three crowns of Judaism: the crown of Torah. The Ark is described in Terumah as having a זֵר זָהָב, a gold crown��(), which was most likely a design feature of gold molding at the top. The other two crowns are also mentioned in this week’s parashah: the מזבח(the altar, depicted with a gold crown in 30:3) and the שולחן (the table) where offerings were placed in the Holy of Holies (depicted with a gold crown in 25:24). Rabbi Shimon (inPirkei Avot) analogized these three crowns to represent the crown of kingship (the table), the crown of priesthood (the altar), and the crown of Torah (the Ark).

The dimensions of these three sacred objects catch the attention of the Keli Yakar (Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim Luntschitz, 1550-1619): The altar’s specifications are given in whole numbers; the table in a mix of whole numbers and fractions; and the Ark in fractions.

The Keli Yakar (commenting on 25:10) interprets whole and broken measurements symbolically, calling fractions “אמות שבורות” (broken measurements). The altar, which is measured in whole numbers, possesses inherent wholeness or perfection, which finds its most elaborate ritual expression in Judaism in the service of God through the priesthood. The table has both whole and broken measurements, representing a mixture of wholeness and brokenness, of successes and failures, which the kings of Israel reflect. But what could it mean that the Ark, symbolizing the crown of Torah, is composed entirely of broken numbers? He answers this way:

שכל אדם ידמה בנפשו
כאילו הוא חסר מן שלימות החכמה
וצריך למדוד עדיין למלאת חסרונו

“Every person should imagine himself
as if he is lacking some element of wholeness of wisdom
and he must still measure out some more, to fill in his deficiencies . . .”

Even the wisest among us, in the view of the Keli Yakar, is an imperfect vessel seeking wholeness. His own nom de plume, Keli Yakar, means “precious vessel”. Precious does not necessarily mean perfect. He reminds us to regard our tradition with the important attitude of humility.

A person who is truly suited to acquire Torah is a person without pretense or guile, whose inside is like their outside: that person is a truly capable recipient of important teaching. The person best suited to preserve Torah is the person of humility: that person upholds the process of learning because they know there is much yet to learn. The person who combines integrity and humility is truly “golden,” inside and out.

Another feature of the Mishkan (the Tabernacle) is essential to all who would pass on this tradition: namely, tender, devoted care. In parshiyot Terumah, Tetzavveh, Vayak-hel and Pekudei, we see how much meticulous attention is lavished on every detail of the sacred space. Why? Because of its intrinsic value as an object of worship?

No! Terumah is an architectural poetics of the inner life. When we are building something as important and sacred as the place where God and people will meet, or as wondrous as the inner spiritual life of a child, care must be taken, quality cannot be short-changed, time must be spent. When God says in Terumah, וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם, “Make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell within�ٳ��”��(), we can think of this verse as referring to parents and children this way:

[Parents!] Make for Me a sanctuary [in your home],
and I will dwell within them [in your children].

This commentary was originally published in 2020.

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

But giving, we might suggest, is much more than a strategy to get something in return, and it is also far more than just about doing our responsible share in relationships and in our communities.

Why do we give, and what does that teach us about what it is to be human?

The great French Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Levinas rooted his ethical philosophy in the principle that the face of another person reflects a commanding moral power over us as individuals. It is not a symmetry of reciprocity, a state of equality; rather, we are called upon to subsume ourselves in the presence of the other person, to approach our relations with them through an attitude of radical generosity and giving. In Levinas’s view, this posture involves an effacement of ego and an extreme elevation of the other: “Goodness consists in placing myself in being in such a way that the Other would count more than me” (Totalité et infini,277). This responsibility for the other, says Levinas, is not contingent upon reciprocity, upon me getting my “fair share” in return.

Though perhaps we may temper the radical position of Levinas by acknowledging the important ethical state achieved in being able to receive the gift of the other with dignity and graciousness. Sometimes when we are at our weakest, we must surrender ourselves to the gift of the other, releasing ourselves into the grace (hesed) of compassion.

As much as evolutionary biologists teach us that we are wired for self-survival and self-protection, that we have evolved as humans to look out for “number one” (and who can deny that selfishness is a powerful obstacle that we all struggle with?), there is a growing realization among scientists and psychologists that we are also deeply “wired to connect” in relationship to others. Our bodies and our minds are more healthy and fulfilled when we find ourselves in loving relationships, when we give of ourselves to the other with an open heart, with a heart made pure (see Mona DeKoven Fishbane, Loving with the Brain in Mind: Neurobiology and Couple Therapy, 59-63). When we are at our best, we give not in order to receive; we give in the way that the Hasidic masters speak of the ultimate service to God, the act of mesirut nefesh—the giving of one’s whole soul to divinity in the moment of worship, and in the fulfillment of the mitzvot. As Martin Buber taught, the self in relation to other persons, and in relation to the world at large, reaches through these encounters toward the ultimate relation with divinity:

Extended, the lines of relationship intersect in the eternal You. Every single You is a glimpse of that. Through every single You the basic word addresses the eternal You.

(I and Thou, trans. Walter Kaufmann, 123)

The act of mesirut nefesh, several Hasidic mystics teach us, is a process of transcending the prison of our own egotism and self-centeredness; in the moment of devotion, in our deepest prayer, we seek to break open the self-protective walls of our hearts, to make ourselves truly vulnerable to the indwelling of the divine presence. And, as Buber expressed the matter, we encounter the eternal divine You through the mystery and wonder of our human relationships. In opening our hearts to others with generosity and vulnerability, we come to stand in the radiant and transformative presence of God—the divinity that dwells within, not only beyond the human.

Indeed, this deep lesson is reflected in Parashat Terumah, the Torah portion for this week:

God spoke to Moses, saying: Tell the Israelite people to bring me gifts ��(ויקחו לי תרומה) you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him��(ידבנו לבו)

()

It is this last phrase that calls out to me, as it has spoken to generations of Jewish interpreters. The act of divine service is anchored in a personal state of nedavah, of generosity, which is here rendered as the moving and stirring of the heart to the task of giving the gift to God. As Rashi notes in his comments on this verse, the language of yidvenu libbo may be understood as leshon nedavah—the posture of generous giving, one which is marked, according to Rashi, by an attitude of ratzon tov, a good will and full-hearted intention that accompanies the gift. Indeed, we learn from these lines in Exodus that cultivating a heart of giving, being one who realizes the ideal of yidvenu libbo, is essential to both the life of piety and ethics. This, the Hasidic masters teach, is the inner meaning of the word terumah, for it may be correlated homonymically to the verb leharim, to raise up, to reach for the rom and ramah (the height and summit) of divine glory. When we open our hearts with compassion and generosity, when we liberate ourselves from the enslavement of our egos and our need to self-protect, then we and those with whom we interact become truly elevated.

This is further how we may understand the inner spiritual meaning of another well-known verse from this week’s parashah: And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them (ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם) ().

So much of Parashat Terumah is devoted to the building of the Mishkan (the Tabernacle), to the detailed instructions for its assembly, delivered by God through Moses. And interpreters have long noticed the fact that while the text refers to a sanctuary in the singular, God’s dwelling place is in the plural—veshakhanti betokham, (that I may dwell among them). Thus several Hasidic thinkers, following earlier traditions, have suggested that veshakhanti betokham may be understood as the dwelling of the divine presence within the depths of each person. Betokham mamash. The divine sanctuary is recast from an architectural sacred space to the temple of the human heart, the holy interior of the human being within which the divine Shekhinah (drawn from the same Hebrew word as veshakhanti), the heavenly Indwelling, radiates outward from the inner depths of the self. As we stand before the mystery of God in prayer and mitzvot, we seek to be present to the Divinity that pulses within all things, the Oneness of Being that circulates and nourishes all of life. The mikdash (sanctuary) of the heart is felt and known through self-examination and introspection, through attentiveness to the wonder of the world, and through compassion and generosity toward others. In this sense, the act of terumah is a process of mesirut nefesh before God and our fellow human beings. The path of spiritual enlightenment and elevation is inseparable from ethical discipline as much as it about becoming attuned to the sublime holiness that dwells both within and Beyond.

In opening our hearts to the other with whom we exist in relation, in cultivating an attitude and practice of terumah, of giving without expectation of receiving in return, we release the inner divine point of life-giving energy from within ourselves—a hiyut, a vitality, that otherwise remains imprisoned in the grip of egotism and selfishness. For as Levinas suggested, the other person that we encounter in the human realm may be seen as a trace of ultimate transcendence—a reflection of the divine mystery, a presence that commands our ethical and spiritual attention.

This commentary was originally published in 2014.

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

It is easy to be overwhelmed by the multiplicity of ritual details. Moreover, the topic seems to be of little concern to a Judaism that has been without a temple cult for two thousand years. But there are important lessons to be learned if one steps back from the mass of detail to focus on larger patterns and connections. An element from Parashat Terumah,and another from next week’s parashah, Tetzaveh, are especially significant in terms of their relationship to what will follow.

The first is the relationship between the opening commands of the parashah and the story of the Golden Calf in Ki Tissa. The account of the divine commission to construct the Tabernacle inand its performance incontrast with the making of the Golden Calf and its aftermath. Very striking is the similarity between the initial command in Terumah and the construction of the Calf. In the case of the Tabernacle, the Israelites are requested (not commanded) by God to offer gold, silver, and bronze. The precious metals are to be offered by those whose heart moves them to donate it. In the case of the Calf, there is a similar offering, specifically of gold. But this offering is commanded—not recommended—by Aaron and comes specifically from the earrings of the Israelites. The source is ironic because the ear is symbolic of obedience and by telling them to “tear off”(pirku)their earrings��(), Aaron is telling Israel to abandon their allegiance to God. The irony is even greater: at the very moment that Moses is receiving laws about the shrine, cult, and priesthood, Aaron, the future high priest, is abetting apostasy. His later excuse that the Calf just “came out” from the fire rings hollow. Aaron presents his handiwork as “the gods (plural) who led you out of Egypt.”��()

Now the source of the metallic offerings, both in the case of the Golden Calf and of the Tabernacle, was the precious objects Israel took as spoils from the Egyptians when they left Egypt. There, too, was an element of “offering,” because  states that God inclined the Egyptians to be generous with Israel so that they  “willingly” offered them their gold. No doubt they were by now happy to speed Israel on its way at any cost. So the same items were put to two radically different ends, to make the abomination of idolatry and its counter, the sacred shrine and its vessels. The differences between the accounts of the Golden Calf and the building of the Tabernacle suggest that some important theological points are being made.

One of these involves the contrast between the nature of the events. The Golden Calf was made in blind fear and panic, resulting in hasty, clumsy actions. Unlike Bezalel, who supervised the completion of the Tabernacle, Aaron was no craftsman. One can imagine the ridiculously awkward image he must have made. Afterward the Israelites “rejoice” (and Cecil B. DeMille may have been midrashically correct to depict the rejoicing onscreen as an orgy); it seems to have consisted of little more than a loud, incoherent din, as Moses seems to say to Joshua when he hears the ruckus (). The images used present the whole event as an example of chaos.

In contrast, there is a sense of complete, controlled order in the command to build the Mishkan (Tabernacle). God is the architect with the plan (tavnit), and Moses is to supervise the melakhah (work of construction) with the staff appointed by God, headed by Bezalel. Admittedly, the repetition of the details of construction may prevent the narrative from being in any way dramatic in literary terms, unlike the lively, violent story of the Calf from its inception to the smashing of the tablets to the final punishment of the sinners and Moses’s impassioned intercession for Israel. But non-drama is precisely the point. The Tabernacle represents the created order that replaced chaos. The building of the sacred space was a plan, carried out with deliberation. The initiative was divine and a definitive hierarchy was established to achieve the aim: God, Moses, Bezalel, the offerings of the people. The story of creation in  is also deliberately undramatic, taking the form of an ordered chronological list. In both cases, the form reflects the meaning: divine order overcomes chaos.

Yet despite the sense of order, there was no compulsion. The fact that the chain begins with a vision of God gives it coherence and made the people willing to comply. The Golden Calf, on the other hand, begins with democracy at its worst—a chaotic, panicked mob that forces a weak leader into foolish, self-destructive action. The proverb says that, “When there is no vision the people get out of control” (be’en hazon yippara am; ). The same unusual verb, para, is used by Moses to describe what Aaron has done and its effect upon the people: “Moses saw that the people were out of control (parua) because Aaron had let them get out of control” (������’o; ). Their chaotic looseness represents, in midrashic wordplay, a kind of spiritual re-subjugation to paroh, Pharaoh. Against such enslaving chaos the sacred shrine is held up as a model of ordered, creative freedom.

In Tetzaveh, the element that is connected to a later story is the last command in the parashah: to make a golden altar for incense.��() Incense was an essential aspect of all ancient cults, imparting a sweet smell that was believed to ascend to, and attract, the deity and making the smell of sacrificial slaughter more tolerable. God enjoins especially that no “alien incense” (ketoret zarah, v.9)—meaning incense that is improper in some way—be offered on it. The use of the term “alien, strange” for the fiery incense offering draws attention to itself; it is intended to be connected to the last events in the entire cultic narrative, the dedication of the cult in.��recounts how Nadav and Avihu, the two eldest sons of Aaron, offered “strange fire” (esh zarah), probably just the sort of “alien incense” forbidden in, for which they were immediately killed bya flame from God. It is not stated just why their offering was improper, but the deadly results put a negative pallor on what had been a joyous day. God issues a warning that all aspects of the cult performed by the priests who are allowed to come near His own holiness must be done with the greatest care. The assumption seems to be that Aaron’s sons had treated their duties in a cavalier way. The holy must not be treated casually, as something common and ordinary. The same applies to the entire mass of cultic detail in Exodus and Leviticus. Each detail is vital to maintaining the link between God and Israel.

It might seem that such stress on exact and careful performance of the sacrificial ritual would have little meaning today, but in fact the messages arising from the relationship of Parashat Terumah and Parashat Tetzaveh to the story of the Golden Calf and to the deaths of Nadav and Avihu complement one another. The relationship to God must be freely undertaken if it is not to develop into something idolatrous, but it must never be so unmindful of God’s otherness and holiness as to become something casual.

This commentary was originally published in 2015.

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

And yet on Zoom I can play with the harmonies as I sing along, and, when they go wrong, only I have to suffer (well, sometimes my wife does too). I see people I love and care about and can smile without a mask. Attendance is often higher than when we were in person, and as I look at the faces on my screen, I see many who had pulled back over the years who are now re-engaged in Shabbat, prayer, and shul life. 

As a leader in the Conservative-Masorti Movement, I see my own ambivalence around the use of technology on Shabbat or for forming minyanim shared among many communities, clergy, and synagogue leaders. How should we position ourselves? Should the new opportunities provided by these technologies lead the way? Should we temper our enthusiasm? Should we heed Abraham Joshua Heschel’s call to experience Shabbat “independent of technical civilization” and trust in our inherited traditions to hold us together (The Sabbath, 28)?

Ultimately, are God and tradition leading the way, or should our needs, especially in a time of crisis and loneliness, push those boundaries? The Torah provides interesting models for us to explore this question and we can see how our own struggles are reflected in the biblical text itself. 

Let’s start with Abraham. As God seeks to strengthen a covenantal relationship with our founding patriarch, God appears to him and says: “I am El Shaddai. Walk before me and be blameless” (Gen. 17:1).  Indeed, the subsequent “tests” that God presents to Abraham—sending away Ishmael, saving Sodom, the binding of Isaac—are efforts by God to put Abraham “out in front,” testing his moral compass and offering the opportunity to push back on God’s temper and strict sense of justice. 

But that is not the only model the Torah offers. In the story of the Golden Calf the people despair of Moses’s fate as he tarries in bringing back the tablets with the Ten Commandments.  They panic and demand of Moses’s brother, Aaron: “Rise up! Make for us a god who will go before us, for that man, Moses, who brought us out of Egypt, we do not know has become of him” (Exod. 32:1). The commentator Hizkuni notes that Aaron misinterprets what the people are seeking. They are not asking for a “god” (Hebrew word “elohim”) but rather for a strong leader (another use of the term “elohim”), a human agent who will continue as God’s proxy and lead them from out in front with confidence and certainty through the emotional and cultural upheaval that accompanies their transition from being slaves to being free people. 

Finally, in this week’s parashah the Torah offers a third model in our relationship to God’s presence. This week begins a five-portion sequence (with the Golden Calf story at its center) in which the Israelites are instructed in how to build the Mishkan, the tent and “dwelling place” that will be associated with worship and God’s presence throughout their journey to the Land of Israel.   

What is the goal of this project? The text is explicit: “Make for me a holy dwelling place, and I will dwell among them” (Exod. 25:8).  The goal, fully realized in the final verses of Exodus, is for God’s presence to reside, literally, in the midst of the Israelites. In fact, in the book of Numbers we learn how the Israelites are commanded to pitch their tents in a square encampment that places the Mishkan at the center. This arrangement is also clearly a metaphor for how we are to hold God’s presence, doing mitzvot and bringing God into our minds, hearts, and actions. 

If we take these stories chronologically, we see God pushing Abraham out in front, the people demanding a leader (God’s proxy) out in front of them, and finally the realization of a mutual desire for God to live among the people. 

Each model has its merits and its challenges. We might argue that sometimes Abraham falls short of the task of moral leadership. Aaron misinterprets the desire of the people for an “out in front” leader and constructs an idol. And by the end of the book of Exodus, Moses and the Israelites complete the building of the Mishkan, but God’s presence is so intense that Moses “cannot approach the tent” (Exod. 40:35). God’s immanence is both welcome and fearsome. 

I would argue that these models characterize our relationship with our leaders and also with Jewish tradition. Sometimes we insist on our needs coming first and demand that leaders actually follow. Sometimes we want leaders out in front, showing us the way. And sometimes we just want to hold our leaders, God, and our traditions close, and wrestle with them together in mutual conversation. In our Conservative-Masorti Movement, our clergy, volunteer leaders, and community members often shift among these roles as we create a conversation around challenging issues such as the use of technology for worship and for community building on Shabbat. 

If I was to choose from among the three models, I am often personally drawn to the vision of this week’s parashah, which insists that ultimately our goal is for God’s presence to dwell among us, and within us. That requires us to hold our modern needs and our traditions in careful balance, and for us to hold one another close as well. 

Appreciation for assistance with this devar Torah also goes to Aiden Pink, 91�첥 rabbinical student and RA special projects coordinator. 

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

Shabbat Zakhor of 2020 was the last normal Shabbat service I attended. The Megillah reading on Purim night was the last normal communal event—though the sanctuary was only half full as coronavirus anxiety began to take hold. By week’s end, the synagogue, the kids’ schools, and my place of work were all physically closed. The shock of that unceremonious and all-encompassing cessation of life as we knew it evokes difficult memories, even after a year of this new normal—a constrained existence that many of us are still struggling to accept.

Countless people have lost loved ones, their own health, jobs, or homes to this pandemic. For those who have been spared these losses, and who have the luxury of working from home, perhaps the most conspicuous change in our lives has been the confinement to our residences. We have been deprived wholesale of entering the many other spaces that have defined the rhythms of our days, weeks, and years, our lifecycle events from birth to death. So it seems fitting for this fraught anniversary to coincide with the part of the Torah reading cycle that focuses on sacred space.

The four parshiyot devoted to the construction of the Mishkan—the portable Tabernacle that accompanied the Israelites through the desert—can be challenging to relate to. What contemporary meaning can we draw from the fastidious attention to detail regarding the specifications for each part of the Mishkan and the many sacred objects within it? This year, the Torah’s preoccupation with sacred space invites us each to consider what we have learned about space in our year without. These are the lessons that my own reflections have yielded:

Details matter. Throughout history, humans have designed specific spaces for specific needs—be they spiritual, social, aesthetic, intellectual, or utilitarian. The Mishkan was a space for encountering God. Considering its lofty and crucial function—along with the need for a stable structure that could be assembled and disassembled many times with limited tools—it’s no wonder that the instructions were delivered in highly specific detail up front and then repeated upon execution. The dimensions and materials, the ritual garments and many objects of worship, were of the utmost importance both religiously and architecturally. It had to be done right to achieve its purpose.

Do we pay any less attention to detail in the spaces that we design today? Consider the months and even years that go into the design and construction of synagogues and schools, theatres and museums. We obsess over the marriage of form and function in the creation of these structures, each for its designated purpose. As our physical landscapes have narrowed dramatically over the past year, we have found ways to gather, learn, pray, play, exercise, cook, and even travel from our screens. But we are painfully aware of how these virtual substitutes fail to achieve what physical spaces can.

So much of what we need is, as they say, in the details. A virtual Shabbat service lacks the ambient rustle of tallitot and turning pages in siddurim; the acoustics that allow our voices to soar; the glimmer of light reflecting off the polished brass of the ner tamid; the particular religiosity evoked in the final seconds before the ark curtains close. Saying goodbye to someone we love without accompanying their wooden coffin to the grave; without the serenity of a cemetery enveloping us; without the texture of sanctified earth beneath our shoes—how can we mourn and grieve without the physical trappings through which we honor their memory and begin to let them go? Like the many details of the Mishkan, these details of our physical spaces matter. They are crucial tools that enable a space to facilitate the specific experiences that we need. The loss of all that they provide is profound.

We need reassurance that we are not alone. Bible scholar Nahum Sarna (��”l) points out that the core function of the Mishkan was “to serve as the symbol of God’s continued Presence in the midst of Israel . . . . It is not designed, as are modern places of worship, for communal use” (The JPS Torah Commentary: Exodus, 155). From ancient times to the present, people have found ways to connect to the divine in many different places. Jacob became aware of God’s presence in a seemingly random spot along the road upon waking from his dream of the ladder (Gen. 28:10–19). Today, we might feel God at the site of a natural or architectural wonder; in a concert hall resounding with music; in a hospital room with a newborn baby or a soul about to depart from this world.

And yet, there are many times in our lives when it’s not so easy to feel that God is there, and so places of worship play a unique role because they are designed with the express purpose of cultivating our awareness of the divine. The words “Know before Whom you stand” are found above the ark in many a synagogue. Church iconography affirms God’s presence even more explicitly for those who worship there. So, too, the Israelites derived spiritual reassurance from a physical home for God in their midst; “let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them,” God says (Exod. 25:8).

We share that need for reassurance—but we can no longer go to the places where we have grown accustomed to finding it. Religious communities have helped their members cope with the isolation of the pandemic through phone trees, care packages, pastoral counseling, and innumerable Zoom sessions; but I suspect that many people are nonetheless struggling with a sense of disconnection from God out of prolonged absence from the spaces designed to inspire faith and prayer. Spiritual isolation—though rarely discussed in the public sphere—is, I believe, just as prevalent as social isolation in COVID times, and just as unsustainable.  

It isn’t only the assurance of God’s presence that we are missing. The many people beyond our inner circle—the co-workers, coffee shop clerks, gym buddies, and fellow commuters who bring texture and color to the fabric of our lives—have fallen away. In normal times, countless casual interactions serve to assure us that we are not alone—that we are part of the larger project of human life and community. A recent piece in the Atlantic powerfully describes how essential to our wellbeing these “weak ties” are, in ways that we tend to overlook. Our expulsion from ostensibly non-sacred spaces—the office, the mall, the bowling alley—leaves us bereft as well.

Our spaces symbolize our values. The Israelites did not gather en masse in the Mishkan. Rather, a small number of priests carried out the most sacred functions on the people’s behalf. The people aspired to be in relationship with God, and the priests facilitated that relationship through their holy work. The Mishkan thus became “the focus of national unity” even though it was only religious leaders who were there (Sarna, ibid.).

I cannot help but think of the US Capitol in this context. Though most Americans never set foot there, our elected representatives carry out the sacred duties of democracy on our behalf in that space—a space hallowed by our defining national aspiration to enable the life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness of every American. There are, to be sure, many differences between the Capitol and the Mishkan; but both are manifestations of communal devotion to a higher cause. Then and now, we need spaces safe from assault where our leaders can work toward realizing our shared values and ideals.

Finally, on this Shabbat of Remembering, let us not forget the millions of people excluded from these diverse spaces far beyond the pandemic: those bound to their homes by disability; seniors whose ill health keeps them in nursing homes; the incarcerated, confined to spaces that are antithetical to the thriving of the human spirit. The protracted spatial deprivation that most are suffering through only temporarily is the long-term reality of so many of our fellow human beings, and the damage caused by their confinement is deep and lasting.

We are, and always have been, hardwired to rely on designated physical spaces to address our core needs. Notwithstanding the unprecedented opportunities for connection made possible by the digital era, Zoom will never replicate the benefits that we derive from the spaces beyond our homes. As I understand the Mishkan in this new, pandemic-influenced light, I pray that we will soon return to the beloved spaces that now stand empty, with renewed appreciation for what they offer us. The human soul needs space—both sacred and mundane—to breathe and grow.

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

These are architectural details of the Ark of the Covenant, the central element of the Holy of Holies, where the tablets of the Ten Commandments will be held and carried. The Ark has a covering of gold, inside and out, and a crown of gold. Four gold rings are attached to it, two to each side wall, and through these rings poles of acacia wood are inserted, which remain in place, even when the Ark is at rest. To what may this Ark be compared? To parents. How so?

The Ark provides a home for the precious items inside it. So too, parents provide a home for the central precious ones in their lives: their children.

The Ark provides protection for these items. So too, parents provide protection for their children, at least when they are young.

And the Ark is clad in gold, inside and out. How might this compare to parents?

The Talmud teaches, in the name of Rabbi Yohanan (BT Yoma 72b) that the detail of gold inside and out is analogous to the good student of Torah, who must be the same kind of person inside and out. In BT Berakhot 28b, Rabban Gamliel declares the importance of integrity to the serious student of Torah, that one’s inner life and outer life must be consistent (תוכו כבורו). Just as the Ark was covered, inside and out, with the same precious material, the good student of Torah must have integrity, and may not practice hypocrisy. As parents know only too well, children see through parental inconsistency, lack of clarity, and lack of honesty with laser-like focus.

And what about the acacia poles? The Ark was designed to travel. Even at rest, it must always be ready to go. So too, parents are instrumental in helping their children move forward, giving them the training to one day make an independent life for themselves. Parents offer a home, protection, and a way forward. They do so most credibly when they are honest with their children and pure in their intentions, “golden” inside and out.

The Ark of the Covenant is also said by the Rabbis (in BT Yoma 72b and M. Avot 4:17) to represent one of the three crowns of Judaism: the crown of Torah. The Ark is described in Terumah as having a זֵר זָהָב, a gold crown (Exod. 25:11), which was most likely a design feature of gold molding at the top. The other two crowns are also mentioned in this week’s parashah: the מזבח (the altar, depicted with a gold crown in 30:3) and the שולחן (the table) where offerings were placed in the Holy of Holies (depicted with a gold crown in 25:24). Rabbi Shimon (in Pirkei Avot) analogized these three crowns to represent the crown of kingship (the table), the crown of priesthood (the altar), and the crown of Torah (the Ark).

The dimensions of these three sacred objects catch the attention of the Keli Yakar (Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim Luntschitz, 1550-1619): The altar’s specifications are given in whole numbers; the table in a mix of whole numbers and fractions; and the Ark in fractions.

The Keli Yakar (commenting on 25:10) interprets whole and broken measurements symbolically, calling fractions “אמות שבורות” (broken measurements). The altar, which is measured in whole numbers, possesses inherent wholeness or perfection, which finds its most elaborate ritual expression in Judaism in the service of God through the priesthood. The table has both whole and broken measurements, representing a mixture of wholeness and brokenness, of successes and failures, which the kings of Israel reflect. But what could it mean that the Ark, symbolizing the crown of Torah, is composed entirely of broken numbers? He answers this way:

שכל אדם ידמה בנפשו
כאילו הוא חסר מן שלימות החכמה
וצריך למדוד עדיין למלאת חסרונו

“Every person should imagine himself
as if he is lacking some element of wholeness of wisdom
and he must still measure out some more, to fill in his deficiencies . . .”

Even the wisest among us, in the view of the Keli Yakar, is an imperfect vessel seeking wholeness. His own nom de plume, Keli Yakar, means “precious vessel”. Precious does not necessarily mean perfect. He reminds us to regard our tradition with the important attitude of humility.

A person who is truly suited to acquire Torah is a person without pretense or guile, whose inside is like their outside: that person is a truly capable recipient of important teaching. The person best suited to preserve Torah is the person of humility: that person upholds the process of learning because they know there is much yet to learn. The person who combines integrity and humility is truly “golden,” inside and out.

Another feature of the Mishkan (the Tabernacle) is essential to all who would pass on this tradition: namely, tender, devoted care. In parshiyot Terumah, Tetzavveh, Vayak-hel and Pekudei, we see how much meticulous attention is lavished on every detail of the sacred space. Why? Because of its intrinsic value as an object of worship?

No! Terumah is an architectural poetics of the inner life. When we are building something as important and sacred as the place where God and people will meet, or as wondrous as the inner spiritual life of a child, care must be taken, quality cannot be short-changed, time must be spent. When God says in Terumah, וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם, “Make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell within �ٳ��” (Exod. 25:8), we can think of this verse as referring to parents and children this way:

[Parents!] Make for Me a sanctuary [in your home],
and I will dwell within them [in your children].

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