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).

Our parashah characterizes the people contributing their gifts to the Mishkan using some language that has become familiar to us and some that is new.

ְחוּ מֵאִתְּכֶם תְּרוּמָה לַה׳ כֹּל נְדִיב לִבּוֹ יְבִיאֶהָ אֵת תְּרוּמַת ה׳ זָהָב וָכֶסֶף וּנְחֹשֶׁת׃

Take from among you gifts to ה׳; everyone whose heart is so moved shall bring them—gifts for ה׳: gold, silver, and copper; (Exod. 35:5)

This formulation is similar to what we encountered a few weeks ago in Parashat Teruma, introducing the idea of generosity stemming from the heart.

And let all among you who are skilled come and make all that ה׳ has commanded: (Exod. 35:10)

:וְכׇל־חֲכַם־לֵב בָּכֶם יָבֹאוּ וְיַעֲשׂוּ אֵת כׇּל־אֲשֶׁר צִוָּה ה׳

This passage introduces a new term, ״חכם לב״ (literally, “wise of heart”), which appears only one other time in the Torah, in Parashat Ki Tissa in a slightly different form. Most translations, including JPS and Etz Hayim, opt for “skilled.” This reading is bolstered by Ibn Ezra’s explanation that the artisans who came forward to volunteer their gifts were ״בקיאים באמנותם״, “expert in their craft.” So why the use of ״לב״ ? Is this simply for the sake of symmetry with the previous phrase?

The focus on the heart demands our attention. Pure wisdom, or reason, might build a highly functional and efficient Mishkan, but it might not be beautiful. It might not awaken the spirit or welcome the indwelling of God. The Mishkan requires not only artisans with technical skill. “Wisdom of the heart” communicates the spiritual aspect of art and artists. We can also read this as emotional intelligence, a more profound and more nuanced understanding of what, and who, is needed to create deeper holiness.

As the narrative continues, it introduces two new descriptors for those who answered the call to contribute to the Mishkan:

וַיָּבֹאוּ כׇּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר־נְשָׂאוֹ לִבּוֹ וְכֹל אֲשֶׁר נָדְבָה רוּחוֹ אֹתוֹ הֵבִיאוּ: אֶת־תְּרוּמַת ה׳ לִמְלֶאכֶת אֹהֶל מוֹעֵד וּלְכׇל־עֲבֹדָתוֹ וּלְבִגְדֵי הַקֹּדֶשׁ׃

And everyone who excelled in ability and everyone whose spirit was moved came, bringing to ה׳ an offering for the work of the Tent of Meeting and for all its service and for the sacral vestments. (Exod. 35:21)

 ״נְשָׂאוֹ לִבּוֹ״, which is commonly translated in terms of technical skill, “excelled in ability,” can be more literally translated as “anyone whose heart was lifted or carried.” This is reinforced by the next descriptor, נָדְבָה רוּחוֹ, whose “spirit was moved.” Ramban explains that none of the people who stepped forward to volunteer had actually been formally taught these skills. Rather their hearts were lifted–they felt in their hearts that they were drawn to this work and were inspired to excel in it.

These phrases remind us to take care to articulate the value of different kinds of wisdom and different kinds of skill–emotional intelligence, inspiration, and dedication.

As citizens engaged in our Jewish and civic communities, we need to enlist not only our minds and our technical skills, but also our hearts and our spirits to become empathic and creative teachers and leaders. Like the Mishkan, which was constructed with a myriad of materials, colors, and techniques, brought by many contributors, men and women (Exod. 35:22), we must open ourselves to recognize the gifts we bring and those we need others to bring. Being called to do sacred work takes many forms. With dedication, divine inspiration, and recognizing the holiness of all of humanity, we can rise to create tremendous beauty and meaning.

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 to truly appreciate some of the implications of this narrative, let us go back and unpack several of the key verses. Exodus 35 begins with Moses convoking “the whole Israelite community” and passing on the detailed instructions to build the Tabernacle he had received from God. At this point the Torah records the response of the people to these commands:

וַיֵּצְאוּ כָּל־עֲדַת בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל מִלִּפְנֵי מֹשֶׁה׃  וַיָּבֹאוּ כָּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר־נְשָׂאוֹ לִבּוֹ וְכֹל אֲשֶׁר נָדְבָה רוּחוֹ אֹתוֹ הֵבִיאוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמַת ה’ לִמְלֶאכֶת אֹהֶל מוֹעֵד

So the whole community of the Israelites left Moses’ presence. And everyone who excelled in ability and everyone whose spirit moved him came, bringing to the LORD his offering for the work of the Tent of Meeting.

(Exod. 35:20–21)

The Torah goes on to relate the many gifts that the people brought with great enthusiasm, and generosity both of spirit and of material. Pausing to introduce the two “project managers,” Bezalel and Oholiab, the Torah next narrates how these two led the people in actually building the Tabernacle, “to perform expertly all the tasks connected with the service of the sanctuary,” a process that begins at Exodus 36:3 and continues to the end of this parashah and the next.

However, there is an important episode that I have left out in this account, so let us focus our attention on it:

‏וְהֵם הֵבִיאוּ אֵלָיו עוֹד נְדָבָה בַּבֹּקֶר בַּבֹּקֶר׃ ‎וַיָּבֹאוּ כָּל־הַחֲכָמִים הָעֹשִׂים אֵת כָּל־מְלֶאכֶת הַקֹּדֶשׁ אִישׁ־אִישׁ מִמְּלַאכְתּוֹ אֲשֶׁר־הֵמָּה עֹשִׂים׃ ‎‏ וַיֹּאמְרוּ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר מַרְבִּים הָעָם לְהָבִיא מִדֵּי הָעֲבֹדָה לַמְּלָאכָה אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה’ לַעֲשֹׂת אֹתָהּ׃ ‎‏ וַיְצַו מֹשֶׁה וַיַּעֲבִירוּ קוֹל בַּמַּחֲנֶה לֵאמֹר אִישׁ וְאִשָּׁה אַל־יַעֲשׂוּ־עוֹד מְלָאכָה לִתְרוּמַת

הַקֹּדֶשׁ וַיִּכָּלֵא הָעָם מֵהָבִיא׃ ‎‏ וְהַמְּלָאכָה הָיְתָה דַיָּם לְכָל־הַמְּלָאכָה לַעֲשׂוֹת אֹתָהּ וְהוֹתֵר׃

But when these continued to bring freewill offerings to him morning after morning, all the artisans who were engaged in the tasks of the sanctuary came, each from the task upon which he was engaged, and said to Moses, “The people are bringing more than is needed for the tasks entailed in the work that the LORD has commanded to be done.” Moses thereupon had this proclamation made throughout the camp: “Let no man or woman make further effort toward gifts for the sanctuary!” So the people stopped bringing: their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done.

(Exod. 36:3–7)

The people’s exuberance is an important detail in a narrative already replete with them.  Whereas in the narrative of the Golden Calf in last week’s portion, it was Aaron who proposed the donation of the gold, and that and the people’s acquiescence took all of two verses (Exod. 32:2–3), in this week’s portion the people seem to be spectacularly engaged and eager participants—so much so that their energy has to be restrained. As Nahmanides comments:

והזכיר הכתוב: מרבים העם להביא–לשבח את העם המביאים בנדבתם, ולפאר החכמים בנאמנותם

 “Scripture mentions, the people bring much more than enough, in order to praise the people who brought with such generosity, and to glorify the wise men for their honesty.”

Yet if we read the entire sequence that leads to this result, a curious question arises:  The Torah showers such praise in detailing the dedication of the people and the way in which they take the initiative, but . . . Where were their tribal leaders? Where were the princes of the people? We know that when the Torah narrates the dedication of the Sanctuary (Num. 7), it goes out of its way to narrate the contribution of the princes in exceeding detail. But here in the construction of the Sanctuary itself, could they not have been mentioned?

Attentive close readers of course know that the princes were, indeed, mentioned, albeit in a somewhat offhand measure (Exod. 35:27):

…וְהַנְּשִׂאִ֣ם הֵבִ֔יאוּ אֵ֚ת אַבְנֵ֣י הַשֹּׁ֔הַם וְאֵ֖ת אַבְנֵ֣י הַמִּלֻּאִ֑ים לָאֵפ֖וֹד וְלַחֹֽשֶׁן

And the chieftains brought lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece . . .

Rashi, always a fine reader and never one to overlook a detail, notices that the word for “princes” in this verse נְּשִׂאִ֣ם is spelled with what grammarians call “defective orthography,” that is, it does not contain the letter yod that usually indicates a plural (thus, we would expect the word to be spelled either נְּשִׂאִים or נְּשִׂיאִם, if not completely fully, נשיאים). In this case, Rashi reads the Torah with an incorporation of a midrashic insight from Sifrei Bemidbar (7:3):

והנשאם הביאו: אמר ר’ נתן: מה ראו הנשיאים להתנדב בחנוכת המשכן בתחילה, ובמלאכת המשכן לא התנדבו בתחילה? אלא כה אמרו נשיאים: יתנדבו ציבור מה שמתנדבין, ומה שמחסרין אנו משלימין. כיון שהשלימו ציבור את הכל, שנאמר: והמלאכה היתה דים, אמרו נשיאים: מה עלינו לעשות? הביאו את אבני השהם. לכך התנדבו בחנוכתו תחילה.

R. Nathan asked, “What reason had the princes to volunteer their contributions at the dedication of the Tabernacle (in Num. 7) at the beginning, whereas at the construction of the Tabernacle (here in Exod. 35–36) they were not the first?” (in fact they were the last to contribute!). Rather, this was how the princes reasoned: “Let the community donate what they would donate, and what will then be lacking we shall complete.” But when the community gave everything needed in its entirety (and then some!)—as it is said, their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done (Exod. 36:7), the princes asked, “What can we now do?” therefore:  And the chieftains brought lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece . . . (Exod. 35:27). That is why they were the first to contribute at the dedication of the Tabernacle (in Num. 7). 

Up to this point, Rashi narrates the midrash as it has come down to us. However, he perspicaciously adds a detail on his own:

ולפי שנתעצלו תחלה נחסרה אות משמם והנשיאם כתוב

“Because, however, they were lazy (or if you prefer, dilatory) at the beginning, a letter is missing here from their title: for it is written והנשאם (instead of נְּשִׂאִים or נְּשִׂיאִם, i.e., as related earlier, it is normally spelled with at least one yod in the Hebrew Bible).”

Now, the great medieval exegete R. Abraham Ibn Ezra famously dismissed any effort to draw conclusions from the orthography of the Hebrew Bible and regarded all such efforts as “an affair for children” (from Ibn Ezra’s Introduction to the Torah). But Rashi’s comment is rooted in much more than mere orthography; rather I think he correctly intuits that the princes’ reasoning, as the midrash relates it, is faulty and self-serving. They might comfort themselves that they are acting altruistically, but what they were really doing was not functioning in the way that leaders are supposed to function—by leading, and not by following. The ostensible “leaders” hesitated in this instance from performing their true and obligatory role. And the people, whether noticing the leaders’ hesitation or not, effectively bypass the leadership to accomplish the task at hand.

In fact, these past months we have seen this very social phenomenon—of leaders failing to act as leaders, and the people picking up the slack to get the job done—in the State of Israel. Leading up to and following the catastrophes and horrors of October 7, the political leadership failed miserably to live up to its obligations, mainly to protect the citizenry against attacks like the one Israel experienced from the outset, but also in failing to take responsibility for what in Hebrew is termed a מחדל, a “default” in carrying out the fundamental, contractual obligations of a government to protect its people from harm. And what followed the initial attack was that the people took over the responsibilities of government in virtually every sense of the word. “Start up Israel” kicked into gear at every level of society, healing the wounded, sheltering and comforting the refugees, clothing and feeding the soldiers who were belatedly protecting the nation. The energy and effectiveness of Israeli citizens in “making up” the deficiencies of their political leadership has been nothing less than inspiring. And while by no means have we arrived at the point where someone needs to tell the citizenry די והותר, “you have done enough and do not need to do more,” we may take inspiration from the reaction of Israelis to make up for the deficiencies in their leaders and accomplish what they have accomplished in these most difficult of times.

Let us hope and pray that this ingenuity will help lead ultimately to making a peace with strength, and may it bring safety for all innocents.

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).   

The parashah begins with three commands that God wants Moshe to convey to the Israelites. The first is a recapitulation of the command to keep the Shabbat holy: “Six days shall tasks be done and on the seventh day there shall be holiness for you, an absolute shabbat for the Lord” (Exod. 35:2). The second is to collect donations from each member of the community, “whose heart urges him, let him bring it, a donation to the Lord” (35:5). The third command, to build the Tabernacle, echoes one given earlier that was interrupted by the story of the Golden Calf and the shattering of the tablets of law.  Here, with the divine order reestablished, the command emphasizes the generosity of the people and the abilities and qualities of the mission’s leaders. “And every wise-hearted man among you shall come and do all that the Lord has charged: the tabernacle and its tent and its cover and its clasps and its boards, its bolts, its posts and its sockets” (35:10–11). In great detail, the narrative underscores the essential materials needed for the construction of the Mishkan, and two leaders nominated to spearhead the task: Bezalel and Oholiab. As I was reading the portion, I wondered about the proximity of the three commands to each other in the beginning of the portion: keep Shabbat, collaborate as a community, and build a beautiful home for God. Why do we encounter a repetition of the Shabbat commandment as well as a call for the whole community to participate in this undertaking?

Rashi suggests that the command to keep Shabbat precedes the commandment to build the Mishkan to clarify to the Israelites that the construction of the house of God does not override the Shabbat even if keeping Shabbat delays construction. I wonder if the juxtaposition of the commands also points to the sanctity of place following the command of sanctity of time. As Rabbi Yitz Greenberg proposes, Shabbat represents sacred time, while the Mishkan represents sacred space. These two phenomena are closely related. They are parallel to each other, and they play an identical role in the ecology of Judaism. Every Friday here in New York, I recall how in Israel we brought fresh flowers into the house each week before Shabbat. We strive to make Shabbat beautiful and sacred in our practice and behavior, as well as in the way we prepare for it in our dwellings and in our houses of worship.

Why the emphasis on communal participation, under the leadership of Bezalel and Oholiab? Looking at the narrative from the perspective of an educator, I would like to highlight the importance of aesthetically pleasing, well-designed space not only for worship but also for learning. The aesthetics of a learning space not only impact brain function, they also positively influence how students feel at school and cultivate an environment that supports students’ success. John Seely Brown, a scientist and innovator, posits in his book (coauthored with Douglas Thomas), A New Culture of Learning: Cultivating the Imagination for a World of Constant Change, that if we can design physical space, social space, and information space to enhance collaboration, the whole environment turns into a learning laboratory— one in which people will love working, and where they will start learning with and from each other. Interior design for the learning space should take students’ needs into consideration in order to provide the optimal setting not just for academic achievement, but for social edification as well. The classrooms that follow the “sage on the stage” model—that is, a layout with a central platform where the teacher stands and chairs facing it—no longer work.

Additionally, let’s recall the collaboration of Bezalel, Oholiab, and the people of Israel who generously donated to build the Mishkan.   According to Robert Alter, God not only endowed Bezalel with the wisdom and skill to execute the required tasks and construct the Mishkan, but also allowed Bezalel to appoint Oholiab as his chosen assistant. God recognized Bezalel’s ability to instruct the people of Israel, the craftsmen who will carry out the work.  This biblical story introduces the idea of collaboration. A person does not need to be expert in everything and work alone. Far from it, collaboration is productive and creates a better work environment and greater prospects for success.

It is our responsibility to care for the next generation as a collective and not only as individuals; to educate them and care for them not just in houses of prayer but also in houses of learning. What would happen if we took this commandment to build beautiful structures and implemented it for schools? How would it change the face of education? Would it allow for more experiential education? Would it enhance learners’ spirituality, their quest for beauty?  We have a glimpse of the answer in 91�첥’s own recent initiative to provide students with new learning spaces.  These spaces were designed by esteemed architects Tod Williams and Billie Tsien with a clear eye toward the aesthetic, the inclusion of private and public space, the infusion of nature and light indoors, and for the goals of personal contemplation and artistic exploration. We as a community are fortunate to have these new spaces. This morning, as I stepped into the light court, I was pleased to see small groups of students sitting around tables with their professors learning texts. Being able to see the garden, slowly beginning to turn green and bloom, encourages all of us to look ahead to the new season and the return to our old ways of being together.  Let’s welcome the spring with new hope for joyful learnings in a healthy, beautiful, welcoming and safe space.  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).

To begin, we are first introduced to these characters in Parashat Ki Tissa: “The Lord spoke to Moses, ‘See, I have singled out by name Bezalel, son of Uri son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah. I have endowed him with a divine spirit of wisdom, insight and knowledge in every craft . . . Moreover I have assigned to him Oholiav son of Ahisamakh.” (Exodus 31:1-6). Rashi (French commentator, Troyes, France, 1040–1105) explains the qualifying characteristics of Bezalel remarking that “wisdom is that which a person learns from others”; “insight is that which one understands from the heart”; and “knowledge is a gift from God.” In other words, they are gifted with keen wisdom that is imparted from above them, around them, and within them. Intelligence, spirituality, and Divine inspiration are joined together in these remarkable creators. Or as we like to say in modern parlance, the Torah and Rashi have an appreciation for multiple intelligences: the intelligence of the brain (think), the intelligence of the heart (feel) and the intelligence granted by the Divine spark (transcend).

Second, Parashat Vayak-hel adds that they were endowed with the ability “to teach which was given to their heart.” Commenting on Exodus 35:34, Ibn Ezra (Spanish exegete, Tudela, Navarre, 1089–1167) writes that “there are many wise individuals who find it challenging to impart their knowledge effectively to others. And behold, Oholiav is the assistant to Bezalel in the creative work of building the Tabernacle—and he too has the ability to impart wisdom to another.” That said, an inability to teach effectively may derive from the lack of an innate pedagogic talent, a dearth of formal training, or an unwillingness to share. Far from holding this sacred endeavor close to their chests, Torah tells us that they were given the gift of being talented pedagogues—that is to say that they transmitted their wisdom to others. Building a space for God cannot be the narrow realm of two esoteric artists. The artisans must be able to communicate and teach others to be part of this holy project. In doing so, they are quintessential teachers: precise in instruction and generous of spirit.

Finally, Rashi highlights a final important detail about this talented pair. In response to Exodus 35:34, he writes, “Oholiav is from the tribe of Dan which was one of the lowest [status] tribes [of Israel]—coming from the sons of handmaids, and yet God placed him as an equal to Bezalel in the building of the Tabernacle, and [Bezalel] is from one of the greatest tribes [i.e. Judah]. In so doing, God fulfilled the verse in Job, “God does not favor the rich more than the poor” (Job 34:19). Accordingly, Rashi is teaching us that Bezalel and Oholiav are taken from two very different social strata in Israel. As such they model inclusivity. Call it Divine affirmative action. When undertaking a project of this scope, one must be attuned to a spectrum of voices and talents that come from the rich and the poor, from students and teachers, from the affiliated and unaffiliated. Building a place of God demands totality of vision and communal embrace.

Multivalent wisdom, the ability to teach, and inclusivity make Bezalel and Oholiav the perfect choice for the construction of a space filled with God’s Presence. It is indeed an important lesson to all of us—that ultimately, the way we bring God’s Presence into our midst is through effective teaching, wisdom learned from many sources, and connecting with the broad diversity inherent in community.

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