Our Sacred Spaces – Terumah/Shabbat Shekalim 5785

For several years, much of the second half of the book of Exodus made admittedly little sense to me. Reading through the several parshiyot of which it consists — including parshat Terumah, which we read today- they seemed to me to be little more than schematics, or blueprints for items that are no longer relevant to us. These passages, when juxtaposed with the earlier narrative in Exodus of the Israelites’ incredible journey from slavery to freedom, seemed at one time almost boring to me. To make sense of them while reading was a challenge, and I had trouble seeing why the Torah, whose every word is sacred and contains meaning, found it necessary to include details about poles, sockets, rings, the lengths and materials of walls, and the height and materials of tables. It did not seem germane to the larger story of the Israelites as they gained freedom and accepted upon themselves the yoke of choseness at Sinai. 

Then, after reading what other rabbis and commentators had said, it began to make sense to me. Broadly, parshat Terumah teaches us how to create a sacred space in the midst of the everyday. In addition, we learn to build for and within ourselves a sacred space in which God may dwell and make their presence known.

Parshat Terumah opens with G-d declaring: דַּבֵּר֙ אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְיִקְחוּ־לִ֖י תְּרוּמָ֑ה מֵאֵ֤ת כָּל־אִישׁ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר יִדְּבֶ֣נּוּ לִבּ֔וֹ תִּקְח֖וּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִֽי׃- “Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him.” These gifts are the materials that will be used to build the tabernacle, and they comprise quite a list: colored yarns, acacia wood, dolphin skins (!), oil, spices, precious stones, and other objects. Rashi comments on the words “yidvenu libo” (“whose heart so moves him”) in this verse; he says that “the word ידבנו is of the same root as נדבה; it is a term denoting “good-will”. Furthermore, this word is related to the modern Hebrew verb “ to volunteer” (lehit’nadev), which denotes a willingness to share and a fullness of heart. Consequently, we can see that before the Israelites can begin the process of building a sacred space, they must be willing to do so of their own accord. To create a sacred space begrudgingly is to create a symbol of communal discord, not of divine harmony. 

This idea is also connected to Shabbat Shekalim, which we mark today along with Rosh Chodesh Adar. Shabbat Shekalim serves as a reminder of our communal responsibility for the upkeep of our sacred spaces. As the Torah teaches, each male 20 years and older was to donate a half-shekel as a sort of “capital campaign” for the upkeep of the tabernacle. In addition to supporting the operation of the mishkan (portable sanctuary), it also served as a census of Israelite men. As our luah explains: “In Temple days, this annual tax was to be paid during Adar. Shabbat Shekalim was scheduled to fall before or on the 1st day of Adar as a reminder of the obligation. Today we observe by collecting funds on Ta’anit Esther which support Jewish institutions or other charitable endeavors.”

The list of materials the Israelites are to donate, at first glance, seems like a rather disorganized list of items; they’re in different categories and are unrelated. What could they possibly be used for in tandem? The answer, of course, is the mishkan (the portable tabernacle), yet at first glance the answer may not be so obvious. The building of the Israelites’ sacred space in the desert begins as a communal affair, with each person who wishes to contribute bringing one (or possibly several) of the prescribed materials enumerated. Furthermore, by having disparate materials come together to make a sacred space, the Israelites literally and metaphorically create both their community and a sense of that community. I’m reminded of our own national motto as I consider this process of building a community out of diverse components: E Pluribus Unum. “Out of many, one.”

It is worth noting that while entrance to parts of this sacred space will eventually be restricted to kohanim and leviim (the priests and their assistants), the project begins as an all-inclusive one for the entire community; the kehuna (priesthood) has not yet been established. The remainder of the parsha instructs us, in exacting detail, how to build the objects needed for the mishkan, including the ark, table, lampstand, the tabernacle itself, and the altar, plus their accoutrements, as well as where to place everything in relation to each other in order to create an orderly, sacred space. In the midst of the desert- an area of uncertainty and barrenness- the Israelites are instructed to build a space that is clean, orderly, and well-apportioned so that the divine presence may dwell among them.

To me, this process of creating a sacred space so that God may dwell among the people is directly related to the mitzvah of hachnasat orchim, or welcoming guests. By preparing a space in which the holy presence may dwell, the people voluntarily invite God into their midst and into their community- just how G-d invited Moses into their abode for 40 days and 40 nights. 

Welcoming guests into our house and the ritual of hospitality is not only reserved for our close friends; it is for all who may happen by and need a respite from their travels. Earlier in Genesis, at the start of parshat Vayera, Abraham sees three travelers and hurries to invite them into his tent, preparing food for them and bidding them to rest from their travels. The Maggid, the ritual telling of the Passover story at our seder, begins with an invitation: “All who are hungry, let them come and eat.” We have prepared a space at our table for our guests without being entirely familiar with them. The Israelites, having beheld the divine presence at Sinai and agreeing to the covenant with the words “na’aseh v’nishma” (“We will do and we will hear”), eagerly set about preparing a space in which God may dwell among them. We are each created b’tzelem elohim, in God’s image, and to invite others into our space is to acknowledge and honor the divine within each of us. 

The mishkan, according to my teacher Devorah Steinmetz, is THE point of the book of Exodus. After being freed from slavery in Egypt, will the Israelites ultimately allow the Divine to abide with them and within them? The answer is yes, but as we know, that relationship can sometimes be a fraught one. 

A major lesson of parshat Terumah for me personally is twofold: firstly, I treasure the idea that Judaism, like the tabernacle, is portable. When I bring my tallit and tefillin with me on vacation, or enjoy a Shabbat dinner in a place other than my own home, I am reminded that we are able to create sacred space almost anywhere as long as we have the proper kavanah. The portability of our tradition has been, in a large way, a mechanism for its survival.

Secondly, just as the Israelites create a physical sacred space for God in their midst, so too I strive to create a sacred place within myself through mindfulness. No matter how busy my day is or what I have to do on a given day, I try to find opportunities and moments for being mindful and finding something in my day to be positive about and grateful for. Admittedly, this is not always easy, but it more often than not can be done, and it is a rewarding process.

The sanctuary that we build for G-d to abide in is both within us and outside of us. In addition to the physical sacred space- whether it’s the mishkan in the desert, the Temple in Jerusalem, or here in our very own synagogue- we also have to do the internal work of making room for G-d’s spirit to live within us.

The narrative of the construction of the mishkan is, in addition to being instructions for how to create sacred space out of disparate parts, is a metaphor for finding and constructing the sacred within the ordinary and the mundane. While this may seem difficult at first, it can be extremely rewarding for those who try, “whose heart so moves him”. Shabbat Shalom.