Mar 4/06 - Shabbat Terumah

Commentary by Rabbi Alan Green

“The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts. You shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him. And these are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns; fine linen, goat hair, tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, and spices for the anointing oil and the aromatic incense; and lapis and other stones for setting in the ephod and the breastplate. And let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.’” (Exodus 25: 1-8)

Judaism might be called, “the religion of perfect balance.” Never does the Torah veer too far in one direction, before rapidly proceeding to self-correct by veering in the other. The narrative that ran so smoothly throughout the book of Genesis and the book of Exodus came to an abrupt end last week with Parshat Mishpatim, and its description of the most ancient layer of ancient Israelite civil law.

Most of the remainder of the book of Exodus will discuss, in intricate detail, the building of the Mishkan—the portable sanctuary that will house Israelite worship until the permanent Holy Temple is built by King Solomon in Jerusalem some three centuries later. The book of Leviticus will then launch into a description of the different types of sacrifice, as well as the roles and rituals of the priests and levites. With the exception of the episode of the Golden Calf, it will be quite some time before the Torah returns to narrative mode.

Why can’t the Torah just be one long, uninterrupted story? I believe it’s because the Torah itself seeks balance. Judaism is inherently a whole brain phenomenon. Therefore, it’s not enough for the Torah to consist entirely of legends and miracle stories—material which mainly enlivens the right hemisphere of the brain. There also has to be food for the left hemisphere, the intellect, which requires hard-headed instruction for living a life in the real world.

The Torah’s narrative mode reaches a climax with the story of the revelation of Torah and God Himself to the Jewish people at Mt. Sinai two weeks ago. Last week’s discussion of civil law represents a radical swing back into the mundane world of the rules and regulations of life in society. Parshat Terumah then proceeds to split the difference between these two extremes. With its detailed description of the parts of the Mishkan, there is plenty of food for the intellect, and the left hemisphere of the brain. At the same time, the right hemisphere also gets its due, because the whole intent behind the construction of the Mishkan is to convert the lightning flash of Divine revelation into the long-lasting heat and light that can sustain daily spiritual life.

How is this to be accomplished? Through a precise craftsmanship that deftly utilizes all of the materials mentioned in the first paragraph above. The various instruments of worship will include a golden Menorah, a golden ark to carry the tablets of the commandments, a golden table upon which ritual loaves will be displayed, a copper sacrificial altar, and woven materials which will be curtains marking off the boundaries inside and outside the Mishkan.

But how can mere matter—regardless of its artistry and refinement—transmute the awesome, somewhat dangerous energy of the God of Revelation into something useful—something that can nourish the spiritual life of the people of Israel over the long term? Here, an analogy may be helpful.

Imagine a candle flame. The flame provides light, heat, beauty, even emotional warmth. But these wonderful qualities, from which a human being can benefit, are all based on the wick and wax of the candle—simple, base materials which nevertheless effectively confine the flame to a certain space, duration, and intensity.

However, were the candle to fall, and the flame ignited some combustible material, the once benign flame could easily turn into a fiery inferno. As it consumed the house, we could say that it was the same flame, but now, no longer in a useful form.

Similarly, the Mishkan. gold, silver, copper, yarn, animal skins, oil, and wood, skillfully crafted, and operated according to the precise instructions outlined in the book of Leviticus, are to God as the wick and wax of the candle are to the flame. God without the Mishkan is like the flame without the candle: a fiery inferno. In spite of His own best intentions, without a material structure to confine the Divine energy to a certain space, duration, and intensity, God is far too dangerous to be of any benefit to human beings.

According to the rabbis, God has a powerful desire to live within and among us—his finest, most enigmatic creations. God desires with all the force of His will to reveal Himself to humanity, and bring heaven down to earth. But what human being could endure the intensity of such an encounter? In our current state of weakness and confusion, the presence of God and the descent of heaven on earth would be far more destructive than constructive.

Therefore, “Let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.” Let them build me a kind of step-down transformer, in the form of the Mishkan, so that they may benefit from My infinite presence in their little human lives, and in their small world, without the destructive side-effects.

What was true in ancient times, with the Mishkan, remained true in the days of the Temple, and also later, in the days of the rabbis, the Mishna and Talmud, the early houses of study, and the first synagogues. In each case, down to our own day, these spiritual vessels—varied though they may have been—were containers that provided our ancestors with safe access to the Divine presence.

Down through the ages, these containers, used in the proper way, with proper intent, allowed God not only to “dwell AMONG them,” but also, “WITHIN them”—in the inner sanctuary that every Jew, and every human being, carries deep within their own heart and soul. Today, God patiently awaits a similar realization from us, the Jews of this generation, who have only to properly utilize the vessels of Torah, of prayer, and of acts of loving kindness, to gain safe access to the Divine presence Who dwells within, in this time and place.

Shabbat Shalom.