Dear Friends,
This Shabbat, we read Parashat Terumah, the portion where the construction of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary our ancestors carried through the wilderness, begins to take shape as a tangible project.
God instructs Moses to inform the people that “v’yikchu li terumah—let them take for Me a gift; from every person whose heart moves them, you shall take My offering.”
This is fundamentally different from the half-shekel obligation, which was mandatory for every community member—similar to what we might consider dues or baseline responsibility. The gifts for the Mishkan were not obligatory; they were voluntary. They were expressions of the heart.
Interestingly, the Torah uses an unusual phrase: “v’yikchu”—let them take, not let them give.
Commentators point out the paradox. When we give with an open heart, we don’t diminish ourselves—we are enriched by the act. We think we are giving something away, but in reality, we are receiving something far more profound in return: a sense of purpose, belonging, and sacred partnership.
Those with greater means gave more, while those with less gave what they could. However, the measure of their contribution wasn’t the size of the gift; it was the spirit behind it. Everyone had a role and a stake in the project.
The Torah tells us that the response was overwhelming. The people were so moved to participate that Moses ultimately had to tell them to stop.
Can you imagine that moment? A community so inspired and invested that the leadership has to say, “Dayeinu—enough. We have more than we need.”
On the surface, the timing of this project makes sense.
The people had been liberated from Egypt, stood at Sinai, and received the commandments. They now had a framework for law and responsibility. However, they were not yet a community.
They are given a shared task—and a shared space.
“V’asu li mikdash v’shachanti b’tocham—build Me a sanctuary so that I may dwell among them.”
Not within it, but among them.
The rabbis point out that the ultimate goal was never the structure itself. The goal was for the people to become worthy of Divine presence through their collective creation. God is not found in a building; God is found in the relationships we form, the responsibility we take for one another, and the sacred work we share.
However, I wonder if there’s another layer to this.
If we look back just a few chapters, we encounter a very different emotional reality.
When our ancestors crossed the Sea of Reeds, they were filled with ecstasy. After generations of suffering, they burst into song. But this joy was short-lived.
Within days, complaints began.
There was no water. There was no food.
And then comes that haunting line:
“Zacharnu et hadagah asher nochal b’Mitzrayim chinam…”—We remember the fish we ate in Egypt for free…
Free.
As if their lives of slavery came without cost.
It’s remarkable how quickly nostalgia sets in. How quickly the past becomes softened, edited, even romanticized. They forget the suffering and remember only the certainty.
This is an extraordinarily difficult place for any people—and any leadership—to be.
So, what does God do?
God gives them a project.
Not just something to occupy their time, but something to invest themselves in. Something that requires generosity, creativity, and cooperation. Something that asks them to look forward instead of backward.
The Ramban suggests that the Mishkan was, in many ways, a continuation of Sinai. At Sinai, God’s presence descended in a moment of overwhelming revelation. The Mishkan was an attempt to make that moment sustainable and to take inspiration and translate it into daily life.
And that is always the harder task.
It’s one thing to be inspired. It’s another to build something lasting.
By inviting the people to construct the Mishkan, God redirects their energy from nostalgia to possibility, from complaint to contribution, from fear to purpose.
And the people respond.
They give, they build, and they show up.
In doing so, they begin to comprehend something fundamental: that even in a wilderness, even in a moment of uncertainty, they are capable of creating something sacred together.
And I believe that is why this portion resonates so powerfully with us right now.
Because we too are in a period of transition.
Like our ancestors, we cherish our past. It shaped us, sustained us, and, at times, we understandably look back on it with a sense of longing.
And like our ancestors, we are stepping into something that is not yet fully formed—a future filled with possibilities but also with questions.
This can be unsettling.
It can lead us to look backward rather than forward.
However, Parashat Terumah reminds us that the path forward is not found in nostalgia but in building.
In showing up, in giving what we can, in investing in one another and in the future we are creating together.
Because this next chapter of our community will not be defined by a building, a program, or even by leadership alone.
It will be defined by everyone and by whether we are willing, as the Torah says, to be among those “asher yidvenu libo”—whose hearts move them.
And, when we do, we, like our ancestors in the wilderness, will come to a moment when we can look around and realize that what we have created together is not only sufficient… it is more than we ever imagined.
“V’shachanti b’tocham” and the Divine presence will dwell among us.
Not because of the structure we inherit, but because of the community we choose to build.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Daniel Cohen