I and i: VaYikra.25

 I and i

D’var Torah on Parashat Va-Yikra

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 4, 2025

For students of the Hebrew language, or at least those who want to study Torah, the Torah scroll is probably not the best place to begin. For one thing, the hand-written text contains no vowels and no punctuation. Paragraphs may sometimes be indicated by a wider space between the words, but chapter headings or parshiyot—the division into weekly reading portions—are a later addition to the text, and the scroll itself shows no sign of these.

Still, there are some cues that help us find where we are in the reading. A vertical space of about two finger widths separates between the individual books. Additionally, certain letters in the text are written larger or smaller than others—all following very exact rules specified by Jewish law (Halakha)—and all bearing various explanations for the variances.

A prominent example is found in this week’s Torah portion, Va-Yikra (“[God] called,” Leviticus 1:1—5:26). In the very first word of the text, the final letter, א, (aleph) is smaller than the first four: ויקרא. Several explanations are given for this.

First is the understanding we gain from the narrative itself. At the end of the book of Exodus (last week’s portion) we read of the completion of the Tabernacle. Even though it is a conclusion, it is also a beginning, as when one first sits down to a game of chess and views the board. All the pieces are in their proper places; everyone knows their role and function. The Tabernacle is the result of the contributions made by every Israelite, each according to their talent and ability, and at this point they all stand at a respectful distance, waiting to see what might happen next. God’s Presence, in the form of a cloud, then descends upon the Tabernacle, while Moses—who gets all the credit for this sacred task—waits patiently outside, waiting to hear God’s call to enter. The end.

Now, as the third book, Leviticus, begins, God indeed “calls” Moses. So why the small letter, א? This invitation to enter the sacred space in which God’s Presence dwells should be the jewel in Moses’s crown, yet for some reason it is diminished. Some rabbis propose that this is an illustration of Moses’s humility. In no way, shape or manner is Moses to be equated with God, and no one understands that—or desires to transmit this understanding—better than Moses himself.

For other commentators, the small aleph indicates that in obeying God’s commandments we must be as diligent with the larger principle as with the smallest details. With this in mind, it became a tradition hundreds of years ago to begin teaching the Torah to young children starting with the book of Leviticus. Let them start when they are small, and they will grow to perform great mitzvot.

A simple search will come up with other, equally wonderful, interpretations. But they all become distilled into one teaching: the difference between God and humans begins right here.

It’s a difference that in ancient times often was blurred. Kings and emperors would cloak themselves with the features and powers of gods. In some cultures and religions, a prophet was often conflated with a divine being, or at least was presumed to be a welcome and frequent visitor to the heavenly court.

Theology aside, within the constraints of the human race, we still find those who fancy themselves more powerful than others. Many of us measure our worth by the money, women or cars we possess, or by the number of followers and likes we get on the social media.

And maybe that’s another reason for the small aleph in the title of this week’s Torah portion—to remind us that our egotism and conceit are no more than an empty shell, an image we fashion to mask our fears and insecurities.

Of course we must not minimize the effect of our contributions. Eradicating diseases, bringing knowledge and opportunity to the disadvantaged, sheltering the homeless and refugees from war, poverty and persecution—these are the true values by which we should measure our worth. These are the true answer to God’s calling to us, our truest response to God’s command that we be holy. 

As many of our prophets—Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Amos among others—have taught, God doesn’t need our offerings of food or drink. In all cultures, sacrifices were seen as a way of reaching the realms of the divine. So too, in the Torah, the book of Leviticus contains detailed lists and instructions for the sacrifices we are required to offer. In Jewish thinking, however, sacrifices are not offered simply to pacify the wily gods, or get them drunk or fattened enough so they go to sleep and leave us alone, at least for a while. As defined in Leviticus, sacrifices have many reasons and purposes. But one of the most important lessons is that when we offer something meaningful, something we value, no matter how small, to the betterment of society or the world, we are actually removing from our faces the masks of egotism and selfishness. By giving of ourselves, we gain so much more in return. We gain the gratitude of our community; and we gain God’s blessing.

Aleph is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet; everything else flows from this humble beginning. Aleph, of course, is also the first letter in the name we use to address God when we pray or say a blessing. But aleph is also the first letter in the word ani, the word I use in referring to me. When God speaks, as it were, the aleph in God’s name is capitalized. But when on the other hand we respond to God’s call, each of us should see ourselves as a lower case i, a small aleph, following the example set for us so long ago by Moses, the greatest law-giver of all time, and yet the one described by God’s own words as, “Very humble, more than all men who were on the face of the earth (Num 12:3, NKJV).”

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman 

When Perfection Meets Reality: Pekudei.25

 

When Perfection Meets Reality: Pekudei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 27, 2025

This week's Torah portion, Pekudei ("Inventory," Exodus 38:21--40:38), brings to an end the exciting yet turbulent story of the Exodus. Exodus, the second book of the Torah, begins with slavery and genocide, but ends triumphantly, as the Israelites--having received the Torah and built a magnificent sanctuary--finally find themselves on their way to the Promised Land. In Hollywood movies, this isn't exactly the way second installments usually end. This happy ending does not give the audience (or the studios) a cliffhanger for a third installment. So what gives?

The completion of the Tabernacle represents perfection. In fact, the Torah uses the same word to describe it that was used earlier, in the book of Genesis, to underscore the perfection of God's work of Creation. In Genesis, God transforms tohu va-vohu ("utter chaos," Gen. 1:2) into a vast and majestic structure of beauty and order. Likewise, in the story of Exodus, Moses succeeds in turning the Israelites from a "mixed multitude" (Ex. 12:38) into a unified and purposeful nation. Building the Tabernacle--the narrative occupies nearly half of the entire book--is symbolic of this transformation. The Israelites are no longer slaves; their labor at this point is accomplished through inspiration and free will, not coercion and duress. The "inventory" of all the work and materials that were needed for this creation reminds us that this magnificent structure didn't just happen. True peace--shalom--never just happens. Making peace means repairing the damage, assembling and putting together all the broken pieces. Moses's role first in freeing the Israelites and then uniting them was not simple or easy. All God had to do was to speak the words, and the world came into being. Moses's task was much more difficult. He first needed to discover within himself the will and the courage to overcome his fears and physical challenges. Then he had to stand up again and again against those who opposed his vision and path. Worst of all, at the very moment that should have been the glorious culmination of all his work, as he comes down from the top of Mt. Sinai with the tablets of the Ten Commandments in his hands, Moses instead has to face the complete undoing of everything he had struggled to accomplish: the Israelites have turned back into a wild mob as they dance in ecstatic revelry around a sculpted idol, the Golden Calf. As many commentators have observed, building the Tabernacle was the tikkun--the repair work--that was necessary in order to rebuild the nation after this fall. The task of bringing shalom--wholeness--to a people that, like the shattered pieces of the Tablets of the Law, had broken down in every way, became a sacred project. It was, in the end, an act of true and holy "completion," bringing sh'leimut--wholeness and perfection--to a chaotic world.

But perfection has no place in the world of reality as we know it. With the sacred work of constructing the Sanctuary completed, we are left asking ourselves, now what? The Tabernacle represents God's Presence among us, but how do we approach it? If only Moses and Aaron are permitted to enter it, how do we, the people, connect to God? The answer--at least for those days--is through sacrifices. The next book of the Torah, Va-Yikra, will describe the different kinds of sacrifices that will connect the People with God. And then--the civil laws that will be needed to connect us to one another as a sacred community and--in Moses's sublime vision--a nation of priests. 

Seen as a whole, Pekudei is more than an inventory, more than the sum of its parts. This portion is a microcosm of the entire Torah, offering us not only a vision of a perfect future, but also directions for getting there, a pathway, step by step, to the Promised Land. 

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

Creating a Holy Congregation: Vayak'hel.25

Creating a Holy Congregation

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayak’hel

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 20, 2025

The common witticism has it that where there are two Jews, there are three opinions. While amusing, the saying actually implies that at least one of the two Jews might hold two opinions about the matter they're discussing. Or that there might even be a third possible outcome (or more that no one had thought of yet). The joke can also suggest that Jews are argumentative and can never agree. It all depends on the point of view of the participants, who makes the final decision, and who's telling the joke. It isn't always a positive stereotype.

While we laugh and perhaps agree with the observation, it's a fact that our holy texts are filled with arguments. Some are strictly between individuals, others may be divisive issues among us as a society, and of course there are the arguments we have with God. And settling an argument wasn't always peaceful. Whatever Cain and Abel argued about (and the Torah leaves that up to our imagination), the end was that Abel lost his life. The Talmud tells us about Hillel and Shammai--two of the most influential early rabbis of the first century--whose disputes are legendary (including how to light the Hanukkah menorah, and how to place the mezuzah on our doorposts). While relations between the two rabbis themselves were said to be friendly and even warm, their students, Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai (the School of Hillel and the School of Shammai), often fought among themselves, until "a Divine Voice emerged and proclaimed: Both these and those are the words of the living God" (Talmud, Eruvin 13b). Making peace around issues we're passionate about isn't always simple. Sometimes we can work out a compromise. But at other times, it's important to understand that different opinions can be equally valuable. Being able to see an issue from various angles is advantageous, as it helps us make decisions based on a wider perspective, while at the same time enabling us to think ahead and visualize the possible outcomes of our decisions and choices.

But the Torah also describes those rare occasions when the Israelites unite "as one voice." In Exodus 19, and again in chapter 24, when the Israelites are offered the Ten Commandments, they reply "as one," נעשה ונשמע--"All that Adonai has spoken we will faithfully do!" (JPS 2006). 

In this week's Torah portion, Vayak'hel ("Moses assembled," Exodus 35:1--38:20) we have yet another example. After receiving the instructions for building the Tabernacle, Moses repeats them to the Israelites. What follows is almost miraculous. In almost two full  chapters, the Torah describes how everyone in the congregation brought in what they could: "Every man and woman, all whose hearts moved them to bring anything for the work that Adonai... had commanded to be done, brought it as a freewill offering to Adonai" (Ex. 35:29). Material goods such as gemstones, gold, silver, copper and brass, expensive dyes, tanned skins and woven tapestries, were brought forth voluntarily, while those individuals whose talents lay in construction, weaving or any other kind of labor donated their particular "wisdom of the heart," their unique abilities. Amazingly, but not surprisingly given all that cooperation, the contributions exceeded all expectations, and an order was issued for the donations to stop. A fundraiser's dream!

But the beauty of this story is found not only in the generosity and good will that the people showed. It's in the timing. The story of the construction of the Tabernacle follows on the heels of the incident of the Golden Calf, considered by many the greatest sin perpetrated by the Israelites against God. At this point in the storyline, the Israelites not only show their remorse; they engage in repair of the damage. They participate in what the Rabbis call tikkun, healing and transformation. That's what the construction of the Tabernacle was really all about. 

Vayak'hel actually begins with a reminder to observe the holiness of Shabbat. In a more contemporary discussion about Shabbat, the question comes up, how should we greet one another on Shabbat. There are, naturally, two opinions. While the Ashkenazi (eastern European) tradition is to say "gut Shabbos" (Yiddish for "good Shabbat") the more common greeting today is Shabbat shalom--a Sabbath of peace. Why is peace greater than good (especially with the understanding that the Torah uses the word "good" to describe God's work, basically giving a new meaning to "good” — "holy")? Because making peace—shalom—is actually the most difficult and therefore the most important mitzvah of all. Sometimes peace has to be imposed from above, by an outside, greater force. Ideally however, shalom means repairing, mending, fixing that which is broken and making it whole again. The building of the Tabernacle in the Wilderness was such a project. It brought peace and unity to the entire people, which just so recently was riven by anger and frustration. The very act of terumah, the freewill donations that the people bring forth, in which everyone participates, is sacred. It expresses our people's ultimate achievement, a sacred assembly in which everyone steps up, each bringing their unique talent and gift in order to create a sacred space, a place where everyone is equal, in which everyone's contribution counts equally, a place where everyone is welcome and where peace—shalom—may be found.

Vayak'hel, the penultimate portion of the book of Exodus, is one of those rare occasions in which we see the myriads of individual Israelites—diverse, opinionated, stubborn and obstinate—come together as one. Their common mission transforms them from the "mixed multitude" that they were when they came out of Egypt into a kehillat kodesh, a holy congregation. They are made holy through the work that they do, through the freewill offerings that they bring forth, and through their acceptance of one another as equal partners in this sacred, collective mission. 

We may still argue and debate, discuss and dispute. Yet our commitment to our traditions and the many and varied contributions we make to our temple and community also continue to unite us, thousands of years after the wondrous example set for us in the Torah.

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

A Covenant for All Time: Ki Tisa.25

A Covenant for All Time

D’var Torah on Parashat Ki Tisa

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 12, 2025 

The early Talmudic Rabbis coined a phrase in Hebrew that is still in use today: “The Holy One, blessed be He, created the remedy before the sickness” (הקדים רפואה למכה). In other words, even before we find out what the problem is, the solution is already there. All that remains for us is to make the connection. So it is with this week's Torah portion, Ki Tisa ("When you take a census," Exodus 30:11--34:35), one of the most important portions in the entire Torah.

This is the portion where we learn of the failure of faith of the Israelites, only weeks after receiving the Ten Commandments. While Moses is busy on the top of Mt. Sinai, communing with God and receiving from God's own hand the two Tablets of the Law (and admittedly, he's gone a long time), the Israelites gang up on Aaron and force him to create the Golden Calf.

It was a major failing, but one that is understandable. People need visible images to sustain their faith. Imagination is good for a while; faith without proof is admirable. But the great challenges of reality force us to seek proof for what we believe. Perhaps Aaron understood this better than Moses, which is why he agreed to the demands of the Israelites (and escapes any punishment). Moses and God however are incensed by this failure.

Yet—following a dramatic argument between Moses and God—God ultimately agrees to forgive the Israelites. Moses reminds God of humanity's inherent weakness: We are, after all, imperfect and fallible, formed of clay and dust. In a famous declaration, repeated several times on Yom Kippur—Adonai, Adonai (Ex. 34:6-7)—God commits to restrain anger and wrath, to mete out not only justice but also mercy and compassion. Without question, there will be consequences to all our deeds--consequences which, for better or worse, will carry on for generations after us. And of course there can be no forgiveness before repentance and repair ar. But in the end there will be forgiveness.

It's a great story, but there's an even bigger question that lies behind it: Is the Covenant between God and Israel eternal; and—if broken—can it be repaired.

And here is where the "remedy" the rabbis speak of comes in.

Earlier in the portion, yet before the incident of the Golden Calf, God throws us a lifeline: Shabbat. V'shamru V'nai Yisrael et ha-Shabbat (Ex. 31:16-17), "The Israelite people shall keep the Sabbath, observing the Sabbath throughout the ages as a covenant for all time: It shall be a sign for all time between Me and the people of Israel. For in six days Adonai made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day [Adonai] ceased from work and was refreshed."

Our commitment to God can be expressed in many ways. But in the end, Shabbat is the foremost sign of the eternity of God's Covenant with us. We may wrestle with God, we may question God's intentions. But as long as we observe Shabbat, as long as we remain committed to tikkun olam, carrying on the sacred, ongoing work of creation, God remains our God, and we remain Israel, the People of God. God's Covenant with Israel is “for all time.” It is eternal.

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Way We See and the Way We Are Seen: Tetzaveh.25

The Way We See and the Way We Are Seen

D’var Torah for Parashat Tetzaveh

March 6, 2025

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The clothes we wear tell others--as well as ourselves--how we see ourselves. In the privileged world we live in, we have different outfits for different occasions. Maybe even several sets. Our children learn quickly that if they don't wear the right labels, they may not be accepted into a particular group at school or on the playground. We wear baseball caps that tell the world what team we root for, and jerseys that proudly display our favorite player. In Venice, Rio, New Orleans and other places around the world, it's Carnival time, which means the most elaborate and colorful costumes that often display more skin than they actually cover. (Of course, that reminds us of Bianca's no-dress at the Golden Globes, and Kanye's ad for a t-shirt with a swastika emblazoned on it. Call it a fashion statement.) The "Oscars" are a bit more respectable, thankfully, though the big buzz the next day is always who looked more glamorous in what ostentatious and outrageously expensive gown that they'll never wear again.

That's what makes this week's Torah portion, Tetzaveh ("Command," Exodus 27:20--30:10) so astonishing. The Torah instructs us to look into our hearts and deeds, not our clothes! And yet, here we have an entire chapter dedicated to a detailed description of the High Priest’s sacred vestments: The most expensive material, woven with "Threads of gold, blue and scarlet yarn and fine linen" (Ex. 28:5), hemmed with gold bells, along with an outer robe laced with gold chains, a sash and a turban made with the same materials, all topped off with a breast plate and shoulder epaulettes of pure gold with inset rare and expensive gems. The sight must have been something to behold--all serving of course one function: to elevate the priest above all other members of the people. 

And yet, for the priest himself, the outfit could not have been less comfortable. First of all, its sheer weight must have made it a heavy burden, difficult to wear for any length of time. Imagine wearing all that "stuff" under the blistering rays of the desert sun, day in and day out! What must have made it worse, however, is that this outfit didn't belong to you. It wasn’t about you; it wasn’t an extension of you. The gemstones were more than an expensive label advertising some exclusive couturier from Persia or Babylon. Instead, engraved into these brilliant stones were the humble names of the Tribes of Israel. Awed by the trappings of power, it would have been easy for the priest to become distracted by all that. But the names, pressed against his heart, always before his eyes, served as a constant reminder of his duties. For all their shining splendor, the sacred vestments were actually no more than a shell, a coverup for the ordinary, fallible and mortal human being that the priest really was. What he saw reflected in all those gold ornaments was not his own face, but rather the faces of the common folk who came to him seeking relief and support, and perhaps a small measure of holiness in their ordinary lives.

In the ideal world envisioned by Moses, we would all be a Nation of Priests, there not only for our own glory and fame, but present for each other, to listen, support and, when necessary, offer a helping hand. May we all learn to see beyond the façade and false pretenses we put on, to judge one another not by the clothes we wear but by the kindness we show. And may we, like Aaron, always be aware of the weight of responsibility placed upon us--to instill holiness into the ordinary, to recognize that God's Presence dwells not only around and beyond us, but also inside each one of us.

© 2025 By Boaz D. Heilman

Mourning to Joy: Preparing for Purim.25

 Mourning to Joy: Preparing for Purim 

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 28, 2025

Today is Rosh Chodesh—the first day—of the Hebrew month of Adar. We learn from the Talmud (Ta’anit 29a) that “When Adar begins, joy increases.” There are a couple of reasons for this teaching. Adar, after all, represents the very last stretch of winter and the first stirrings of spring. A bit like the days we’ve been enjoying here lately: more daylight and warmer temperatures; green grass begins to sprout, and the chattering of birds is noticeably louder. The hundreds of geese that like to graze in the field across from our house are beginning to stir too, flexing their wings in preparation for the journey north that they will soon undertake. 

And then, of course, Adar is also the month on which the holiday of Purim occurs. Purim is probably the most joyful festival in the Jewish calendar. It is accompanied by revelry and festive meals, exchange of sweets with our neighbors and friends, and charity to the poor. But Purim—I guess like all our other holidays—also has its darker undertones. 

The sacred text we read on Purim is the Scroll of Esther—a strange little book which, despite being part of the Bible, never once mentions God. Some say that it is actually the first purimspiel—a masquerade meant to entertain even as it reminds us of events that may or may not have happened thousands of years ago.

And yet, despite the humorous elements in the story, there are some dark shadows as well. It isn’t only Haman, of course, the dark knight of evil derring-do. L’havdil—to make a thousand separations between evil and holy—there’s also the righteous and wise Mordechai, who overhears two courtiers in Ahashverosh’s palace as they plot to overthrow the king. But is any revolution ever the product of only two men—or is there a wider movement out there that they represent, evidence of political instability in the kingdom? Haman’s designs surely included his own aspirations to the crown, while the antisemitic tropes he stirs in the heart of the king and the general population, catching fire as quickly as they did, emphasize even further the dissatisfaction that must have been prevalent at the time, swirling just under the surface, within the hearts and minds of the masses.

Even the beautiful and courageous Esther shows several facets to her personality. She is an assimilated Jew, who of her own will or because of Mordechai’s instruction, hides her true identity; even the name by which she is known is derived from that of a pagan goddess—Ashtart. 

And then of course, is that entire chapter, the one we usually don’t teach our kids at religious school, where the Jews stand up for themselves in self-defense, killing—at least according to the story, and we must keep in mind that the numbers reflect symbolic significance more than historical accuracy—75,300 of their murderous foes.

Yes, in the end, impending doom turns to joy, and deep mourning to celebration; but the underlying terror must have been intense—a feeling that Jews have felt in Persia as well as every other country where they found themselves living. To this day.

Still, we are commanded to increase our rejoicing this month. That doesn’t mean that we party the entire month long—but we do take the first steps towards celebration and merriment.

To tell the truth, however, this year I’m finding this more difficult than ever. The ongoing war between Israel and the terrorist organization Hamas has caused both deep grief and rage. There was the initial grief we felt the first few days after Oct. 7; and then the pain of the loss over the last few months of more than 900 soldiers and police officers. Even after the shooting ended—at least temporarily—terror attacks perpetrated by Hamas supporters from Judea and Samaria—the so-called West Bank—have been on a steep rise. Terror supporters who call themselves “Pro-Palestinians” have been defacing synagogues and Jewish community centers, harassing and besieging Jewish students on university campuses, and engaging in violent terror attacks all over the rest of the world.

There is grief at the rise of antisemitism—both on the right and left—which until a few years ago we thought was almost gone from the world, and which we now realize is always there, always at the ready to catch fire again and display its true, murderous, evil intent.

And there is also rage. Rage against the horrors we’ve been witnessing for a year and a half now. And rage at the Israeli government, which seemed blind to the danger growing under its own nose.

Someone asked me just the other day, whether I saw any similarity between the Israel-Hamas war and the 1973 Yom Kippur War. Both, after all, began on a holy day; both seemed to catch Israel unprepared. But there is a difference. We now know that in 1973, Israel’s government—including the mythic hero Moshe Dayan and the beloved Prime Minister, Golda Meir, knew in advance about the impending attack. On October 7, however, evidently we didn’t.

On the news from Israel—which I follow regularly, thanks to the Internet— earlier today a commentator spoke eloquently and yet forcefully, calling the current government a narcissistocracy. Long-gone are the inspirational and beloved leaders who saw the Jewish People’s safety and survival as their primary goal. Far removed, those in power today seem to have another prize before their eyes: their own power and glory. 

If Mordechai kept his eyes and ears side open enough to catch the whispering of two revolutionary guards, the intelligence unit of the famed IDF—the Israel Defense Force—engaged in precisely the opposite. It shut its eyes, was oblivious to the most obvious maneuverings going on just a few kilometers from Israel’s borders. The terrorists themselves were surprised at the lack of reaction that they encountered.

Then, on top of all this has been the frustrating dribbling of the hostage return, the shameful manner in which the hostages were exhibited to a jeering and cursing crowd before they were handed over to Israel; the physical condition they came back in—their gaunt and thin frames reminiscent of Nazi Concentration Camp survivors. The grief we felt at last week’s return of the remains of Shiri Bibas and her two small sons—Ariel, who was four when he was kidnapped, and his brother Kfir, who was not even one year old; the carelessness displayed by Hamas when it was discovered that Shiri’s coffin contained not the remains of the sainted mother, but of an anonymous Gazan woman; the heartbreaking return, on the same occasion, a week ago Saturday, of the body of Oded Lifshitz, z”l, a peace activist who was one of the founders of Kibbutz Nir Oz, less than 14 miles from the Gaza border, a tireless peace worker who made it his and his wife’s mission to drive Gazans in need of medical attention to Israeli hospitals and back again.

And yet, this month we are commanded to increase our joy. A difficult if not impossible commandment to obey.

And yet we must take heart. Even as I rage and grieve on the inside, I realize what strength the Jewish People holds within itself. Disunited and bickering on most other occasions, Israelis showed unaccustomed unity, as hundreds of people accompanied the coffin of Oded Lifshitz to his final resting place last Tuesday. And a day later, thousands upon thousands lined the streets where the hearse containing the embraced remains of Shiri, Ariel and Kfir slowly made its way to a private burial ceremony, with not one member of the government present, either because of shame, or at the request of the Bibas family. My brother, who lives in Tel Aviv, described the funeral procession, saying that half the country was standing at the roadsides, holding the blue-and-white flag of Israel, while the other half was watching the proceedings at home, all in tears. Orange balloons were let free into the heavens all over the world, with cities and monuments—unbidden, of their own deep grief and compassion—lit up with orange lights, in honor of the red hair of the children whose lives were so cruelly stolen from them. 

But we will dance again. We will sing again, we will write poems again—not the mournful dirges we see today, but of joy and celebration. Isn’t this the truth, after all, that we recite year after year at our Seder tables: “In each and every generation, they rise up to destroy us, but the Holy One, Blessed be God, delivers us from their hands.”

We are going through difficult and dark days and nights today. But that must not cloud our vision. To be sure, an accounting will be exacted—both from the murderous terrorists and those government and military officials who ignored the warnings and thus enabled the horrific violence to take place. And we will yet rejoice, as a nation and as a people, when the hatred dissipates—the hatred that, we now know, will never disappear, but which, with God’s help, will soon return to the murky sewers where it festers in shame and cowardice.

May the upcoming holiday of Purim embody our past-present-and-future hopes and prayers. May Esther’s courage and rediscovery of her real identity and faith set an example for all of us. May our darkness soon turn to light, our sorrow to joy, and may we all soon celebrate this festival as we were commanded, making these, “Days of feasting and merrymaking, and as an occasion for sending gifts to one another and presents to the poor” (Esther 9:28, JPS 1985). 

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

For God’s Name: Terumah.25

 For God’s Name

D’var Torah for Parashat Terumah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 28, 2025

In 1986 I was privileged be part of a group sent on a mission to visit “refuseniks” in the then-Soviet Union. “Refuseniks” is the term used for Jews who applied for exit visas but were refused. Harassed, often imprisoned, subjected to retribution and unspeakable cruelty, most refuseniks lost their homes and jobs. During a period of 10 days we met with scores of individuals and families, all with similar stories, all—but for a few—whose eyes shone with hope despite the hardships they had to endure. 

Among those with whom we met was a group of astrophysicists who lost their positions and were reduced to menial and demeaning work such as sweeping subway stations. We met in a small but cramped apartment and celebrated Havdalah—the ceremony that ends the Jewish Sabbath. Havdalah means “separation.” Its rituals are meant to encase the holiness of the Sabbath and keep it safe within our hearts even as we turn to face the common, ordinary and even profane reality of the coming workweek. 

I had celebrated Havdalah many times before, but this time, something was going on that was beyond any religious experience I had ever had before. As the braided candle was raised and the small spice box made its rounds among us, I felt absolutely elevated. It was an extraordinary spiritual moment that is still enshrined within my heart and soul. 

I recalled this moment as I sat down to write this d’var—commentary—on this week’s Torah portion, Terumah, (“Donation,” Ex. 25:1—27:19). On the face of it, this portion is deceptively simple, containing detailed instructions and an almost-endless list of materials the Israelites would need  for the task of building the Tabernacle—the Sanctuary that would accompany them along all their wanderings in the Sinai Wilderness. 

And yet, with this portion we begin to understand the real purpose behind the Exodus and our redemption from Egyptian slavery.

At this point in the story, the Israelites are surrounded by desert and hardship. Food and water are scarce, and the road ahead looks dreary and endless. They had just received scores of commandments designed to keep them peaceful and orderly, when this extraordinary demand is added to everything else they must do: "They [B'nai Yisrael, the Children of Israel] shall make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell in their midst" (Ex. 25:8). 

People build temples. They always have. Temples have always served as the place where people got together to pray or celebrate. So mah nishtana? What's different in this case? To begin with, in other religions, temples housed statues and images of gods. Not so, however, for the Israelites, who have just been told, “You shall not make for yourself a sculptured image, or any likeness of what is in the heavens above, or on the earth below, or in the waters under the earth” (Ex. 20:4, JPS, 2006). How then, is God to be perceived in this temple? 

A related question that also often comes up has to do with the amount of gold, silver, gems and other material that God requires for this Mishkan ("dwelling place"). Why does God need or require all these riches? In fact, why does God need a Mishkan to begin with? Isn’t it our understanding and belief that God is everywhere, within as well as beyond us?

The key to understanding this paradox is in the word b'tocham, "in their midst." B'tocham could indicate a physical location, but it could also mean within them—spiritually, not only physically.

Rashi--the great medieval rabbi and commentator on the Torah and Talmud--answers the question with one world: Lish'mee, "for my name." 

True, God does not need a physical dwelling. King Solomon, when he dedicates the Temple he had built for God in Jerusalem, exclaims, "But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the heaven of heavens cannot contain You. How much less this temple which I have built! (I Kings 8:27, NKJV). God may not need a temple; people, however, do. We need a place to come to both as individuals and as a community. Just as importantly—and this is where Rashi's comment comes in—this "place" needs to reflect the awesome majesty with which we perceive God. The Temple can't begin to contain God's Presence, but it does need to be awe-inspiring, both for us and for other people and faiths. 

Similarly, each of us can be a dwelling place for God. One way, of course, is for us to recognize that every human being contains the image of God. But this Presence also must express itself in the way we allow God's Image to shine forth—in how we live; what we do for others; in what we do for the earth and all its inhabitants. If we only do it lish'meinu—for our own name, pride and glory, that's only half the job. We need to do it l'shem shamayim--for the sake of heaven. This selfless dedication leads to inspiration, lifting the work of our hands to ever-higher levels, giving it greater meaning. 

In the Torah portion, the rich materials required for the construction of the Sanctuary are symbolic of this higher meaning. In our own lives we build a sanctuary for God using whatever material we might have. A simple act of kindness goes a long way; but we must not let it define us and us alone. It isn't only an expression of our DNA, upbringing or culture. It's a mitzvah that comes from God, a commandment which, when fulfilled, glorifies not us, but rather God and God's name. It must be, as Rashi explains, Lish'mee, "for my name." When that happens, our deeds shine from within, reflecting an inner light that all-too-often disappears behind the tedious and routine details of life.

This is what b'tocham means. Within us. This hidden inner light has the power to elevate the ordinary to the astonishing, to infuse the mundane with holiness.  

It is this light that gave the refuseniks strength to bear the hardships that the Soviet regime imposed on them. For Jews throughout our history, from the time that the Israelites were wanderers in the Wilderness down to our own day, the Sanctuary would be more than the sum of its parts. It would  provide us with light and hope, giving us direction and purpose along all our journeys, from bondage to redemption, from Mitzrayim—the land of trouble and narrowness—to the wide and free expanse of the Promised Land.