Building Sacred Space

Building Sacred Space
D’var Torah for Parashat Terumah
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Since childhood, I’ve always loved toys that involved construction. Whether it was a mechanical nuts-and-bolts-type game (I think it was actually called “Construction”) with which I built cranes and bridges and other engineering feats; or Legos; or toys that enabled me to become an architect for a day or two and design—and build—all sorts of structures, I would spend hours and days on each of my projects.

In time, the toys evolved. As a pianist, the pieces I worked on became the structures that intrigued me. I saw rooms within rooms, palaces and humble homes, even edifices that resembled cathedrals—complete with bells! Sometimes I felt that my music was a bridge, a path that enabled me travel to far-off places and times, to commune with distant people.

Still later, as rabbi, I have been fortunate and blessed to be able to work on another kind of structure: a k’hillat kodesh, a sacred community.

There’s nothing new in this hobby—and mission—of mine. I came by it naturally, or perhaps culturally. Ever since slavery days in Egypt, the Israelites have been builders. In Egypt we were bound by Pharaoh’s will to build huge edifices, monuments dedicated to tyranny and oppression. Once free, however, we focused on building more useful structures: hospitals, schools, courts, communities, even countries!

In this week’s Torah reading, Terumah (“uplift donation”, Exodus 25:1—27:19), Moses receives a detailed blueprint that he is to pass on to the Israelites. It is an intricate design for a sanctuary, a portable Tent of Meeting, meant to symbolize God’s presence among us. This grand structure was to be the Israelites’ first construction job as a free people.

As slaves in Egypt we weren’t asked whether we would help out or not. We literally had no choice. Questioning was not allowed. Slacking off was punishable by law. The truly amazing thing in Terumah is that, as a free people we do have a choice. We can participate in contributing and building a sanctuary, or we can choose not to. “Speak to the Children of Israel, that they bring Me an offering [terumah]. From everyone who gives it willing with his heart you shall take My offering” (Ex. 25:2).

Freedom means you can say “No,” even to God.

God makes it easy to say no: First on the list of approved materials are gold, silver and copper! Then come expensive linens; finely spun, soft wool and expertly woven yarn; exotic dyes from the north-eastern shores of the Mediterranean Sea; supple leather; all sorts of jewelry and unusual gems; and, to top it all off (literally), the skins of some mysterious animal called “tachash” (the identity of which has brought about all sorts of speculation through the ages).

Rare, expensive gifts that not everyone would be willing to part from.

But the list doesn’t stop there. It isn’t only expensive metals and jewels that God wants. The call is to go out for workers in wood, metals and fabrics; artists and artisans; weavers, embroiderers and quilters. And if none of these suited you, you could always cook a meal or bring a pitcher of water for the workers laboring under the hot desert sun. In short, there is something for everyone to contribute—from generous monetary gifts to a mere pinch of salt.

This common project has two goals: To construct a sanctuary, but also to build community. With everyone participating, with everyone knowing their purpose and function, every single member of the community can feel that he or she is valued for who they are, as well as for what they bring in to the commonality. Why would anyone say no to that?

Every aspect of the wonderful Tabernacle is described in detail: From material to size to shape and texture. It isn’t only the large pieces that matter. Also important are the joints and bars that connect the wooden framework, as well as the loops and clasps that will join together the colorfully woven and embroidered fabric of the Tent itself.

The two most intricate designs are of the Menorah—the seven-branch lampstand—that stood at the opening of the Sanctuary, and the Holy Ark that stood at its innermost heart. The first was designed symbolically like a tree of life. Delicate branches grow into almond flowers, replete with petals, cups and calyx, all hammered out of a solid block of gold.

The Ark of the Covenant is intended to hold the Ten Commandments. Its chief feature is its cover, also made of one piece of gold. It is to portray two angels, one at each end of the cover piece. Facing one another, the wings of one angel are to extend toward the wings of the other, so that together they form a shield for the Ark. It is from within the space between them that God’s voice will be heard by Moses, once the Israelites depart from Sinai and get on with their wanderings.

The symbolism of the two angels is not hard to understand. It is us. Every one of us who is a member of a sacred community, a k’hillat kodesh, is an angel. Our mission is as sacred as we choose to make it. Our wings are our prayers, our wishes, our most sincere longings and hopes. They give us lift from the physical material of which we are formed. When we use these wings to fulfill the purpose for which they are intended, when we choose to share in the performance of mitzvot, the sacred tasks imposed upon us, we become the conduit for God’s voice. It is through our sacred service that we make God’s presence appear.

No wonder that this astonishing work of art was sculpted out of one piece of hammered gold. What more meaningful and valuable imagery—and material—to portray the single most important value of a community than one angel reaching out towards its fellow?

And yet, just so we don’t go too far and call that God—the angel or the gold—we are reminded: It is in the space between them that God’s voice is heard. It is in the silence, in the yet-unformed, in that electrified, sanctified pause between the words that we can perceive God.

As I write these words, Shabbat is descending upon us with its promise of peace. It too is a symbol; it too is a bridge. Celebrating it through communal song, prayer and study is that very space between the angels. It is here and now. Shhhh! Listen!

© 2011 by Boaz D. Heilman