A Sacred Symphony

A Sacred Symphony
D’var Torah for Parashat Vayakel/Pekudei (Ex. 36:1-40:38)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


For my friends at Temple Israel, Boston


I wasn’t born a rabbi.

To be a rabbi, maybe. But born a rabbi—no.

I spent the first half of my professional life as a concert musician, a pianist. I would be lying if I told you, however, that I always enjoyed practicing. No, like all children, I hated practicing. It was boring, and I would much rather spend time with my friends outside. I did like to perform, however, and that’s what drove me on.

It wasn’t until I was in college that I learned how to practice in such a way that it became a joy, not a chore. I learned two important lessons then: First, that repetition of a piece from beginning to end isn’t practicing. It’s repetition. More important was pinpointing the exact difficulty, and fixing that. This little time-saver led to the next discovery: That each time you repeated a passage, you had to make it somehow different. Over a period of time, the best interpretation would emerge.

Practicing piano is, no doubt about it, time consuming (at least if you want to get good at it). There are so many details you need to pay attention to! Each one matters, and the piece as a whole can only be called “perfected” when all these details are mastered. That’s when you really know it.

But additionally, I also learned that sitting in the practice room wasn’t enough. You had to go out and live and experience life and the world so that you could make your music live! Art isn’t a recording. Art is a living experience, when done right.

No wonder that it sometimes took me years before I was finally satisfied with a particular performance or interpretation!


In just such a way was the Tabernacle built by the ancient Israelites as they were wandering in Sinai.

Piece by piece.

The list of required materials—all valuable—and all the specific designs, sizes and measurements sound like a very long shopping list at a Temple Depot Warehouse. Precious metals included gold, silver and copper; fine linen, silk, soft goat hair were spun to make the threads and tapestries; crimson, blue and purple—“royal” dyes—were the major color scheme; and expensive gems were used on the breast plate worn by the priest at the time he officiated services. The number and exact size of each plank and bar had to be specifically adhered to, and hundreds of hooks and gold, silver and copper clasps had to match up perfectly.

And let’s not forget the gorgeous tree-of-life-motif Menorah (the Temple’s seven-branched candelabra) and the Ark of the Covenant with its solid gold top depicting two angels facing one another, their wings spread forward, toward one another, simultaneously providing an additional cover for the Ark. (It’s from the narrow open space created between their wingtips, where they nearly touch one another, that God’s Voice, like some electromagnetic current, would emanate).

It’s a glorious vision, but those details! And to make it worse, the list is repeated several times during the last few portions of the Torah’s second book, Exodus.

But, of course, as they say, God is in the details.

And we’re not done yet! For following the listing of construction materials and specs, we get a similar treatment for the priests’ vestments, the clothing they would be wearing at the time they offered sacrifices. Made of basically the same designs, colors and materials (minus the hardware) as the Temple, these clothings gave a sense of uniformity to the whole endeavor. The Temple would be inhabited by the Presence of God; the garments were inhabited by the priest, the human equivalent of God’s Presence. Wearing these vestments would remind the Priest not only of where he was, but also what his function was.

Interestingly, sizes for these uniforms that the priests wore are nowhere specified. Each uniform would be sewn individually, a true and unique fitting adapted to just one individual. In countermeasure, as the priest functioned within the time and space that the Torah calls Holy, he had to adapt too. The priest, then, was the meeting point of form and function—the form was that of a human being; the function was to be a bridge to the Divine.

It was by paying attention to all life’s details that the Priest achieved his goal. By listening carefully to the plea of the layperson who came to offer prayer or supplication; by offering to God the poor man’s gift with as much care and respect as he would offer the rich diamond brought in by the important functionary. By carefully weighing out his words and measuring the food he could distribute to the poor and hungry. That’s how a priest contributed to creating a holy community and to living in a sacred world.

No amount of holy space or time can contain God, who is true infinity and eternity. However, in the span of time that we spend on this earth, when we become involved in the creation of holy space, when we mark off sacred times and seasons, when we help the needy and bring justice to the oppressed, we create a place for God within our life. Each mitzvah is another brick or plank in God’s Tabernacle. That’s what gives us meaning and purpose in God’s universe.

When we pay careful heed to the details of our life, we become the priests. When we engage in behavior that betters this world, we continue creating God’s Tabernacle.

That is how we “perfect” our life, much like an evolving work of art. Step by step, note by note, practicing until we do it just right.


©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman