The Uplift of the
Heart—Terumah
D’var Torah by Rabbi
Boaz D. Heilman
Years and years ago, back in college when I was a music
student, I learned that art happens not only in the shape you give the notes,
but also in the spaces you leave between them.
“Dolphins communicate with each other not through sound
itself but through the … silences between individual sounds,” wrote composer
Toru Takemitsu in his liner notes for his luminous work, “November Steps.”
I don’t know about dolphins, but I am pretty certain that
it’s true about human beings. We
communicate not only through the words we actually speak, but also in the
spaces between the sounds. It’s in the
intonation, in the breaths we take, in the way we stretch or condense sound, no
less than in the shape we give to the sound itself as we turn it into language.
The purely mechanical can never be human simply because of
its automatic nature. It doesn’t
breathe; it doesn’t long for anything; it doesn’t speed up unless ordered
to. It doesn’t stop or give in to
hesitation in its ongoing rush to get from one point to the next.
Shabbat is such a pause—not only in God’s work, but also in
ours. It is so special because, more
than all our other gifts from God, it humanizes us. Shabbat permits us to stop. It gives us respite from the more mechanical
nature of the rest of the week, transforming us from obedient slaves into free
and equal citizens. Shabbat allows us
not only to catch our breath, but also to regain control over our lives. The pause that refreshes, Shabbat is an atom
of that infinite space between periods of measured time, reflecting the fact
that we are humans, not automatons. And
that’s what makes it holy.
I find it revealing that following last week’s Torah
portion, Mishpatim, with its long
list of 53 intricate laws, we get something so totally different in this week’s
portion, Terumah (Ex.
25:1—27:19). In this parasha, the Israelites aren’t commanded
to do anything. They are instead asked to bring freewill offerings: “You are to receive the offering for me from
everyone whose heart prompts them to give (Ex. 25:2).
It is of that which is immeasurable that God wants: the willingness of the heart to offer.
Now don’t get me wrong!
There are specific quantities of each and every gift that will be
needed. The topic of the parasha is the building of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle—that portable
temple which the Israelites carried with them throughout their wanderings in
the Sinai Wilderness. Its specs are as
exact as any architect would require. So
much gold, so much silver and copper; so many cubits of acacia wood; thus and
thus must the length of the curtains be.
The dimensions are exact, the quantities are precisely measured. No structure can be raised or maintained
without these material goods. Yet the
amazing thing that God clarifies for Moses in this portion is that no one is to
be required to give any specific part of the whole. Whatever they bring is gratefully accepted. From each individual, all that’s asked for
is what they would willingly give. From
each man or woman, only that which his or her heart moves them to give.
Holiness, the parasha
teaches, isn’t found only in the number of commandments you fulfill without
thinking every day; it’s also in the things you do because your heart moves you. It’s in the immeasurable and infinite as much
as in the cut and dry.
It should come as no wonder to anyone that the Tabernacle,
for all its splendor and magnificence, cannot house the endless presence of
God. Even King Solomon, in his prayer on the occasion of the dedication of the
magnificent Temple he built to God in Jerusalem, understands this truth: “But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot
contain you, much less this house that I have built!” (I Kings 8:27). We may be fooled by all the gold and silver,
by the lavish tapestries and by the richness of the ritual to think that God is
found within any structure’s bounds.
Terumah, this
week’s Torah portion, teaches us otherwise.
In the midst of the myriads of intricate details of the
Tabernacle, we find the description of the Holy Ark, where the Ten Commandments
are to be housed (both the shattered pieces of the set written in God’s own hand
and the second set, written by Moses).
Made of one piece of sculpted gold, the cover of the Ark depicts two
cherubs, their wings stretched up and out, sheltering the Ark. The angels face one another; the tips of
their wings are nearly touching. Yet they
do not touch. Some small space remains between
them. It is in that space, “from between
the two cherubim… that I will deliver you all my commands for the Israelites,”
God tells Moses (Ex. 25:22).
And Moses, who spent years alone in the desert, who listened
to the rush of the wind ontop mountains in the wilderness, understands. It’s in the emptiness between all the gold;
in the blank void between material things, in the silent spaces between the
sounds we make, that God’s voice can be heard.
So where do we find God?
In the eternal silence, in the immeasurable, infinite space between our
words and deeds; in the pauses we take in our daily routines to listen to the other person; in our effort to hear what
he’s really trying to communicate to us; in our opening our hearts and reaching
out to feel another’s longing, love, or pain.
Holiness is defined not only by how much material good we
bring to our community, but also by our desire to help, by our willingness to
be one of those who build God’s sanctuary on this earth.
Holiness is in our terumah,
in the uplift of our hearts.
© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman
