God’s Presence In Our Lives: D’var Torah for Vayak’hel-Pekudei
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
March 20, 2020
This Shabbat, with a powerful double portion (Va-yak’hel-Pekudei, Exodus 35:1—40:38), our weekly cycle of Torah readings reaches the end of the second book of the Torah, Exodus.
Exodus! The very title awakens powerful images: the parting of the Red Sea, the ten plagues, the burning bush, the Ten Commandments! And above and beyond all these, the very notion—the revolutionary concept—of human liberty, and its glorious affirmation in the defiant stance taken by Moses, whom the Torah describes as the humblest of men, before the mightiest, most arrogant, and most self-delusional man in the world—Pharaoh.
And yet, amazingly, all of these wonders take place in the first half of the book; the rest of Exodus is devoted to something quite different and much less cinematic: the building of the Mishkan, a.k.a the Tabernacle, the Tent of Meeting, God’s dwelling among the Israelites.
“Let them make Me a sanctuary,” God tells Moses, “that I may dwell among them.” In this double portion we learn about the rare and expensive materials that the people donated for the building of this portable temple; the intricate design, structure and decorations that made it so beautiful; the many instruments and tools, made of gold, silver and copper, that would be used there.
Every culture, all over the world, seemed to be obsessed with building temples. From the ziggurats—the towers—of Babel, to the pyramids of Egypt and South America; from the Parthenon of Athens to the magnificent cathedrals of medieval Europe, these were the most stunning structures, meant to represent not only the philosophies, but also the grandeur and pride of the civilizations that produced them. The difference between them and the Tent of Meeting was that the Mishkan built by Moses was nearly empty. Instead of statues and idols, it contained only God’s words, carved on a set of two stone tablets. It was words, not an image, that represented God in this dwelling.
Three hundred years later, King Solomon built a more enduring temple in Jerusalem, the city that his father, King David, had established as his capital. Viewing the splendid edifice that he had created, Solomon ponders the question of how any physical dwelling—no matter how grandiose or lavish—can contain God’s presence. In his speech of dedication he asks, “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!” (1 Kings 8:27, NKJV).
It was a question Jews have never stopped asking. When, 500 years later, Solomon’s Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians, and then, after yet another 500 years, following the destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans, the ensuing crises of faith took centuries to repair. For the Jewish People, the Mishkan in the Sinai Wilderness and the Temples in Jerusalem represented much more than God’s presence: They stood for the ongoing relationship between God and Israel. With them gone, how were we to reach God? Was God’s Presence still in our midst? Was the Covenant between God and the Jews still valid and binding? Was God still our God, and we, God’s People?
In the Midrash a story is told of Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai and his pupil, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hananya, both of whom witnessed the destruction of the Temple by the Romans. Seeing the ruins of the Temple, Rabbi Yehoshua said, “Woe to us, for this—the place where all of Israel’s sins are forgiven (through sacrifices)—is destroyed! Answered Rabbi Yohanan: “My son, do not be distressed, for we have a form of atonement just like it. And what is it? Acts of loving kindness” (Avot D’Rabbi Natan 4:5).
This message has been our people’s guiding light throughout history. Exiled from one land after another, driven to secrecy and hiding places, seeing our shuls and synagogues torched in riots and pogroms, wherever we went, we carried within us the knowledge that these were just buildings, edifices made of wood and stone. Yes, they were sanctuaries; it was there that we went to find comfort, wisdom and company. But the truth was that God’s presence was always within us, as long as we studied the words of Torah and practiced acts of loving kindness.
This year we find ourselves once again unable to enter our beloved houses of worship. True—Zoom, Facebook and other social media are fine, but they aren’t quite the same as a compassionate hug or a dignified handshake. And there’s little to match the feel of an ancient and well-worn prayer book in our hands. And yet, there’s a real link, not merely a virtual one, that still connects us. God’s presence needs no physical house: As much as it exists in the heavens, so it dwells within our hearts. Just as the Mishkan, the Tent of Meeting, housed nothing but God’s words, so do the words of Torah still abide within us. Acts of love and kindness have always nourished us; our traditions have always shone light into the deepest abyss, and conveyed comfort to those who felt the anguish of loneliness and isolation. That’s what Moses knew as, seeing the Tent of Meeting up in all its glory, he blessed his people. That was the certainty that outweighed any doubts within King Solomon’s mind when he dedicated the Temple in Jerusalem. And that knowledge is what still sustains us today.
Tonight, housebound by a virus we do not yet understand, we can build our own Mishkan, our own Temple. As we bring Shabbat and its blessings into our homes, we let God’s Presence suffuse our spirit, God’s holiness pervade in our lives.
May the light of our Shabbat candles shine not only for us tonight, but for anyone who sees them through our windows. May their glow bring happiness and hope into all our homes. May they dispel fear and anxiety, and instead inspire us with the certainty that God still dwells amongst us, as God has since the days of the Mishkan in the Wilderness, through all our days and nights.
Shabbat shalom; may this Sabbath be filled with the promise of peace and health.
© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman
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