The Sacred Work of Creation: Vayak’hel.22

 The Sacred Work of Creation: Vayak’hel

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 23, 2022

With this week’s portion, Vayak’hel (“[Moses] assembled the people,” Exodus 35:1-38:20), the work of constructing the Tabernacle is nearly completed. Every part has been cast, carved, molded and woven; everything is ready for the final act of putting it all together. Yet the careful attention to detail in this portion is only part of a larger vision. Vayak’hel isn’t only about the intricacies of this magnificent edifice—it’s also about the greater purpose and meaning of the Tabernacle.

Ostensibly, the Tabernacle is meant to be the focus of God’s Presence among us. It is here that prayers and sacrifices will be offered; here that God will communicate with Moses and ultimately with the People. But in its own subtle—and not so subtle—ways, the Torah also places this story in context of a much larger framework.

The first few verses of Vayak’hel repeat the commandment to observe the Sabbath and refrain from any work, any m’lakha. It’s in the use of this word that we find our first clue. For m’lakha is the word that the Torah uses for God’s work of Creation. In Vayak’hel this word is used no less than eighteen times! (In the first seven verses of chapter 36 alone the word appears no fewer than seven times.) While this may seem overly repetitious, the reference needs to be made clear. The work of constructing the Mishkan—the desert Tabernacle—parallels God’s work of Creation and can even be seen as its extension. In other words, the construction of the Tabernacle is a down-to-earth model of the Creation of the universe. And it is we, the people, who continue the sacred work that God had begun.

The Torah continues the story by listing the contributions that the people are asked to bring for this project—not commanded, but asked—"each man according to the uplift of his spirit and heart.” The response is overwhelming. Everyone brings what they can, or else participates in the work (m’lakha)—to the point where the overseers ask Moses to tell the people to stop! The donations far exceed the need!

If this seems somewhat fantastical (and far beyond the dreams of every fundraiser) that’s because the portion teaches us an important lesson: What we are tasked with is not merely the building of a sanctuary, but far beyond that—continuing the sacred work of Creation. The Sabbath, and the commandment that appears at the beginning of Vayak’hel, represents not only the cessation of God’s work, but also as a reminder that now it is up to us to carry it forward. 

It will take the effort and contribution of each one of us. It will take perseverance and dedication. And—we know too well—there will be failures. But nonetheless, as we follow the paradigm that Vayak’hel offers, we move forward. As the Rabbis will later teach, the work is great, and we may not see its conclusion. But we are not free to desist from it. It is sacred work, m’lakha, a labor of love that we took upon ourselves and, despite all obstacles, continue to this day.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Restoring Faith: Ki Tissa.22

 Restoring Faith: Ki Tissa

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 16, 2022

The most important lessons in life come with a high price. This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tissa (“When you count,” Exodus 30:11-34:35) offers us one of these lessons.

Things get broken in this portion. It wasn’t enough to witness the genocide perpetrated against the Hebrew slaves in Egypt; it wasn’t enough to watch God intervene and redeem us with wonders and miracles. It wasn’t enough to see the parting of the Reed Sea, nor to hear God’s voice thundering over Mount Sinai. Perhaps, after 400 years of being told what to do, after having our self-confidence and beliefs suppressed, the ancient Hebrews simply had nothing left to give. Whatever the reason, as Moses ascends to the top of the mountain, his people grow restless and fearful. Moses was their sole connection to God. With him gone for so long, who would lead them forward now? Where would they find inspiration and faith?

The story of the Golden Calf comes at an unexpected moment in the story of our liberation. The Israelites are in the midst of constructing the Tent of Meeting. But without Moses there to lead and show the way, they lose faith and clamor instead for a god of gold. 

When Moses finally descends from the top of Mount Sinai, he sees the Golden Calf and understands the magnitude of their failure. In anger and frustration, he smashes the two Tablets of the Law containing—inscribed by God’s own hand—the Ten Commandments. Then he proceeds to do the same to the idol the people had constructed. 

Faith, once broken, is difficult to rebuild. Yet out of the resulting mayhem, something new emerges: A new faith, a new way of “seeing” God. The gods worshipped by other people may act out of jealousy or sheer willfulness; they may require sacrifices to appease them when they are angry or tired. Other gods may seem to appear in all sorts of images of craft and imagination. Not our God. Unlike all other divine beings that people worshipped in those days, our God is not only moral and just (dayeinu—that would have been enough!). The God that Moses and the Torah teach us about is also compassionate and forgiving. 

Ki Tissa is about forgiveness and about second chances. In this portion, the Israelites rediscover something they had forgotten during the years of physical and spiritual slavery: That faith, the ability to trust and believe, is embedded within us. Relationships—even with God—can be restored if we give ourselves and one another a second chance. If, like God, we too show compassion and learn to understand and forgive. 

The work of repair might be long and difficult (it takes Moses forty days and nights to re-write the Ten Commandments), but the result is often stronger and more enduring than what was there at first. It is this lesson that enables us to persevere in the ongoing task of building the Tabernacle—a sacred space for God’s Presence in our midst. 

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Crown of the Priest: Tetzaveh.22

 The Crown of the Priest: Tetzaveh

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 11, 2022

Being a priest has always been a position of honor. In many cultures, utterances that come out of a priest’s mouth are perceived as the very essence of God’s Word, and people live and die by those words.

The authority a priest holds in their hands is unquestionable, and though some might set out on their careers out of a commitment to morality and righteousness, it’s easy to be seduced by the trappings of the office, to become dazzled by the splendor, riches and accompanying power.

In this week’s Torah portion, Tetzaveh (Exodus 27:20-30:10) it’s easy to see why. The portion includes a richly detailed description of the clothing of the High Priest. Made of the same materials as the Tabernacle, the various items likewise are embroidered with gold and silver thread, woven of the softest wool and cloth, and dyed with the most expensive dyes. On his forehead the priest wears a golden diadem; gemstones serve for epaulets on his shoulders, and even the breastplate has twelve precious gems set in a framework of pure gold.

As if that were not enough, while on duty the Priest uses utensils made of precious metals. The Menorah he lights every evening is made of pure gold, and when he enters the Holy of Holies he beholds the Ark of the Covenant—with enough gold there to arouse the envy of the richest kings and emperors!

But the Torah recognizes the danger that lies in these trappings, and it wisely incorporates a warning. Lest the Priest forget his responsibilities, lest he be blinded to his true purpose and service, engraved into the gems on his shoulders and the precious stones in the breastplate are the names of the twelve tribes of Israel (those shoulder epaulets must be quite big and heavy—six names etched into each of them!). The message is clear: the priest’s burden and his responsibility are to the People, not himself.

Even the rite of ordination, as Aaron and his sons are elevated to their high position, holds this warning. The Hebrew word used for this ritual is korban, a word that also means “sacrifice.” The Torah sees the priests’ role as a sacrifice. They are there to serve, not seek power.

Centuries later, recognizing the inevitable reverence in which people perceive the Priest, the Rabbis of the Mishna (Pirkei Avot 4:13) will compare the crown of the priest to the crown of the king. And yet they continue and say that “[Nevertheless] the crown of a good name outweighs them all.” What is that crown? A good name is a person’s reputation. It goes beyond the glitzy clothing and all those other signs of power and glory. The crown of a good name is what remains once the Priest has fulfilled his duty. Did he serve his flock in truth? Did his behavior match his words? Did he remain “one of us” or did he allow himself to fall prey to the seductive powers of his office? 

This lesson holds true to all of us. How we navigate between our own sense of importance and the actual service we provide determines how others see us. We can adorn our walls with any number of certificates and honors. But a simple and honest “thank you” from a person we may have touched with kindness and consideration counts far more than any of those adornments. This is how we are ultimately judged and remembered. Beyond the crowns of the king and high priest is the crown of a good name.  This is the only crown that, in the end, is worth its weight. 

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Prompting of The Heart: Terumah.22

 The Prompting of The Heart

D’var Torah for Parashat Terumah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 2, 2022

With this week’s Torah portion, Terumah (“Donation,” Exodus 25:1-27:19), the second half of the story of the Exodus begins. It’s not half as exciting as the first half, with its dramatic scenes of the Ten Plagues and the parting of the Red Sea. Nor is it as momentous as the giving of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. In fact, it’s pretty repetitious and uneventful. Terumah contains a long list of materials, precious metals and jewels that will be needed in constructing the Mishkan, the holy Tabernacle (aka the Tent of Meeting) which the Israelites carry with them throughout their journeys in the Sinai Wilderness.

Some time back, a student asked me why God would need or require such valuable materials. It was a good question. In fact, why would God require any place at all to call home? God is, after all, incorporeal; and as King Solomon, centuries later, will remind us, “Behold, the sky and even the highest heaven cannot contain you; how much less this house that I have built” (1 Kings 8:27). 

The truth is, God doesn’t need either a house or riches with which to build it. But we the people do. Nothing signifies “value” more than gold and jewels. The greater the expense, the greater the value. And in this case, it isn’t the temple itself, but rather what it is meant to convey—God’s presence among us. “Let them make Me a sanctuary,” God tells Moses, “and I will dwell in their midst” (Ex. 25:8). Hopefully, all that gold would lead us to appreciate the value of God’s presence among us.

But does material value actually lead us to a greater understanding of the transcendent nature of God? It’s much more likely that the brilliance would bedazzle and overwhelm us, rather than lead us to perceive something as intangible as God’s Presence.

But human nature is as it is, and the Torah tries to teach its lessons through words and concepts we understand.

And yet there is a much greater lesson to be learned from this portion. The meaning of the word terumah is “donation,” signifying a freewill offering “from everyone whose heart so moves him” (Ex. 25:2, Sefaria translation). The Israelites are not commanded to bring so much gold, silver or copper. They are to provide these materials—or anything else they might have—only insomuch as they are moved to.

The Temple of God will not be built by slaves. It will be generosity of heart that will motivate the people to make their offerings. Some might have more and some less. Some will bring gold or jewels, while others will lend their ability to craft or create, to weave or design. 

The true value of the Mishkan, the real meaning of this Tabernacle representing God’s presence among us, is freedom. Freedom is God’s gift and blessing to us. Our response is in our generosity, that which our heart prompts us to offer in return. Yes, the end result will be magnificent; but even greater will be the pride and joy that each of us will feel in knowing that our contribution, no matter how large or small, is an essential part of the greater whole. It is through our contribution—our freewill donation, our terumah—that God’s Presence is made manifest.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman