For God’s Name: Terumah.25

 For God’s Name

D’var Torah for Parashat Terumah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 28, 2025

In 1986 I was privileged be part of a group sent on a mission to visit “refuseniks” in the then-Soviet Union. “Refuseniks” is the term used for Jews who applied for exit visas but were refused. Harassed, often imprisoned, subjected to retribution and unspeakable cruelty, most refuseniks lost their homes and jobs. During a period of 10 days we met with scores of individuals and families, all with similar stories, all—but for a few—whose eyes shone with hope despite the hardships they had to endure. 

Among those with whom we met was a group of astrophysicists who lost their positions and were reduced to menial and demeaning work such as sweeping subway stations. We met in a small but cramped apartment and celebrated Havdalah—the ceremony that ends the Jewish Sabbath. Havdalah means “separation.” Its rituals are meant to encase the holiness of the Sabbath and keep it safe within our hearts even as we turn to face the common, ordinary and even profane reality of the coming workweek. 

I had celebrated Havdalah many times before, but this time, something was going on that was beyond any religious experience I had ever had before. As the braided candle was raised and the small spice box made its rounds among us, I felt absolutely elevated. It was an extraordinary spiritual moment that is still enshrined within my heart and soul. 

I recalled this moment as I sat down to write this d’var—commentary—on this week’s Torah portion, Terumah, (“Donation,” Ex. 25:1—27:19). On the face of it, this portion is deceptively simple, containing detailed instructions and an almost-endless list of materials the Israelites would need  for the task of building the Tabernacle—the Sanctuary that would accompany them along all their wanderings in the Sinai Wilderness. 

And yet, with this portion we begin to understand the real purpose behind the Exodus and our redemption from Egyptian slavery.

At this point in the story, the Israelites are surrounded by desert and hardship. Food and water are scarce, and the road ahead looks dreary and endless. They had just received scores of commandments designed to keep them peaceful and orderly, when this extraordinary demand is added to everything else they must do: "They [B'nai Yisrael, the Children of Israel] shall make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell in their midst" (Ex. 25:8). 

People build temples. They always have. Temples have always served as the place where people got together to pray or celebrate. So mah nishtana? What's different in this case? To begin with, in other religions, temples housed statues and images of gods. Not so, however, for the Israelites, who have just been told, “You shall not make for yourself a sculptured image, or any likeness of what is in the heavens above, or on the earth below, or in the waters under the earth” (Ex. 20:4, JPS, 2006). How then, is God to be perceived in this temple? 

A related question that also often comes up has to do with the amount of gold, silver, gems and other material that God requires for this Mishkan ("dwelling place"). Why does God need or require all these riches? In fact, why does God need a Mishkan to begin with? Isn’t it our understanding and belief that God is everywhere, within as well as beyond us?

The key to understanding this paradox is in the word b'tocham, "in their midst." B'tocham could indicate a physical location, but it could also mean within them—spiritually, not only physically.

Rashi--the great medieval rabbi and commentator on the Torah and Talmud--answers the question with one world: Lish'mee, "for my name." 

True, God does not need a physical dwelling. King Solomon, when he dedicates the Temple he had built for God in Jerusalem, exclaims, "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! (I Kings 8:27, NKJV). God may not need a temple; people, however, do. We need a place to come to both as individuals and as a community. Just as importantly—and this is where Rashi's comment comes in—this "place" needs to reflect the awesome majesty with which we perceive God. The Temple can't begin to contain God's Presence, but it does need to be awe-inspiring, both for us and for other people and faiths. 

Similarly, each of us can be a dwelling place for God. One way, of course, is for us to recognize that every human being contains the image of God. But this Presence also must express itself in the way we allow God's Image to shine forth—in how we live; what we do for others; in what we do for the earth and all its inhabitants. If we only do it lish'meinu—for our own name, pride and glory, that's only half the job. We need to do it l'shem shamayim--for the sake of heaven. This selfless dedication leads to inspiration, lifting the work of our hands to ever-higher levels, giving it greater meaning. 

In the Torah portion, the rich materials required for the construction of the Sanctuary are symbolic of this higher meaning. In our own lives we build a sanctuary for God using whatever material we might have. A simple act of kindness goes a long way; but we must not let it define us and us alone. It isn't only an expression of our DNA, upbringing or culture. It's a mitzvah that comes from God, a commandment which, when fulfilled, glorifies not us, but rather God and God's name. It must be, as Rashi explains, Lish'mee, "for my name." When that happens, our deeds shine from within, reflecting an inner light that all-too-often disappears behind the tedious and routine details of life.

This is what b'tocham means. Within us. This hidden inner light has the power to elevate the ordinary to the astonishing, to infuse the mundane with holiness.  

It is this light that gave the refuseniks strength to bear the hardships that the Soviet regime imposed on them. For Jews throughout our history, from the time that the Israelites were wanderers in the Wilderness down to our own day, the Sanctuary would be more than the sum of its parts. It would  provide us with light and hope, giving us direction and purpose along all our journeys, from bondage to redemption, from Mitzrayim—the land of trouble and narrowness—to the wide and free expanse of the Promised Land.

On the Question of Good and Evil: B’Shallach.25

On the Question of Good and Evil: B’Shallach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 7, 2025

In the famous song “Maria” from—no, not West Side Story—but rather from the Rogers and Hammerstein musical The Sound of Music, a chorus of nuns ask a good question: “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” The answer—fitting of course for the time—is, marry her off, she’ll be so much happier, more stable and a such a better fit for society!

Not all such dilemmas however are quite so easy to resolve. One of the most difficult questions that humanity has ever posed—to ourselves as well as to God—is, why is there evil in the world? Many answers have been given, from the rational to the irrational. There is no such thing as evil, some would say; it’s all in our mind, a subjective call determined by our culture and upbringing. Nature does what it does naturally. Others propose that the world is random; evil is out there, yes, as rampant as goodness, existing with no specific rhyme or reason. It just is. Another answer, set in religious context, is that the gods are perverse. They are angry, hate-filled and jealous, and unless placated with wine, food or other pleasures, they cause evil to befall even the best among us.

Judaism proposes that good and bad—tov va-ra (see Genesis 2:9)—are indeed part of the natural order of the world as God created it. By eating of the forbidden fruit, humanity simply becomes aware of them and thus is given the ability to choose to follow the one or the other. At the same time, however, the Torah teaches that when we choose tov—goodness and holiness—we become partners with God. Good is holy, the Torah teaches. Bad is not merely wrong; in the Torah’s vocabulary, ra means evil. The rewards of a mitzvah, teach the rabbis, is another mitzvah, leading to even more holiness; the consequences of a sin on the other hand, is to increase evil in the world. The choice is ours to make, each along with its inevitable consequences.

But even this answer is incomplete. A person can be good—even saintly—and yet that doesn’t stop evil from befalling him or her. That, of course, is the premise of the book of Job. The Prophets, then, offer an additional answer to the eternal question of the presence of evil: It is there to purify a person, much as fire can refine metal. The 5th century BCE prophet Malachi declares that God is “like a smelter and purger of silver; and [God] shall purify the descendants of Levi and refine them like gold and silver, so that they shall present offerings in righteousness” (Malachi 3:2-3, Rev. JPS 2023).

The ancient Rabbis go even further. In Pirkei de Rabbi Eliezer, a Midrash collection that according to modern scholarship dates back to the 8th century CE, we read that the very Pharaoh who let the Israelites go (in this week’s Torah portion, B’shallach, Exodus 13:17—17:16), the very man who time and again hardens his heart and refuses to heed God’s word, a first-born himself, is spared the tenth plague—the death of the first-born—for a reason and a purpose. According to this midrash, Pharaoh lives another 400 years (!), the length of time it takes him to understand the extent of the evil he had caused. Fleeing Egypt, Pharaoh then becomes the King of Nineveh from the story of Jonah, where he lapses into some of his old ways. However, immediately upon hearing Jonah’s prophecy of doom he orders all Ninevehites (including the animals!) to show remorse, fast, and repent (Pirkei D’Rabbi Eliezer 43). He had learned his lesson: his prior choices brought about evil, suffering and destruction to the world. Now he was given a second chance. By repenting, he could save his kingdom. And as for Jonah, though at first Jonah was reluctant to fulfill his mission, by finally acquiescing and delivering God’s message he awakens the divine spark that was buried deep within the king. 

In light of this midrash, we learn that a spark of holiness can be found in every aspect of God’s Creation, even within evil itself, and it’s up to us to uncover it, even if that means forgiving the injustice and setting aside the evil that was done to us—a challenge that, quite frankly, for me, is difficult to overcome. (For more in this vein of teaching, see BT Gittin 57b).

Evil exists. We are well aware of that. But the explanation that the rabbis offer is that it is there in order to show us the way to repentance. By fixing our own mistakes and/or by repairing the wrongs done by others, we make the world a better place for all.

To a large extent, this answer is fundamental to Jewish thought and theology. It has led us to pursue knowledge, justice, progress and innovation. While difficult to accept, reframing evil as part of God’s Creation helps us explain its ongoing presence in life and gives us strength, purpose and direction. Evil is there to prompt us to acts of goodness and holiness. It enables us to let go of the strong urge within us to seek revenge, to leave behind emotions such as anger and hatred, and to find a more positive, a more constructive way of navigating through life’s turmoil and chaos. 

May we all find the strength within us both to see this spark within those who hurt us, and to bolster our own resolve to make the world a better place. It is so that we participate as partners in God’s ongoing, sacred act of Creation.

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman