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.