 | In liberal Jewish life, mitzvah often is translated as "good deed" and tzedakah as "charity." To English speakers, both sound optional. In Jewish life, however, they're not optional. They are mandatory and essential to Jewish continuity and resilience. The whole point is to rise, and lift others as we do, and together raise up the holy. |
By Rabbi David
Parashat Terumah 5785 (2025)
This Torah portion begins the second half of the Book of Exodus, which sometimes I call "arts and crafts." In it lies a profound teaching about the essence of spiritual community.
After the dramatic liberation from bondage, the escape through the Sea of Reeds, the Ten Commandments at Sinai, and mystical visions all around, suddenly Torah shifts to the seemingly mundane. Our ancestors donate materials to build the Mishkan – the Sanctuary, a portable central focus for spirituality, an earthly dwelling place for the Presence of God.
From them ultimately emerged the Ark of the Covenant, the Holy of Holies, the prototype for the Temple in Jerusalem, and ultimately every house of worship in Western civilization.
The start of it all seems straightforward enough (Exodus 25: 1-8):
Parashat Terumah 5785 (2025)
This Torah portion begins the second half of the Book of Exodus, which sometimes I call "arts and crafts." In it lies a profound teaching about the essence of spiritual community.
After the dramatic liberation from bondage, the escape through the Sea of Reeds, the Ten Commandments at Sinai, and mystical visions all around, suddenly Torah shifts to the seemingly mundane. Our ancestors donate materials to build the Mishkan – the Sanctuary, a portable central focus for spirituality, an earthly dwelling place for the Presence of God.
From them ultimately emerged the Ark of the Covenant, the Holy of Holies, the prototype for the Temple in Jerusalem, and ultimately every house of worship in Western civilization.
The start of it all seems straightforward enough (Exodus 25: 1-8):
| וַיְדַבֵּר יהו׳׳ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר: דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִקְחוּ־לִי תְּרוּמָה מֵאֵת כָּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ תִּקְחוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִי: וְזֹאת הַתְּרוּמָה אֲשֶׁר תִּקְחוּ מֵאִתָּם זָהָב וָכֶסֶף וּנְחֹשֶׁת: וּתְכֵלֶת וְאַרְגָּמָן וְתוֹלַעַת שָׁנִי וְשֵׁשׁ וְעִזִּים: וְעֹרֹת אֵילִם מְאָדָּמִים וְעֹרֹת תְּחָשִׁים וַעֲצֵי שִׁטִּים: שֶׁמֶן לַמָּאֹר בְּשָׂמִים לְשֶׁמֶן הַמִּשְׁחָה וְלִקְטֹרֶת הַסַּמִּים: אַבְנֵי־שֹׁהַם וְאַבְנֵי מִלֻּאִים לָאֵפֹד וְלַחֹשֶׁן: וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם: | YHVH spoke to Moses saying: "Tell the Children of Israel to bring Me offerings. Take My offerings from each who makes their heart willing. These are the offerings you will take from them: gold, silver and bronze. Blue, purple and scarlet yarn, fine linen and goats’ hair. Rams’ skins dyed red, goats’ skins and acacia wood. Oil for lighting, spices for anointing oil and sweet incense. Onyx stones, and stones to be set on the [High Priest's] clothing and on the breastplate. They will make Me a Sanctuary, and I will dwell among them." |
The list of materials is less important than the start and finish: our ancestors were to bring gifts to "make [God] a Sanctuary and [God] would dwell among them."
For thousands of years, our ancestors understood this excerpt to launch the "arts and crafts" of building the Sanctuary. And for thousands of years, the Babylonian Talmud held that the offerings were optional ("from each who makes their heart willing").
But wait. The Mishkan wouldn't be built for another 10 chapters, so why collect now? Even more, the only reason for an actual Mishkan was that the Golden Calf (stay tuned) proved a lingering need for the tangible after Egyptian idolatry, so only after the Golden Calf did the instructions for building the Mishkan begin. And to boot, the Jerusalem Talmud – our native if less codified repository of law and culture – held that these offerings weren't optional: they were mandatory (J.T. Shekalim 1:1).
So what gives here? After all, what is a "willing heart" if offerings are mandatory? Why elicit offerings if not to build a physical Mishkan? In the answers lie a Jewish secret to resilient community and spirituality.
From the Enlightenment forward, Western liberalism has been all about choice (in jargon, "voluntarism"). We can choose to participate or not, donate or not, vote or not, care or not. Western liberalism vests these choices in each person without compulsion – no sticks, but sometimes with carrots. (That's why charitable donations carry tax advantages. For more on "carrots" in public policy, read Malcolm Gladwell's book Nudge.)
From Western liberalism came Jewish choice and Jewish voluntarism. Nowadays we can choose to embrace mitzvot or not, stand in Jewish values or not, be Jewish or not. We can come to services or not, support fellow congregants or not, support the community or not, embrace lifelong Jewish learning or not. It's up to each of us. After all, would we prefer a world in which we have no choice, where everything is compelled? Of course not.
But here's the rub. In unfettered free choice, the very idea of mitzvah – not a "good deed," but command – fades away. What we call the Ten Commandments and other mitzvot lose their oomph. Voluntarism, it turns out, comes at a high price. We lose the certainty that spiritual community will be strong and organized to care for us. We lose the certainty that spiritual community will imbue our lives with ballast, meaning, joy and holiness – especially in difficult times. We lose the certainty of continuity, the core premise of community and values living on l'dor va-dor (from generation to generation).
The Jerusalem Talmud was on to something. For values-based community to cohere, some things can't be optional. What we call "charity" is one of them. Giving, our tradition offers, is equivalent to all other mitzvot combined (B.T. Bava Batra 9a). "Charity" is so important that even someone so impoverished that they receive charity must give charity (Maimonides, Mishnah Torah, Gifts to the Poor 7:5).
Suddenly giving isn't just about satisfying a need. Yes, it's about uplifting community, and uplifting others. But at heart, it's about making our hearts willing.
That's the secret: the willing heart, which is the truest and greatest uplift of all. The "offering" of this Torah portion, and the title of this Torah portion, is Terumah (תְּרוּמָה), from the Hebrew word for height or lifting. It's the same Hebrew word as Romemu (רוֹממוּ): Raise up holiness! Raise up God!
It's not optional. The Jewish secret is that we must rise up, and lift others up as we do, and thereby together raise up the holy. We literally "give, up." And when we do, we build a Sanctuary – not a physical one, but an emotional and spiritual one, in which together we can experience the holy dwelling among us.
For thousands of years, our ancestors understood this excerpt to launch the "arts and crafts" of building the Sanctuary. And for thousands of years, the Babylonian Talmud held that the offerings were optional ("from each who makes their heart willing").
But wait. The Mishkan wouldn't be built for another 10 chapters, so why collect now? Even more, the only reason for an actual Mishkan was that the Golden Calf (stay tuned) proved a lingering need for the tangible after Egyptian idolatry, so only after the Golden Calf did the instructions for building the Mishkan begin. And to boot, the Jerusalem Talmud – our native if less codified repository of law and culture – held that these offerings weren't optional: they were mandatory (J.T. Shekalim 1:1).
So what gives here? After all, what is a "willing heart" if offerings are mandatory? Why elicit offerings if not to build a physical Mishkan? In the answers lie a Jewish secret to resilient community and spirituality.
From the Enlightenment forward, Western liberalism has been all about choice (in jargon, "voluntarism"). We can choose to participate or not, donate or not, vote or not, care or not. Western liberalism vests these choices in each person without compulsion – no sticks, but sometimes with carrots. (That's why charitable donations carry tax advantages. For more on "carrots" in public policy, read Malcolm Gladwell's book Nudge.)
From Western liberalism came Jewish choice and Jewish voluntarism. Nowadays we can choose to embrace mitzvot or not, stand in Jewish values or not, be Jewish or not. We can come to services or not, support fellow congregants or not, support the community or not, embrace lifelong Jewish learning or not. It's up to each of us. After all, would we prefer a world in which we have no choice, where everything is compelled? Of course not.
But here's the rub. In unfettered free choice, the very idea of mitzvah – not a "good deed," but command – fades away. What we call the Ten Commandments and other mitzvot lose their oomph. Voluntarism, it turns out, comes at a high price. We lose the certainty that spiritual community will be strong and organized to care for us. We lose the certainty that spiritual community will imbue our lives with ballast, meaning, joy and holiness – especially in difficult times. We lose the certainty of continuity, the core premise of community and values living on l'dor va-dor (from generation to generation).
The Jerusalem Talmud was on to something. For values-based community to cohere, some things can't be optional. What we call "charity" is one of them. Giving, our tradition offers, is equivalent to all other mitzvot combined (B.T. Bava Batra 9a). "Charity" is so important that even someone so impoverished that they receive charity must give charity (Maimonides, Mishnah Torah, Gifts to the Poor 7:5).
Suddenly giving isn't just about satisfying a need. Yes, it's about uplifting community, and uplifting others. But at heart, it's about making our hearts willing.
That's the secret: the willing heart, which is the truest and greatest uplift of all. The "offering" of this Torah portion, and the title of this Torah portion, is Terumah (תְּרוּמָה), from the Hebrew word for height or lifting. It's the same Hebrew word as Romemu (רוֹממוּ): Raise up holiness! Raise up God!
It's not optional. The Jewish secret is that we must rise up, and lift others up as we do, and thereby together raise up the holy. We literally "give, up." And when we do, we build a Sanctuary – not a physical one, but an emotional and spiritual one, in which together we can experience the holy dwelling among us.
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