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Parshat Terumah is about the first set of instructions for the construction of the tabernacle, God’s first sanctuary in the desert. This d’var Torah is dedicated to the memory of my mother Helen Pedovitch Katz, who taught me, and everyone who stepped over the threshold of her home, how to make a home into a sanctuary. This Purim was 17 years since she passed away, in calendar years. In heart time, it feels like about 2 weeks….

The last parsha was a delight for lawyers, with all of its rules for how to handle disputes related to everyday problems, mostly in agriculture, but the rules work in other arenas as well.  This  parsha is the first in a series that will delight architects, designers and decorators – how to design, build and decorate the mishkan – God’s home in the desert among the tribe of Israel. But first comes the capital campaign.

In this parsha, the first thing that God instructs Moshe is to tell the Israelites that they shall accept for God a terumah – a donation – from every person whose heart so moves him.  The root of the word terumah is the same as for the verb to lift up. This is an “uplifted donation”, a donation from the heart, for a higher purpose, from each person whose heart moves him - or her - to donate.

Then God tells Moses what items may be donated, by those who wish to make the donation. And the list is impressive – gold, silver, copper, precious stones, dyed yarns, animal skins, wood, oils, and spices.

These were not items that the Israelites found lying around in the desert. Where did they come from?  For part of the answer we go back to Parshat Bo. In chapter 12, we learned that, along with packing their unleavened dough, “the Israelites had done Moses’ bidding and borrowed from the Egyptians objects of silver and gold, and clothing”.  What do we mean by “borrowed from the Egyptians”?   One explanation is that these gifts cleansed our memory of bitterness and hatred toward the Egyptians.  So the Egyptians “lent” us their precious items, and we returned to them a feeling of not being so diminished for holding the Israelites as slaves for so many years.  

There is a commandment that when a slave is freed, he cannot be sent away empty handed.  That way the freed slaves do not waste their newfound freedom on hatred and bitterness toward their former masters – instead they can devote their energies to build their new lives. So too the idea was that the Israelites would not obsess over their hatred of their experience in Egypt and of the Egyptians – instead they would remember, and at the same time, be able to move ahead.

Back to the story of terumah.  What about the other items that were requested as a terumah: stones, skins, oils, and copper?  These were not listed as items that were “borrowed” from the Egyptians.  These chapters are so full of exquisite detail – surely if these items were borrowed from the Egyptians, they would have been listed back in Parshat Bo along with the other items.

Perhaps these items were a nest egg painstakingly kept by the Israelites throughout their 430 years in Egypt, to start life at their final destination. Consider the silver candlesticks that many European Jews painstakingly saved their pennies to buy. In the poor villages, these candlesticks were often one of the only fancy ornaments in the home and occupied a central place, especially every Shabbat and holiday when they were lit. And then they were carefully protected for the trip away from the village, perhaps to cross the Atlantic, when the opportunity came to leave poverty to a better life. It is interesting to note that many of these candlesticks were hollow, with a place to stash stones and precious metals for the journey. … so our history turns and returns… In our family, one such pair of tall silver candlesticks with hollow shafts made its way from Poland to Canada in the late 1920’s along with my mother when she was an infant. The candlesticks now reside with my brother and sister in law, who honour Shabbat so often by gathering the family around their table.

Back to the parsha – first the people are to be asked to give, and then  they are told what they can give, and only then are they to be told the purpose of the donation – to build a mikdash – a sanctuary – for God.  

Verse 8 in chapter 25 reads:

“And they shall make me a sanctuary and I will dwell in their midst.”

Why does God need a sanctuary at all – does God really need a physical space in which to dwell? And, conversely, do the people really need a place to worship God?

In Rabbi Sharon Sobel’s commentary on this parsha, which is published in Rabbi Elyse Goldstein’s’ book entitled “The Women’s’ Torah Commentary”, she says that the sanctuary is not for God, it is for the people. It is to be a visible symbol of God’s presence in their midst. God’s promise to dwell among the people is a recognition of the limitations of human beings in trying to understand that God is everywhere. The tabernacle is a concession to humankind and provides a visible focus for the idea of God’s indwelling. Maybe if the mikdash had been up and visible a bit earlier on, the people would not have felt the need to build the golden calf.

Rabbi Sobel also says that it is not the physical space itself that causes God’s presence to come into our midst, and it is not the physical space itself that is holy.  Rather, it is the act of the community joining together to make a sacred space. It is the rituals that take place within that space that bring God’s presence into the midst of the people. Alongside the building of a space to house God, we build our community, a space to house us.

Another question comes from a reading of the whole parsha :  why were all those painstaking details necessary about how to build the tabernacle and all the furnishings in it?

Rabbi Sobel asks: Have we ever noticed that when people walk into a sanctuary in a synagogue, their behaviour changes, based upon the characteristics of that room?

If the sanctuary, for example, is a large, cathedral-like room with high vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows, and a tall and remote bimah – the immediate reaction is one of awe. People speak in hushed tones.  For many people, this type of sanctuary is an awe-inspiring, and majestic kind of place – it is a symbol of God’s awesome presence.

On the other hand, if the sanctuary is a simpler kind of space, with, for example clear windows looking out, and a gently raised bimah, and less ornate furnishings, the mood it creates is quite different. People may enter the room talking, even laughing.  They don’t hesitate to approach the bima to speak with whoever is standing there before the service begins. For people who are used to this type of sanctuary, God’s presence is felt in their sanctuary by their closeness to each other. For me, at the moment when we spread our Tallitot around each other and bless each other  - that is when I feel God’s presence within. And when our song comes together. And when the rabbi touches our souls with her comments from a deep place within. And when I hear my student, Jerrold, chanting the Torah.. The list goes on…

So maybe that is why the Torah went into such detail to describe every facet of the tabernacle and its furnishings – there was a desire to create a certain type of sanctuary, with a certain type of atmosphere, to enable the people to worship God in a way that was meaningful to them, at that time and place.

And maybe that is why we, as a congregation, went into so much detail and took so much time to get our sanctuary just right. It started with an idea, followed by lots of terumah, with uplifted arms and trust in our architect and design team, and large number of volunteers. Many of us have a special place where we like to sit during services – the place where we feel the most sacred, the most connected to the ruach – to the spirit - of this place. Some of us float from space to space, enjoying the different feeling of each location.

I want to talk a little bit about Jerrold and my experience with the terumah – the Darchei Noam capital campaign, and what it meant and continues to mean to us.

We joined Darchei Noam at the end of  a phase of wandering among various shuls in Toronto.  It was also toward the end of the first phase of Darchei Noam’s  capital campaign, just as the building was completed. We heard lots of the talk about the building campaign effort, and we approached the shul leadership, and said we also want to give, to be part of the community in a more fullsome way. So we too got treated to a home visit -  from Karen Weinthal and Lisa Olfman, which was a positive and embracing experience we remember until today. 

We worked out a creative way to make as much of a donation as we could stretch.  We were also shown around the shul on a tour before it was opened. We were blown away by the whole process. It made us feel so much more a part of the community to be participating in the capital campaign alongside so many others, shoulder to shoulder - to "count".  Even though we weren’t around when the concepts were being developed and designed for the new building, and we didn’t participate in the early history of the shul, we felt more a part of it; full members, giving our terumah because we were moved to do so.  Then we had the added pleasure of speaking with Debbie Gilbert about adding our names – taking our place- on a glass piece on the donor wall, and on to a blue glass space next to the donor wall.  Debbie was so sensitive and insightful. And we are both so happy with the resulting words on the blue glass –  it is a dedication of the ner tamid to the memory of my  mother Helen, my father Moishe who many of you learned about in my dvar last summer, and my brother Avi. Every time I pass by on my way out of the shul, I stop for a moment, and I "visit" with my parents and brother Avi whose names are on the blue glass. This is the only place in Canada where my mother's name appears in such a permanent way. My father’s name and Avi’s name are on a yahrzeit wall at the Narayever, where we used to be members. The ner tamid has a personal meaning to us – it represents the continuing light of the memory of my parents and my brother Avi.    And we have the honour of sharing our little space on the blue glass with the Klein family who remember Elka.  Each member who stretched an arm outward to donate has a unique story.  For Jerrold and me, we have received so much more than we have given. I am sure it is the same, or will be the same, for many other members of this wonderful holy community. We are so proud to be a part of it.

The wall of trumot downstairs consists of glass pieces, each one held up discretely on the wall. Just as the wall supports the fragile glass pieces, of all shapes and colours, so our community sustains and supports its members - at fragile times, at life cycle events, and every time we congregate - with friendship, with a discrete Shabbat shalom, a “how are you”, a hug, a tallit outstretched.

And so we build our community, and our community finds godliness in our space and in ourselves.

This d'var Torah was delivered on February 21, 2015 at Congregation Darchei Noam.