Shabbat Shalom. We’re now deep into the part of Exodus that focuses on building the tabernacle and its furnishings and making the garments that the priests will wear, most notably Aaron when he enters the Holy of Holies.
A bit of Torah trivia: This week’s parsha, T’tzaveh (“you shall instruct”), is the only parsha from the beginning of Exodus through the end of Deuteronomy that doesn’t mention Moses, although it does mention Aaron throughout.
There are many theories that the commentators put forth as to why Moses isn’t mentioned. One is that Moses is jealous of his brother Aaron’s appointment as chief priest. Another is that Moses is proud of his brother and, being the humble soul that he is, wants to give Aaron the chance to take center stage. Clearly there’s not much agreement here. These theories come from The Torah: A Women’s Commentary.
Now, unless you happen to be a builder or a tailor, the recitation of construction materials and fabrics and other accoutrements in this week’s parsha and last week’s, Trumah, can be mind-numbing. This is especially true when you contrast it with all the drama that came right before it: the enslavement under Pharaoh, the plagues, the crossing of the Sea of Reeds, and of course the thundering voice of God speaking the Ten Commandments. Exciting stuff!
Now, instead, we have detailed building/sewing instructions that specify quantities of precious metals, stones, sumptuous textiles dyed an array of colors, and — my personal favorite — bells for the hem of Aaron’s robe. The sudden shift in the story is stark. Imagine going from a fast-action movie to, say, IKEA. On the surface, not thrilling.
And yet. Beneath the surface, quite thrilling — but in a different way.
In Exodus 25:1, God speaks to Moses and says, “Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts from Me from every person whose heart is so moved.”
Up to this point God has largely been driving the action in the story. The Israelites are long accustomed to being told where to go and what to do. It’s God who moves the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt. It’s God who sends down manna from heaven when the people start kvetching about the food. And it’s God who lays down of a basic framework of laws, the Decalogue, which is designed to govern the people’s relationship with God and with each other.
This is not a people who’ve had much in the way of control over their lives — and, compounding their lack of agency, they’ve endured some frightening event of late.
Back in Egypt, when God orders the tenth plague, the slaying of the Egyptian firstborn sons, the Israelites help carry it out by sprinkling blood on their neighbors’ doorposts. Contributing to the loss of human life even indirectly is a traumatizing experience. Shortly after that they watch as Moses parts a body of water — and while they, of course, cross safely, they watch the entire Egyptian army drown. And you’ll recall that when God speaks the Ten Commandments there’s thunder and lightning and fire — the whole mountain shakes! The Israelites are rightly terrified.
And now here we are in the desert, where the people are tasked with creating a holy place, the Tent of Meeting, that will allow them to feel protected by God and comforted by the knowledge that God in their midst. They know what’s needed to build it, and they’re asked — not ordered — to contribute as their hearts see fit.
The reality is they don’t have much to give at this point in their journey, just the gold and silver they “borrowed” from their neighbors when they left Egypt. But once the people are given the freedom to give freely, to give from the heart, what happens? Do they hesitate? No, quite the opposite. They give and they give. They give so much that Moses has to tell them to stop.
The question is: why do the Israelites respond in this way? Why are people who have very little in the way of possessions, who know almost nothing about living in freedom, who’ve experienced more than their share of trauma. Why are they so quick to step up and give?
I think, first of all, they’re happy to be included. It sounds simple but it makes sense. Being asked to be a part of a project that’s so important, so critical to their future — building the tabernacle — is immensely flattering, like being picked to collaborate on a project at work. It means that you’re valued. Your contributions matter. YOU matter.
In this case it even goes a step further because the Israelites’ gifts aren’t just welcomed — they’re essential to the cause. The tabernacle cannot be built without the Israelites contributing the items to make it happen. No gold, no silver, no acacia wood, no clear oil of beaten olives, no Urim and Thummim (believed to be stones of some sort, but the precise translation is uncertain) — without these items, and many others, there is no tabernacle.
Giving as your heart allows is not a commandment. It’s not an obligation. It’s the opposite of tzedakah. Giving from the heart is a choice. It’s the very definition of freedom. You have the option of deciding for yourself the kind of person you want to be. How generous should I be in sharing what I have? What does it mean to be part of a community? What matters more to me — a silver object, which has monetary value, or helping to build the Tent of Meeting, which will keep God close to me?
These are questions that the Israelites never had the chance to ask themselves before. For the first time, they’re seeing the privilege and the responsibility and the moral choices that come with being a free people. Imagine how intoxicating this is for them. And how empowering.
The Israelites are more than participants or even partners in the building of the tabernacle — they’re the creators of this holy structure that will, in turn, give structure to their lives and allow them to worship God in the way they’ve been commanded to.
They’re creating something bigger than they are, not just for themselves but for those who will come after them. The tabernacle they’re building may be a temporary structure in the desert, but through the act of giving the Israelites will be invested forever in the mechanism for worship that they’re creating with their heartfelt contributions.
Learning to become a community, and building a community that endures, means bringing your gifts to the table. Money, yes, but also time and talents or special knowledge. If I can switch from my sermonizer hat to my president hat for a minute, our community here at B’ShERT could not survive without both your tzedakah AND the gifts you choose to gift because your heart is so moved. Every gift, no matter how small, is appreciated. It means that you care about being part of this community and that you’re invested in supporting a place — a sacred place —that means so much to you and so many others.
When we give as our heart allows, invariably what we get in return is so much greater than what we put in. In this community we get friendship. Comfort. Spiritual sustenance. A home away from home. And so much more.
May we as individuals and as a community be mindful of the power of our own hearts — to be generous in word and in deed, and most of all to be kind. May we continue to go from strength to strength as a supportive and compassionate community. Have a safe week, and Shabbat Shalom.
Adrienne Knoll 