A few weeks ago, I attended a friend’s housewarming party, after they had just purchased the home of their dreams. The home was everything they had worked for. Newly renovated according to every specification they outlined, it was designed and furnished beautifully, full of artwork, souvenirs, and furniture that left me feeling both proud of their accomplishments and, surprisingly, in doubt of my own. My home looks nothing like theirs, and I wondered maybe — just maybe — aside from lacking the many beautiful adornments that were scattered around their home, mine also lacks something more. Maybe it lacks everything those adornments symbolized: a reflection of wealth, sophistication, and most importantly, happiness.
I often pride myself on being a conscientious consumer. As someone who has lived in multiple countries throughout my lifetime, I have learned the practicality of minimalism, especially in the smooth facilitation of moves from home to home. Despite my strongest urges to purchase items to adorn my one-day forever home, my reasoning for reasons not to usually prevails. Inspired by the verse in Genesis 3:19, I remind myself that from dust I am and to dust I shall return; what objects I carry with me in this lifetime will not accompany me beyond my days on earth. So I question whether or not they deserve a place in my home and in my heart. The items I do choose to bring with me in my home — my own sanctuary — are few and far between; they are only those that hold unique value to me.
This sentiment of minimalism is arguably not one that this Torah portion embraces. This week, as we read Parashat Terumah, we read of a new creation narrative: that of the Mishkan, the tabernacle in which God will dwell “in the midst” (Exodus 25:8) of the Israelites as they journey into the Promised Land. In the opening lines of Exodus 25, we read of all of the many fine adornments that God envisions for this new dwelling:
“…And these are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats’ hair; tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece.” (Exodus 25:7)
Indeed, the rest of the parasha goes on to explain how the Israelites are to utilize these donations to build the Mishkan in meticulous detail.
How did the Israelites feel about volunteering their most precious possessions — presumably limited in number, due to their nomadic existence — to the creation of the Mishkan? Did any of them resent giving away the little they had to the communal endeavor of building a sanctuary for the Divine?
According to the 16th-century Italian commentator Sforno, not only did the Israelites give generously, but they approached Moses en masse, with such excitement, that he had to pause their giving. (Sforno on Exodus 25: 1-3) We see this in parasha Vayakhel, when Moses calls a halt to their giving by proclaiming, “Not a single man or woman should make further effort toward gifts for the sanctuary!” (Exodus 36: 5) Indeed, their contributions were so large and frequent, Moses had to actively stop the Israelites from bringing too much. But can one ever give too much when endeavoring to honor and serve the Divine?
One may argue that Moses and the builders of the Tabernacle opted for practicality. The Mishkan was not meant to be a permanent dwelling; it was meant to accompany the Israelites on their journey. Having too much to carry would only slow the Israelites as they journeyed to the Promised Land.
Maybe this pause in giving served another purpose. Perhaps it forced them to maintain their focus not on the tangible physical beauty before them, but rather, the intangible, spiritual beauty that rested in the opportunity to share space with the Divine Presence.
Our rabbinic sages allude to this possibility in their translation of Exodus 25:8. The rabbinic commentator Alshekh points to a grammatical nuance in the verse when God states, “They shall make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell in their midst.”(Sforno on Exodus 25:8) Why state “in their midst,” rather than “in it [the sanctuary]”? According to Alshekh, the distinction resides in the importance of relationship. Although the Israelites go to great lengths to painstakingly execute every detail that God outlines in this architectural endeavor, they should never forget the Tabernacle’s primary purpose: to function as a space to build a relationship with the Divine.
In the words of Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz, z’l, it is in this verse that we realize that,
“Tabernacle is reduced to its most significant fundamental point…the people’s presence is essential for its existence. The notion that God will ‘dwell in their midst’ invests the physical Tabernacle with inner meaning. Its sanctity is not due to its structure or to the materials from which it is built. But the fact that the Jewish people reside around it.” (Adin Steinsaltz, Talks on the Parsha, p. 148)
In other words, the sanctuary, in all its splendor and glory, could never replace the unique beauty that comes from building a relationship with God, and if the Israelites and we are lucky enough, with each other.
Ten weeks ago, for the first time in my life, I experienced the incomparable joy of becoming a mother. As a new parent, I have very quickly and unintentionally accumulated an overwhelming amount of Stuff. In just ten short weeks, our family has evolved from being consciously minimalistic to one that is drowning in baby paraphernalia. Countless onesies, swaddles, pacifiers, and books are scattered across our home. Most of these items are marketed as essentials: the newest hi-tech bassinet that can automatically rock him to sleep, a very costly, hypoallergenic lotion to soothe the redness of his baby acne, or the customized sensory toys and blanket that we use for tummy time. But not surprisingly, despite having all of this Stuff, even in his most colicky, uncomfortable moments, our baby always calms most when he receives our loving care, attention, and snuggles. In the Mishkan that is our beloved home, nothing else compares to the holiness of this human connection. I have never been so certain that the Divine presence exists in the hard yet beautiful moments that we have shared.
So this Shabbat, as we enter into a period of deep rest, I pray that our minds also rest easy in knowing that we can be, and are, enough. Sure, beautiful things and stuff are nice. However, it is in our presence and our actualization of relationship with others that divinity is created. And no precious metal or stone, or richly-colored yarn, no matter how beautiful, could ever replace that.