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This week, I found myself searching and searching for something meaningful to say about the Torah portion, parashat Vayakhel, which details the building of the ancient Tabernacle. How I wished to be inspired by the description of the artistry involved in building a space for God, by the lampstand made of pure gold, by planks of acacia wood, by the cloths of goat hair! Despite the detail, I found it difficult to imagine—much less be inspired by—this place of offering to God. 

Rabbi Rachel Adler explains why the Torah goes, repeatedly, into such painstaking detail about the Tabernacle (a structure whose existence many scholars debate): “How the temple is designed and furnished and where objects are positioned express symbolically what its builders believe about the nature of the cosmos.” 

In other words, when our ancestors designed their sacred space for God, they sought to reflect the glory of the universe. No wonder they furnished it with pure gold, beautiful wood, and luxurious fabrics. How many of us do something similar when creating our own homes, our own personal sanctuaries, evoking elegance and comfort? 

Furthermore, the Torah tells us over and over again that everyone was moved to participate. Women and men donated jewelry, the most talented artisans stepped up to design and decorate —so many things were offered for the building of the sanctuary that Moses eventually had to tell the people to stop bringing gifts: they had brought enough! 

Yet one difference between the Tabernacle and our own homes is that the Tabernacle was meant to be portable: deconstructed and reconstructed as the Israelites camped in new places in the desert. So much effort went into designing and constructing a structure that would only be taken down and recreated. No wonder we need such detailed descriptions!

Another difference between the Tabernacle and our own living spaces, however, is greater than portability. Our homes are personal and private, while the Tabernacle is a space shared by the entire community. The tabernacle is meant to be a place used by all the people: from beloved friends to the irritating nemesis, family members who are sometimes lovely and other times overbearing, the person who always speaks for too long, and so on. 

The Torah portion this week begins with the word Vayakhel, meaning “gather” or “convoke.” The whole community is brought together for a sacred purpose. But what is that sacred purpose? It is defined by its wholeness, its radical inclusion. We are reminded repeatedly in this Torah portion that everyone participated in the building of the Tabernacle, that our sacred spaces are for each of us. 

This Shabbat, whether we are focusing on our own homes or the wider JCP community, we have the opportunity to consider: what can I lovingly bring? How can my words or actions create a space of welcome, inclusion, and holiness?

Shabbat shalom, 

Sam

This week’s Torah portion contains the account of the Golden Calf: the Israelites, fresh out of Egypt and wandering the desert, build a golden calf to worship instead of God. For this great mistake, many lose their lives. It’s an intense story of action and punishment, or of action and consequence, if you prefer. But in reading it this week, I found a different message. 

Instead of the story of a “stiffnecked people” (a phrase repeated multiple times in this Torah portion) punished by God, I found a story of a people afraid, who make a big mistake, and a process toward healing and wholeness. Let’s dive into it. 

First of all, the Israelites don’t make a golden calf because they are bored and vain. They make a golden calf because they want a god to accompany them through the desert: “The people saw that Moses took so long coming down from the mountain [where he was talking to God], they congregated before Aaron and said, ‘Come, let us make us a god who shall go before us, for that fellow Moses — who brought us out of Egypt — we do not know what has happened to him!’” (Exodus 32:1). Rashi, a medieval commentator, explains that the Israelites think that Moses is dead, and they need a god to lead the way. What could be more logical than replacing a dead leader with a new guide? Through this lens, their action makes perfect sense!

Next, God (the omniscient), sees that the people have begun to make a golden calf. He tells Moses: “Leave me alone, so that I might destroy them in my anger!” (Exodus 32:10). But Moses advocates on the peoples’ behalf, pleading with God to be compassionate. “Think of what people will say!” Moses appeals to God—it won’t look good if you rescued us from Egypt only to destroy us in the desert. “Remember our ancestors, and the promises you made to them,” Moses adds, and God relents (Exodus 32:14). 

But the story doesn’t end here. When Moses sees the people worshiping the golden calf, he himself becomes incensed. He sees that they have become “out of control” and sends the priests to regain control. Some 3,000 people are killed, and then God sends a plague. But this harsh punishment isn’t the end of the story. 

No, the story ends with God taking some time to cool off and reconsider the next steps. Moses intercedes on behalf of the people—but this time, in full view of the people. They won’t again fear losing him. 

Moses says: “If I have truly gained Your favor [O God], pray let me know Your ways, that I may know You and continue in Your favor. Consider, too, that this nation is Your people.” God responds, compassionately: “I will go in the lead and will lighten your burden.” (Exodus 33:13-14). Wow—what a shift! Once God and Moses have both calmed down, they both seem eager to reunite. Moses says: “Unless You lead us, do not make us leave this place.” 

What an incredible resolution—both sides proclaiming their desire to continue on together. I would have thought that the story of the Israelites could have ended with the golden calf, so angry were both Moses and God! Instead, they tried every tool in their arsenals: calming one another down; then acting from anger; calming down yet again, and finally, refocusing on the bigger picture. 

Perhaps this story of purposeful resolution, despite seemingly impossible odds, can offer us hope—both individually and as we consider the continuation of the painful war in Israel and Gaza—as we look to the days ahead. 

Shabbat shalom, 

Rabbi Sam