D’Var Torah By: Rabbi Jessica Kirschner

The Torah contains two great acts of creation. The first is at the very beginning, in Parashat B’reishit, as God creates light and darkness, heaven and earth, water and land, plants and animals, humanity and Shabbat. It’s magnificent, and also likely quite familiar. The second creation narrative, which is much less familiar, is here in Parashat T’rumah, when God commands the people “to make me a sanctuary that I might dwell among them” (Exodus 25:8). This sanctuary is called the Mishkan. The parallels between God’s creation in B’reshit and the Israelite’s work of creation in T’rumah is a beautiful example of how our work in the world is meant to mirror God’s. Several key words are repeated in both stories: “make,” “see,” “complete,” “bless,” “sanctify,” “work,” “behold.” As God made a home for us, we make a home for God. Doing this is a sign of spiritual and national maturity, much as establishing a new home or family is one of the most meaningful signals of adulthood today. But why is this necessary? Particularly, why would an infinite God require a finite home? When God commands the building of the Mishkan, I’m reminded of the moment in Disney’s “Aladdin” when the Genie, released from the prison of his lamp, introduces himself and explains the drawback of being a genie: “Phenomenal cosmic powers, itty bitty living space.” Of course, I hear it in Robin William’s voice. God, being God, is not limited to one location. Why would God ask to be tied down in this way? Before the creation of the Mishkan, the Hebrews worshipped God wherever they were-on hilltops, by streams, in any place they felt moved to pray. Abraham and Isaac encounter God in a particular place when they travel to Mt. Moriah. Jacob is surprised by his encounter with God in a dream, saying “God was in this place, and I did not know it” (Genesis 28:16). Moses, too, encounters God unexpectedly when he notices an otherwise ordinary bush burning without being consumed. The great medieval Sephardic poet Yehudah HaLevi wrote, “O God, where shall I find you? All hidden and exalted is your place. And where shall I not find You? Full of your glory is the infinite space.” For people comfortable with uncertainty, who enjoy surprises, the possibility of encountering God at any time or place might be delightful. But, for others, the lack of certainty can be deeply unnerving. In the midrash, the early rabbis imagine a conversation between God and the people of Israel. They picture the people explaining to God that all human rulers have beautiful palaces, rooms where offerings can be brought to them, and where the people can demonstrate their loyalty and love. The people say to God, “shouldn’t you, our Ruler, have such a palace?” God responds, “My children, I have not need of such a place, after all, I do not eat or drink. Obviously, however, you have a need for such a place. It will help you experience Me. For that reason, build a sanctuary and I will dwell in your midst.” In this reading, God commands the Israelites to build him a home not because God needs it, but because we do. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggests that the Mishkan was a micro-cosmos, a symbolic representation of the universe as a whole — the Israelites’ efforts echoing God, in a worshipful way. More importantly, the construction of the Mishkan was a kind of tikkun (repair) of the harmony between God and humanity, after the sin of Adam and Eve. In the Garden of Eden, God had been an intimate presence. Because of sin, paradise was lost, but with the construction of the Mishkan, proximity to God, the ultimate function of paradise, could be regained. In Sacks’s book, “Covenant and Creation,” he states:
The making of the Mishkan was a cosmic event, a return to Eden and a mending of the exile between humanity and God…No longer would the Israelites sense the presence and proximity of God only in miracles or in moments of crisis. It would be a daily event, a constant epiphany.
In addition to these purposes, I want to suggest a third: in building the Mishkan, the Israelites each make themselves a home for God. I am hanging this interpretation on a key word in Exodus 25:8: The Hebrew reads “asu li mikdash v’shachanti b’tocham” – which we already translated as “Let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them,” – but “mikdash” is singular while “b’tocham” is plural. It would be more logical to have said, “Let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell in it.” “Among them” is a lovely translation, but we could also read b’tocham as “in them.” As the Israelites bring gifts as their hearts move them to furbish the Mishkan, and offer the work of their hands to construct it, what they are really doing is making space in themselves to receive God’s presence. In this interpretation, the Mishkan is a physical manifestation of an invisible internal reality. In building the Mishkan whole-heartedly, the Israelites each established a Mishkan in their hearts. The work of making our hearts a place where God wants to dwell is available to each of us. With every mitzvah, act of tzedekah, commitment to t’shuvah, and deed of tikkun, we refine ourselves to be a fitting home for God. When I send my daughters to summer camp, or say goodbye before leaving on a trip, I remind them that they carry my heart in their hearts. It’s my way of saying I am still with them, guiding and blessing them, even when we are distant from each other. In commanding us to build the Mishkan, I believe that God, the ultimate loving parent, is doing the same for us. God doesn’t really need the tent of the Mishkan – God needs an invitation to abide in each of us, and we need that, too.