Parashat
T'rumah
Intentionally Encountering the Spiritual
January
31, 2014
Rabbi
Mark H. Levin, DHL
This week's Torah
portion famously states: "Let them build for me a sanctuary, that I may
live within them." God chose
Moses for Moses' humility, according to the Torah. (Number 12:3)
It's Judaism's way of telling us that ego is the enemy of spirituality.
As Thomas Merton wrote, "Humility
contains in itself the answer to all the great problems of the life of the
soul.”
Judaism developed
ways to experience God's presence.
Direct revelation is not possible.
But we long for God. The
soul thirsts for God's assuring and emotional companionship within, without
being scorched like Aaron's sons ministering at God's altar.
So we arrive at
Exodus 25, this week's portion of Torah after revelation on Sinai: the building of God's earthly home, the
tabernacle, God's indwelling presence on earth. I don't know that this
structure actually existed. I
believe it's a metaphor for a necessary fact: God must be found in the world.
Nineteenth century
commentator, the Malbim, gets it exactly right when he says, "That each
one [of us] will build a holy place in the rooms of his heart and prepare an
altar to raise up all of the parts of his soul to God..."
So how do we build
that holy place in the heart?
The Talmud makes a
very interesting comment on the
phrase, "Let them make for me a sanctuary..." It says, "The holy things used in
making repairs to the Temple may be used to pay the artisans who make the
repairs. As Rabbi Elazar said,
'Scripture says, Make for me a sanctuary, for me, from that which is
mine.'"
Now think about
this. What are they
discussing? A Jew dedicates an
animal, something he has raised but which is property, the work of his own
hands, and contributes that animal to the support the sanctuary. Normally that animal would go to pay
the priests for their service. But
the Talmud teaches that those dedications may be used to pay the workers who
use their skills to repair the sanctuary itself. An animal, or anything dedicated to the sanctuary, goes from
being secular to becoming holy. And
the production, from the raising of the animal to building of a piece of
furniture for the sanctuary, becomes a mitzvah: something commanded by God. And what transforms it from the secular to the holy? The
intention of the donor to use it for holy purposes. Then, even though this animal has been
dedicated to be given to God and therefore assumes the holiness of the
sanctuary, it can be used instead to keep the Tabernacle or sanctuary in
working order and can become payment for the workers, who will then transform
it back into food for their families.
The entire matter rests upon the intention to dedicate something to God
and thereby, because of human intention,
make it holy and a piece of God and God's work.
The Talmud is telling
us that once it is donated to be used in the sanctuary and for God it is God's
property and therefore God-like. Once
dedicated, it no longer belongs to the owner, even if it has not yet been
transferred to the Tabernacle or the Temple. It assumes a different quality, the quality of God's
property, partaking in God's holiness.
In other words: it no longer adds to the glory of the person who raised
the animal or constructed the article given to God. It is now for God's glory,
not the person's ego.
But this transformation
requires work. On this point, the
book Avot d'Rabbi Natan, a parallel book to Pirkei Avot, explains, "Rabbi
Tarfon says, 'Work is great, for even the Holy One did not spread his presence
over Israel until they did some work [building the Tabernacle]...'" In other words, the creation of
holiness and bringing that holiness into our lives has several steps: 1) Physically
creating something that requires our work; 2) Mentally transferring ownership of that something to a higher
calling, to support that which we call holy, connected to God, and 3) Sacrificing that which we have created in
order to support our personal lives to be used instead for God's benefit, no
matter when that may occur and no matter what the ultimate use of that object
or animal may be. It's dedicating
our work and the product of our hands to a higher calling.
Our first midrash
instructed that we are taking our stuff to give to God as a form of sacrifice. But this begs a question. Doesn't the
Bible say in many places, "The Earth is the Lord's and the fullness
thereof, the world and they who dwell therein?" (Psalm 24:1) Doesn't
God already own it? Rashi, the
most famous biblical and talmudic commentator, therefore understands the words
in our parashah, "Make for me a sanctuary," not as the Talmud says,
"from my stuff," but instead, "For the sake of my name."
But I would like to combine the two interpretations: make a sanctuary for me from my stuff and for the sake of my
name."
Why, because when we
make stuff: grow it, manufacture
it, whatever, we are dedicating them to our own purposes. Work rightfully gives
ego satisfaction. We grow things to eat. We build homes to live in. We work to
purchase all of those things today. And we tend to make ourselves the center of
the world we construct with our own hands and minds.
But holiness requires
something else: the humility of a contrite spirit. So again we turn to the
Malbim and to psalms. The ashes of
the personal sacrifices we make are strewn over the altar of the contrite
heart, as portrayed in Psalm 51: "(Adonai
s'fatai tiftach u'fi yagid t'hilatecha) O Lord, open my lips, that my mouth may
declare your praise. You do not
want me to bring sacrifices; You do not desire burn offerings; True sacrifice
to God is a contrite spirit; God, You will not despise a contrite and crushed
heart."
Malbim portrays this
wilderness sanctuary as existing within each of us, if we construct it in the
heart. How do we do that? We must transform that which places us
in the center of our own lives, the things we produce, into that which places
God in the center of our lives. We do that by taking that which is most
precious and dedicating it to God, a real sacrifice, a real giving up. When we truly say to God, "This
for which I worked and which I intended for myself, I give to you and your
purposes," then we empty ourselves to allow God to fill the sanctuary of
the soul, God's true tabernacle on earth.
That's the reason the true spiritual journey is quiet: it's just between
you and God, the dedication of self to a higher existence, to furthering God's
purpose for our lives. As this
week's Torah says to us, "Let them build for me a sanctuary, that I may live within them."
