How can we make our home a holy tabernacle?
Table for Five: Tetzaveh
In partnership with the Jewish Journal of Los Angeles
Edited by Nina Litvak & Salvador Litvak, the Accidental Talmudist
Every man whose heart uplifted him came, and everyone whose spirit inspired him to generosity brought the offering of the Lord for the work of the Tent of Meeting, for all its service, and for the holy garments. – Ex. 35:21
Rabbi Elchanan Shoffi, Beis Knesses of Los Angeles
Inspiration is key. Donations were made by those whose hearts inspired them. We all need it. Judaism and observance must be jam-packed with passion. There are big broad things that we surely all believe in; peace in the world; kindness to those in need. But we cannot only be inspired by broad ideals. The person holding his little baby on his lap must sometimes feel the deep heart-warming feeling of meaning and love as he contemplates his little child growing up and moving out and knowing that he will long for the beauty of this precious moment one day. Our religious lives should be full and rich. We should attend services and observe the mitzvos, but just doing them as tasks isn’t complete. We must take pains to create meaningful connections with our prayers and mitzvos. Make sure that Shabbat in your home is one where there is inspired Jewish life, where the kiddush is done with life and joy and passion. Where the candles are lit with soulfulness and sincerity. Our homes must be our tabernacles, and our hearts and our inspiration must be awake and alive. But we must also never forget that inspiration doesn’t just happen to us. We cannot wait for it to happen. Like anything worthwhile, we must set the table for it and create conditions suitable for inspiration to come. Don’t wait for the right confluence of things to fall from the sky. Create inspiration, and build your tabernacle filled with passionate Jewish life.
Gila Muskin Block, Executive Director, Yesh Tikva
As a nonprofit executive director, this pasuk resonates deeply. It highlights the beauty and virtuous nature in which Bnai Yisrael contributed to the Mishkan.
The text identifies two categories of givers, asher nasao libo, those whose hearts elevated them and kol asher nedava rucho, those who give wholeheartedly. These two sound very similar, but the Or HaChaim points out one major distinction. He explains that though both are virtuous, the first category has an added level of piety. They were so deeply moved by the cause that they got swept up in their passion and gave far beyond their means. He further notes that the Torah honors them with the additional title of ish, a person of distinction, recognizing their exceptional generosity and deep emotional connection.
What inspired me most about this interpretation is the need for even having one. I ponder how meaningful it must have been for all those who participated in donating to the Mishkan. None of the donations were driven by social pressure or ulterior motives but by genuine devotion.
In the nonprofit world, I too, see a range of motivations for giving. The most transformative gifts, whether financial, time, or effort, just as the Or Hachaim explains, come from those who feel personally connected to the mission. Their giving elevates all of us impacted. This pasuk reminds us that true generosity is about the emotions and heart that drive our support.
Nicholas Losorelli, Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies Class of 2025/5785
To build the Mishkan, the holy desert sanctuary, the people gave however they could. While some contributions were materially larger than others, what truly mattered was not the material itself, but the willingness of heart to give. In commanding the people to build the Mishkan, God wasn’t asking the people to prove that they could build, but rather prove that they could cooperate with one another, with the only requirement to participate being a willing heart.
In the ancient Near East, the heart was seen as both the seat of the expansive forces of emotion, love, and connection, and the often-contractive forces of thought, contemplation, and logic. The Torah ends with “Lamed” and begins with “Beit,” forming the Hebrew word *Lev*—heart, and it is this *Lev* that holds the Torah together, renews it, and revivifies it. The Torah teaches us that to build something sacred, we must lead with our heart—our whole heart—one that can both contract and expand.
Right now, we are in a period of over-contraction, and my hope is that we remember that while the heart does contract, it also *must* expand, making room for all those who are willing of heart to build holy community. That includes those who don’t look, think, or practice like *“us”*, whatever that means to you. If the only barrier to entry is a willing heart, then we must dismantle whatever keeps willing hearts out. So, let us expand our hearts and do the holy work—together.
Denise Berger, Freelance Writer
In general, the Torah is succinct. Where there are “extra” words, it’s often an expression of love. In this passage, the Torah is taking us through a guided mindfulness meditation, inviting us to look carefully and deeply at the details, to see the love therein.
We think about the peoples’ uplifted hearts. We think about their generous spirits. We think about how they came with offerings for G-d, and the intentionality they brought with those offerings, having in mind the activities that took place in the Mishkan, the sacrifices and other services, the clothes worn by the Kohanim and Leviim.
There could be an impulse to sort of gloss over this pasuk, to keep skimming till we get to the next action-packed part. The people came and brought offerings. Done. But the Torah doesn’t do that. The Torah instead asks us to slow down, to internalize this moment. The pause, the lingering, alerts us: there’s something important happening. It’s not just a transitional scene.
The moment in question is connected to the Mishkan, which is where acts of worship took place. It feels like we’re being taught by example, the best mindset and heartset from which to approach our engagement with The Divine. The more we’re able to come from a place of uplift and generosity of spirit, the more we tune in to detail and subtlety, the more love we’ll feel for Hashem and the more His love will flow towards us.
David Brandes, Screenwriter
It was a bad day for the Israelites. While Moses was receiving the commandments on Sinai the self-destructive people were convincing Aaron to build a replacement deity, a golden calf. With emotional frenzy they gave Aaron their precious gold. It was an act of idolatry that, but for the pleading of Moses, almost ended in the obliteration of the Jewish people.
The calf was a physical symbol that the people desperately needed to replace the God who led them out of Egypt who was unnervingly transcendent. Because they could not see or touch God they felt abandoned. They needed something material.
What’s odd then is a mere three months later (according to Rashi: Tammuz to Tishrei) God ordered these same people to donate more contributions of gold to build a tangible structure, the Mishkan – a material symbol of God’s presence. Was God tempting the people into more idolatry?
I don’t think so. God well understood that mankind was flawed, beset with evil inclinations and thoughts. The Mishkan was not an “Idol”. It was a portable sanctuary, a “vessel”, through which the people could learn to sublimate their primitive desire for a material deity and enter into a relationship with the non-material, transcendent God who speaks of values and offers a covenant. The Mishkan became a practical channel designed to ritualize that relationship.
In short, you can’t change man’s nature but you can work with it, manipulate it, occasionally transform it for the good.
With thanks for Rabbi Elchanan Shoff, Gila Muskin Block, Nicolas Losorelli, Denise Berger, and David Brandes.
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