Parshat Terumah

Rabbi Andrue Kahn - February 20, 2026

Right now, it feels important that the vast majority of the sacred story of the Torah takes place in the wilderness. Wandering in unformed, dangerous territory as a pathway toward revelation and new modes of being is incredibly resonant. As the foundations of the society we live in are revealed to be ever more corrupt, even those who have persisted within the halls of power are finding themselves forced to confront what many of us have known for so long: We are living in an interregnum. A time of monsters. Of morbid symptoms. Antonio Gramsci, writing in his prison cell in fascist Italy, described this phenomenon as:

"the old dying and the new unable to be born."

But our Torah provides a guide for what it means to be a midwife to the new. The Israelites as a whole are tasked with bringing together materials of all kinds, as terumot — gifts of the heart — to construct the moveable sanctuary, the Mishkan. The list of materials and much of the construction is provided in great detail. But importantly — not in the right detail. It is actually impossible to calculate the dimensions of the building based on the description. Contemporary scholars are fairly certain that this building never really existed. Rabbis and thinkers throughout history have suggested something similar. The description is representative of something else.

Some say it clarifies which forms of labor are forbidden on Shabbat. Some see the cosmos reflected in the layers and rooms of the tent. Some find hints as to how to channel the Divine Presence into our world. The meeting point with G-d is not a mountain ablaze or a palatial Temple, but an imaginary tent of gold and yarn containing divine secrets. The excess of detail in some places, and the lack of detail in others, exposes the Mishkan's incorporeality; it can only exist in our minds and hearts. And that is the point.

These chapters function less as architectural blueprints and more as instructions for collective imagination. As the Jewish educator Dr. Amy Cooper Robertson suggests:

"These physical representations are intended to support the contemplative practice of envisioning a god's palace in one's mind…It is through visualization, not physical construction, that this other ritual plane of existence can be affected."

Each beam. Each curtain. Each vessel. A locus for Divine encounter.

The medieval commentator Rabbeinu Bachya finds this truth in the opening verse of our portion: "ויקחו לי תרומה." Not simply "take for Me an offering," but an invitation for Knesset Yisrael — the spiritual collectivity of those infused by Torah — to gather. To become the Mishkan. This sacred space is built from the people who encircle it - "V'shocanti b'tocham," G-d tells the Israelites; I will dwell within and among you once you have made for me this Mikdash.

In a wilderness moment — when old institutions crumble and new ones have yet to solidify — the Mishkan teaches that revelation arises when a community dares to imagine together. By everyone providing their own gifts, bringing them as a way of constructing a habitation for the Divine in the mundane, we continue the process of making ourselves the terumah. The gift to G-d.

This community is a clear representation of labor, love, and commitment of time and energy to build a sacred vessel for Judaism that resonates with liberation. Working together toward a messianic era for all — this is certainly a Mishkan. As you sit in this moment the Divine is dwelling within you.

I want to ask: What do you have to add to the beautiful makeup of this Mishkan? What does it represent for you?

Turn to someone next to you — preferably someone you do not know. Share a word. A dream. A vision. Something you would like to help birth into this world through the container of this sanctuary. Nothing is too small. Nothing is "not Jewish enough." Just share the terumah — the gift arising within you. I will give you a few minutes. And then we will hear what has begun to be born.