Terumah: Discipline and Yearning
Oh Lord Prepare me to be Your sanctuary
Pure and holy, tried and true. And in thanksgiving I’ll be a living sanctuary for you.
(You can hear the melody here.)
I’ve always been moved by this hymn (originally Christian) adopted and set to music in this version at Romemu, in New York City.
The Hebrew verses we sing at Romemu come from this week’s parsha. Their definition:
“And they shall make Me a sanctuary and I will dwell in their midst.”
(Chapter 25, verse 8)
What does it mean to be a living sanctuary? What does it look like to be a walking, talking mikdash, or sacred dwelling space?
According to Parshat Terumah, the creation of the mikdash – and by extension, the mikdash itself -- is a dance between a generous offering of love and a disciplined commitment. This has direct implications for our own practice and the sanctuaries we construct within ourselves.
Generosity of the Heart
2. Speak to the children of Israel, and have them take for Me an offering; from every person whose heart inspires him to generosity, you shall take My offering.
Right at the start of the parsha, God is clear that this sanctuary will be constructed in tandem with the hearts of the children of Israel. Although requested (with extreme specificity) by God, the mysterious “x” factor of the Mikdash is the choice of offerings
that the people bring. This is an opening that God gives the Israelites to search their own hearts and exercise their generosity muscles in the service of the Divine.
Alan Morinis describes this type of generosity (Terumah, the name of this week’s parsha) as a “movement of the soul...generat[ing] an open-handed response.” (Everyday Holiness, p. 150) We have all experienced this movement – the feeling of being filled to the brim with joy and abundance, when it is easy and natural to give. Morinis describes it beautifully as “a spontaneous, open, trusting, voluntary, inspired, internal overflow that erupts from the inner depth in response to the needs of, or love for, another.” (151) Morinis writes that God is the model for this type of giving, and that is why God wanted the Israelites to build the Miskhan from this place of love and devotion.
Mandated Generosity
There is, however, one important exception to God’s request that the offerings for the Mishkan be freely given. In a later parsha, we learn that the base of the Mishkan – the foundational structure that keeps it in place – is made from silver, and that the silver is collected through an obligatory tax system of one-half shekel per person.
This changes the calculus of God’s request. I don’t believe this obligatory giving at the base of the Mikdash means that giving out of obligation or requirement is more important or better than giving from the heart. Rather, I think the subtler lesson is that sometimes, with things in life that really matter, we learn how to love through what we commit ourselves to. Sometimes we must have the discipline to push through our ego’s narrow vision of what it wants and doesn’t want to reach the much more expansive, larger place of love and connection and holiness.
This idea is profoundly countercultural. Most of the time, we are taught that it is perfectly natural to build our lives around our preferences, maximizing pleasure, minimizing pain. Many spiritual traditions, however, teach that without giving up our discernment or critical mind, there must be a way to access discipline in our lives that helps us to reach much more holy and meaningful spaces. Hsin Hsin Ming, a Zen teacher, writes, “The Way of the Heart is not difficult for those who are not attached to their preferences. When desire and aversion are both absent, everything becomes clear and undisguised. Make the smallest judgment, however, and the mind is clouded and the Heart closed.”
My meditation teacher, Teah Strozer, frequently urges her students to make a time to meditate daily, commit to it, and then – no matter what – “put your behind on the cushion.” I’ve found this advice very helpful when I would much rather sleep in, see a friend, watch television or just daydream. When I follow this order - to “put my behind on the cushion” – no matter how I feel about it, the rewards are much deeper and more long lasting than what my preferences dictate in those moments. I notice the same to be true in all areas of life that matter – relationship, exercise, prayer, etc.
Sometimes the commitment reminds me about my deeper love and intentions, rather than the other way around.
Morinis again makes this point beautifully:
By obligating ourselves to give according to rules and formula, we expose our hearts to repetitive acts of giving that leave their trace on our inner lives. The very act of giving itself ultimately makes us more charitable, merciful, and loving. “Love flows in the direction of giving,” was Rabbi Dessler’s teaching.
Yearning
Ultimately, desire and discipline are not opposing forces. They weave in and out of each other, with desire opening our hearts and reminding us why we are disciplining ourselves in the first place, and discipline helping us to resist the many surface-level, time-wasting, non-life affirming preferences to reach the deeper levels of love.
The text itself seems to acknowledge this in an amazing linguistic twist. The word for silver in Hebrew (the material at the base of the Mikdash) is kesef, which has the same root of the word kissuf, or intense yearning
Yearning is at the base of the sanctuary. Not petty desires. Not obligation for its own sake. Yearning. This yearning, to me, is what ties the two types of giving together. We yearn for closeness with God. We yearn to be fully ourselves and to be worthy sanctuaries of holiness and love. Out of that yearning we build our structures of discipline, and out of that yearning we find our way to open-heartedness and generosity.
The Institute for Jewish Spirituality’s mission is to develop and teach Jewish spiritual practices so that individuals and communities may experience greater awareness, purpose, and interconnection.
Learn more at jewishspirituality.org
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