by Rabbi Lawrence A. Hoffman,
an author and speaker on Jewish ritual, prayer, and spirituality, and a professor of liturgy at Hebrew Union College in Manhattan

I love this week’s reading! So must anyone charged with raising charity dollars. It is the quintessential paradigm for voluntary giving, after all. Having launched the Mishkan project (building a sanctuary where God will dwell), the Israelites donate whatever their heart may prompt. And it works, because their heart prompts them properly. These escapees from Egyptian bondage are no cheapskates, apparently. They give generously. It is important to know what they give for.

Rabbinic tradition identifies three parts to the project, only one of which was funded voluntarily. The other two came from mandatory taxes.

One tax went toward the sockets that joined the ceiling beams to the weight-bearing pillars — which is to say, the actual physical construction of the Mishkan. If you belong to a synagogue, think of it as your building fund. A second tax purchased the necessary sacrifices (like the maintenance cost of what actually happens in a synagogue sanctuary — buying prayer books, for example, or even the Torah scrolls).

The only voluntary offering, Rashi reports, went into a fund for the materials that the Mishkan required — its timber, for example.

But wait. Isn’t that the same category as the sockets? My local Home Depot puts the sockets and the beams in the same aisle. Why are the Mishkan materials separated from the sockets?

The Torah here divides its sentences in an interesting manner. After naming the Mishkan materials, we get a period and then another sentence, as if it denotes an altogether different thing: “Let them make me a sanctuary,” God says. The point of the voluntary offering is not just the wood and nails. It is what they are supposed to provide: not just a building, but a sanctuary. Apparently, all the physical materials in the world will not automatically guarantee that.

A true sanctuary, a Mishkan, is a place where God takes up residence, and that comes only when we give voluntarily. You can build the most beautiful edifice imaginable (the first tax) and then stock it with elaborate prayer books and even beautifully outfitted scrolls of Torah (the second tax) and still be without God, if you do not contribute from the heart.

What is it that the Israelites contributed? I don’t mean the specific materials; I mean their nature, the characteristic that sets them apart from the sockets.

Living in medieval France, Rashi identifies them with a French word written in Hebrew letters, and there are two theories of how that word should be translated. It could mean “appeasement,” implying that the Israelites contributed just to appease the one who commanded their contribution — in this case, God. Translating that into the case of modern congregations, we would say that members give just to get the synagogue board out of their hair. But that hardly satisfies the idea of “giving what their heart may prompt.” So another reading of the old French is “present.” In modern terms, the people provide a genuine gift, because they want a synagogue that is really a sanctuary, a place where God truly does reside.

Most people today have given up on that — they have probably never even considered it. They give their dues, of course, expecting a payback in services: a bar/bat mitzva for their children, High Holy Day tickets, and a rabbi on call in case of illness or, God forbid, a death. They hardly imagine they can invest “what their heart may prompt” and get a place where the presence of God is manifest.

But don’t blame the synagogue, its rabbi, or its board. The fault lies with the people who belong, the ordinary members who do not demand a synagogue where God’s presence is patent.

Ramban has it right. He cites a midrash that identifies the voluntary offering not as the money people give but as the people who give it — the community itself. It is, he reports, as if God says, “I gave you my Torah, which is to say I gave Myself to you. In return, I get you, as it says in ‘Song of Songs,’ ‘I am my beloved and my beloved is mine.’” God wants us to invest not just our money, but ourselves!

Ordinary synagogue gifts — the annual dues and building fund — are spelled out. We give what we must. But only if we invest our very selves will we transform a building (however beautiful) into a Mishkan, a place where we find God. Only if we give not just from the heart, but of the heart, will God join us. I do not understand why we would settle for anything less.

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