Parashat Terumah | Rabbi Felicia Sol | February 21, 2026

this week as

we are preparing I I mean I'm not

preparing but uh our communications

department is preparing for the second

half of our bicesentennial exhibit. Max

Orstein, our director of communications,

finally received documents from the

Martin Luther King Library. Among them

was a letter from Rabbi William

Burkowitz dated July 31st, 1962

inviting Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. to

be honored here with the annual

brotherhood award. An award established

in 1947

for an eminent citizen who rendered

outstanding service in the field of

interfaith and intergroup understanding.

Included in all these documents was the

correspondence back and forth. Of

course, there was no internet or

anything, so every little detail of the

visit was in another letter. And it also

included excerpts from Dr. King's

remarks delivered in February 1963.

Uh that's basically 60 years from the

day. Entitled moral and religious

imperatives for brotherhood.

He begins with a moral clarity that

feels as urgent now as it did then.

There must be a recognition of the

sacredness of the human personality,

deeply rooted in our political and

religious heritage, is a conviction that

every man is an heir to a legacy of

dignity and worth.

This innate worth referred to in the

phrase the image of God is universally

shared in equal portions by all men. It

was a different time, right? There is no

graded scale of essential worth. Every

human being has etched in his

personality the indelible stamp of the

creator.

And he concludes his remarks with a

reminder that holiness is never

solitary.

The universe is so structured that

things do not quite work out rightly if

men are not diligent in their concern

for others.

The self cannot be self without others

without other selves. I cannot reach

fulfillment without thou. All life is

interrelated.

All men are caught in an inescapable

network of mutuality

tied in a single garment of destiny.

Dr. King gives us a vision of the human

being as a vessel. Each person bearing

the indelible stamp of the creator.

Every life sacred, each self incomplete

without the other. Holiness lives first

in the human personality. And yet he

also insists insists that we do not

stand alone. We are bound together. We

build communities and institutions.

movements, structures meant to serve

that sacred human core.

And that tension between the sacred

human vessel, the individual, and the

structures we build around it is not

new.

The sages too were captivated by what

human beings can create together. In the

Talmud Suka 51B declares, "One who did

not see the celebration of the simata,

the drawing, the place of the drawing of

the water, never saw a true Simkha in

the in their life. One who did not see

in its glory, never saw a beautiful

city. One who did not see the temple in

its construction, in its constructed

state, never saw a magnificent

structure. The rabbis marvel at

grandeur, at collective joy and ritual,

at architectural beauty, at the

magnificence of sacred space. They

understand that human beings bound

together can create something

breathtaking.

But as we will see, they also understand

some danger there.

Because the question is not simply

whether we can build something

magnificent.

The question is what is the magnificence

meant to serve?

And so the tomud continues as if to test

its own celebration of grandeur. After

praising Yushaim and the Beth Mikdash,

the temple, it turns to another

structure far from Cion, far from home,

a synagogue in Alexandria of Egypt. And

there the question of what we build and

what our building does to us becomes

even sharper. The Talmud continues,

"Rabbi Yehuda said, "One who did not see

the great synagogue of Alexandria of

Egypt never saw the glory of Israel.

They said that its structure was like a

large basilica with a colonade within a

colonade. At times there were 600,000

men and another 600,000 men in it. Twice

the number of those who left Egypt. In

it, there were 71 golden chairs

corresponding to the 71 members of the

great Sanhedrin, each of which consisted

of no less than 21,000 talents of gold.

And there was a wooden platform at the

center, the sexton of the synagogue

would stand on it with scarves in his

hands. And because the synagogue was so

large and the people could not hear the

communal prayer, when the prayer leader

reached the conclusion of a blessing

requiring the people to answer, "Amen,"

the sexton waved the scarf and all the

people would answer, "Amen." And the

members of the various crafts would not

sit mingled. Rather, the gold smiths

would sit among themselves, and the

silver smiths among themselves, and the

blacksmiths among themselves, and the

copper smiths among themselves, and the

weavers among themselves. And when a

poor stranger entered

there, he would recognize who pied to

his craft, and he would turn to join

them. And from there he would secure his

livelihood as well as the livelihood as

the members of his household as his

colleagues would find him work in that

craft.

It's an extraordinary image in all its

grandeur. Not only the enormity of the

structure, but the affirmation of a

thriving community, more populated than

those who left Mitsime, more populated

than those who stood on Sinai, the

affirmation that the covenant was alive

and well. It even honored the great

Sanhendrin. Aside from the clear

financial success of the community in

order to create such a structure, the

community is also modeled with economic

dignity so that artist artisans seated

by their crafts are set up that way so

that persons who were struggling to find

their place in Parasa and their

livelihood could find it easily when

they walked into the synagogue.

What an expression of pride in knowing

how to build not only a place but a

community. From our humble beginnings in

Mitraim to traveling in the desert with

the Mishkan to exile in times of

abundance and in times of danger.

However, the Talmud takes a dramatic

turn.

It says the following. Abay said all the

people who congregated in that synagogue

were killed by the Alexander the Great

of Macedonia.

What is the reason that they were

punished and killed?

It is due to the fact that they violated

the prohibition with regard to mitim in

this verse.

You shall not go back that way again as

it says in Deuteronomy. and they

returned to Mitsim

since they established their permanent

place of residence in Mitraim in Egypt.

They were punished.

It's a stunning turn of events. Aside

from the found profound problem of this

theology, I'm not going to go there. Um,

which is very deeply profound that

people will get punished for something

like that. The rabbis, I think, are

asking a question and probing a concern.

How can something so beautiful and

lauded ultimately be something so

spiritually dangerous?

It's not like the building or the

synagogue was immoral. It's not that it

was assimilated.

It wasn't corrupt. just it seems too

settled and comfortable in mitzim and

perhaps not even recognizing the

narrowness the vulnerability

the mitzim rout right right outside

their door. So, I just want to stop for

a minute just to make sure people

understand that the rabbis are accusing

the the people saying that the Torah

says that they should never go back to

Mitsim, right? Like that. That's whether

you want to say it's a bad place or it's

not a place that you should go back to.

And because these people established a

thriving community in Mitsim, which is

an and all

and all the surface looks amazing in

fact right and they the then the tomud

kind of abay says no no no so I'm just I

want to open it up for two minutes to

say what's wrong with going back to mitz

what's the risk at least like what

what's at stake why do the rabbis have

an inkling that something is bad about

that why do they apply the verse in this

way

thoughts

Yes.

>> Okay. So, mitz represents from star

narrowness and if you go back there

there's no sense of potentially

spiritually thriving even though at on

the surface it looks as if they are

thriving. Great. Yeah. Martha.

Okay. So Martha said that it's like a

reversal of the whole intention of the

plot, right? God took us out of Egypt.

So to go back is seems kind of hau. It

seems upside down in some way or going

backwards. You could say it's a return

to part of the story that we don't want

to return to. Any other thoughts?

Yes. Ephraim

conflict is because they they battled

other people and they would be embattled

in that space too.

They're not safe. It It doesn't provide

them a sense of potentially the kind of

the the promise of being their own

people in their own land potentially.

Yes.

>> Okay. So, Donna says maybe it's like

this is like shot rabbis, which is the

verse says don't go back and they went

back. They I mean I would just say they

apply verses very uh you know

willy-nilly in a certain sense. So that

feels not satisfying for me even though

I understand the logic of it. Yeah,

Mark. It seems

okay. So, it's dismissing of God's plan

and God went through a lot of efforts to

sacrifice people along the way to make

us have that kind of redemption. How can

we go back? Yeah, Jerry.

So

>> yeah and therefore

>> so that's part of the point right so uh

that so theologically so Jerry's point

our dear representative um is that

there's not a problem like it doesn't

seem to be a problem but the rabbis have

a problem with it they make a problem of

it right like they've just expressed all

these incredible witnessing of so many

things that are gorgeous and beautiful.

And they add this diaspora synagogue on

the list and then they say, "Uhoh,

something's wrong here." The rabbis

smell something that they don't like or

they project, right? Like they're

they're projecting an agenda onto the

text in order to try to convey

something. So the the question is there

are many things that could be conveyed.

We don't have we could spend hours uh

doing this which we're not going to do.

Um one last

>> yes

>> okay so maybe it's around diasporic

existence um potentially. All right. I

think there's a lot to be said about it,

right? And that the tomud basically says

they it's because they, you know,

according to what Donna says, you know,

they they didn't fulfill this thing

about not going back. But I think

underneath it, there must be something

going on, right? Like there's something

deeper going on about why they're so

disturbed about it. And um so I just

want to hold that question right like

what is it about the optics

about having a grand synagogue that's

functioning extremely well in the place

where we were enslaved

that is it's seemingly it it seems to me

at least functioning in some way in a

vacuum in Mitsin

the place of according right as Jerry

said of where we were slaves. I just

hold that. So it seems that they were

settled and comfortable in mitsim and

the question is whether that is a good

thing whether we should ever be settled

and comfortable in mitzime and perap

perhaps they don't uh who said I don't

remember uh it was joy who said who said

they didn't recognize the narrowness of

the place and they perhaps weren't

attentive to the vulner vulnerability of

the mitz

right out their door, right? They build

this grandiose thing in Mitzim, which is

not really just a place, but a but a a

spiritual state. And how do you build

something so grand in the midst of so

much narrowness? That's another

question. Unlike the grandiosity of

Alexandria,

there was a moment in our story

when there was no building. There was no

Mishkan that was considered or even

needed. Of course, all of that precedes

this week's parasa. And the met theidic

commentary on this week's parasa truma

describes the moment when the Israelites

were crossing the sea and he writes,

"Israel at the sea felt themselves to be

vessels ready to have the shina poured

into them. Thus they said,

This is my God and I will enshrine them.

That's a part of the uh Shiratayam, the

song of the sea. Meaning, I will make

myself into a shrine for God.

Essentially, the children of Israel

themselves were a foundation for God's

dwelling. They were at the sea according

to the fat mik

that they were small sanctuaries ready.

It's a I I taught this teaching in my

class this week. It's such a powerful

teaching to imagine coming out of

Mitsurim

and at a place where they were filled

with so much badness, you know, so much

horror, so much narrowness and

constriction. And here according to the

fat, they say we will be the shrine for

you. What an incredible transformation

that when one comes out of mitim, one

could have the awareness that one could

be filled up with God's presence.

It wasn't until the sin of the golden

calf, the eelah that God saidd.

That's according to Rashi's read. People

know that there's like a chronic

chronological

um uh reversal of the order of events in

the Torah that says Rashi says that the

egalas the golden calf occurs before the

construction of the Mishan and God's

instruction to build the sanctuary

vasuli mikdash mishakant

is an outgrowth of the sin of the golden

calf. Let me let them make me a

sanctuary and only through that will I

dwell in them that they need the

sanctuary. The mishan is a concession.

The mishan is a concession. It only

appears after rupture

when people can no longer bear the

unmediated encounter with God or when

their capacity because they've sinned

for being a mikdash ma a small sanctuary

as human beings in some way has been

lost. The Mish Khan is both a merciful

hi gift

to create a place for the encounter by

God and it is also at once an expression

that has some of something that has been

forfeited because of the experience of

sin.

The svat however is emphatic

that this the desire is for human beings

themselves to become a mishan for god.

He teaches this teaching, I think,

because he is worried in some sense.

There's always like we're Jewish. Like

there's always a worry underneath. Like

the rabbis have a worry about that

synagogue in Alexandria. And the suvat

met I think has a worry that too much

will be put into the building of

Mishkhan and people will forget that

actually it was them who were supposed

to be the Mishkhan that they were meant

to be the vessels by which uh God would

dwell. And here is the tension we must

feel. What happens when our sanctuaries

and our institutions become so secure

and so magnificent, so complete that we

forget what it was like to stand at the

sea unshielded, unfinished, open to

God's presence. Alexandria was praised

for its grandeur, for its care of the

poor, for its thriving ordered

community. And yet that very beauty

carried a hidden danger. According to

the rabbis, the people built a home in

Mitsim and in doing so risked forgetting

their exile, the awareness that holiness

must always be carried and never

assumed. The Mishkhan reminds us that

structures are gifts necessary for

fragile hearts, but the true dwelling is

within human beings, porous enough to

hold the shina, God's dwelling presence,

fear and the suffering of others.

And so we are left in the middle of a

question, not an answer. What is the

purpose of what we build

together? Of course, we have that

blessing every Shabbat, many of us, many

times during the week to be here to

protect us, to feel encapsulated and of

comfort inspire,

I hope. Yes. And yet can the walls we

erect, the grandeur we create quietly

make us forget the narrowness of

mitsayim, the fragility of being

vessels, the trembling openness the sat

de emtt describes at the sea.

Do our sanctuaries and institutions

enlarge our moral imagination,

training us to carry fear and the

suffering of others? Or do they allow us

to settle secure in comfort, forgetting

what it means to be porous, unf

unfinished, and fragile human beings

just out of mitzim. I worry about the

Jewish community in this way.

When the people of Alexandria built

their magnificent synagogue, they were

alive with pride, organization, care,

and economic dignity. And yet, they were

in Mitsim in Egypt. When we build, are

we building to dwell with God or are we

building to feel at home in a place that

is meant to remind us of our own

vulnerability?

The Mishkan reminds us that structure,

according to our tradition, was a

merciful gift. But human beings are

meant to be the vessels of God. Mikdash,

each of us a mikdash ma. The walls can

hold, the gold can shine, and we

certainly have that in this very

beautiful sanctuary. The chairs can seat

thousands.

But the presence, the shina lives first

in the fragile, trembling, open human

heart. At the sea, they needed no walls.

They were vessels open, trembling,

unfinished. Enough to hold the shina.

Enough to carry fear. Enough to carry

each other. Bound together in a fragile

garment of destiny. The Mishkhan came

later after rupture, after loss, after

the human vessel had faltered. It is

both a gift and a concession. A

structure contain to contain holiness. A

mercy for fragile hearts.

We too build. We build walls. We build

sanctuaries. We build institutions. We

organize. We protect. We thrive. And yet

the question remains, do our walls make

us safe?

Or do they make us forget what it feels

like to be vulnerable? Do they shelter

holiness or shelter us from seeing the

suffering of others? Do they enlarge our

moral imagination or quietly narrow it?

At the sea, there were no chairs, no

colonads, no golden walls, only human

beings, unshielded, unfinished, open

enough to see God and each other

clearly, clearly with the indelible

imprint of the creator. Perhaps that is

the challenge we carry forward. To build

without settling, to protect without

insulating,

to construct without forgetting the

trembling, porous human vessels we are

meant to be, and to be a place where God

dwells amongst us, all each and every

one of us today and tomorrow. Shabbat

shalom.