Parshat Terumah — How Holiness Is Built

From Knowing What Is Needed to Learning How It Is Done

Introduction — When Conditions Are Not Enough

Until now, Sefer Shemot has been teaching us what is required for redemption to become possible. Again and again, the Torah has returned to the conditions a human being and a people must have in place before freedom, holiness, and responsibility can actually take root. It has shown us what is needed to leave constriction, to survive freedom without collapsing, to receive Torah without being overwhelmed, and to hold power without abusing it. These parshiot have not been abstract or idealistic. They have been grounded in human reality — in fear, pressure, instability, and the slow rebuilding of capacity.

Step by step, the Torah has been restoring what slavery eroded from the inside out. Before change can occur, seeing must return. Before hope can be heard, breath must expand. Before freedom can last, time must be restored. Before fear can settle, movement must be possible. Before holiness can dwell, structure must exist. And before justice can be trusted, power must be restrained. Each stage has been necessary. None could be skipped. Together, they form the foundation without which redemption would remain temporary or fragile.

The Ramban famously describes Sefer Shemot as the book of exile and redemption, but in his understanding redemption is not complete at the Exodus, and it is not completed even at Sinai. Redemption reaches completion only when the Divine Presence has a place to dwell among the people. Until then, something essential remains unfinished. A people may be freed, instructed, and bound by law, and still lack the inner and relational vessels required for holiness to live within them in a sustained way.

This is where Parshat Terumah marks a decisive shift. It does not introduce new ideals or intensify obligation. Instead, it turns to a different question altogether. Once the conditions for holiness exist — once structure, restraint, and capacity have been established — how is holiness actually built? How does something sacred move from command to construction, from moment to presence, from revelation to dwelling?

Until now, the Torah has been teaching us what is needed. Parshat Terumah begins to teach us how it is done. As the Sfas Emes notes, revelation alone does not create permanence. Without vessels, even the most elevated moments pass through a person without remaining. Terumah begins the work of creating those vessels — not vessels for information or inspiration, but vessels capable of holding Presence within ordinary human life. Terumah is not about what should be. It is about how something sacred comes into being.

Section I — “ויקחו לי תרומה”: Holiness Cannot Be Taken by Force

Parshat Terumah opens with a command that appears straightforward but is, on closer reading, quietly radical. Hashem instructs Moshe, “דַּבֵּר אֶל בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִקְחוּ לִי תְּרוּמָה” — speak to the children of Israel, and they shall take for Me a contribution. Yet the Torah immediately limits the scope of that command: “מֵאֵת כָּל אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ” — from every person whose heart moves them (שמות כ״ה:ב). Moshe is commanded to speak, but the people are not commanded to give. The act itself must arise from inner willingness, from נדבת הלב, rather than from obligation or pressure.

This distinction is not incidental. The Ohr HaChaim explains that anything offered without inner consent cannot become a vessel for the Shechinah. It may have value, function, or even beauty, but it lacks alignment. Holiness does not attach itself to action alone; it attaches itself to the inner state from which the action emerges. A contribution given under pressure may still build a structure, but it cannot become a dwelling place for the Divine Presence.

Read in the context of what precedes it, this teaching becomes even sharper. Parshat Mishpatim has just completed its work of restraining power, placing force under law, and insisting that authority be held with responsibility and care. Immediately afterward, Terumah makes clear that even sacred construction cannot override the inner world of the human being. The Torah does not allow holiness to bypass the heart in the name of Heaven. What cannot be demanded ethically also cannot be demanded spiritually.

The Nesivot Shalom articulates this principle with clarity: coercion may produce compliance, but it cannot produce dwelling. The Divine Presence does not enter where the heart has been bypassed, even if the outcome appears correct or impressive. Holiness requires more than obedience; it requires participation that is chosen.

This is the Torah’s first lesson in how holiness is built. It cannot be extracted, manipulated, or imposed — not even for a Mishkan, and not even in the name of God.

Section II — The Materials: Building With What Is Actually Offered

Before the Torah gives a single measurement or architectural instruction, it pauses to list materials. Gold and silver appear alongside copper and wood. Wool and linen are named together with skins, oil, spices, and stones. The Torah’s choice to begin this way is deliberate. It does not start by defining what the Mishkan should look like, but by identifying what will be used to build it.

The Ramban notes that the materials of the Mishkan span extremes — precious and simple, refined and raw — because the Mishkan is not meant to be constructed by a spiritual elite. It is meant to be built by an entire people. Holiness, in this vision, does not emerge from uniformity or perfection, but from integration. The Mishkan is not the product of a single register of contribution. It is formed through the bringing together of many different kinds of offerings, each reflecting what the giver is able to provide.

The Kli Yakar sharpens this point by asking us to consider what would have happened had the Torah demanded only gold. The Mishkan might still have stood, structurally intact and outwardly impressive, but many people would have been excluded from its construction. The building would have existed, but the people would not have been inside it. By naming a wide range of materials, the Torah ensures that participation itself becomes part of the sanctity being created.

The Maharal deepens this idea by explaining that completeness is never produced by sameness. A whole is formed only through the integration of distinct forms, each contributing what the other lacks. Uniformity may produce order, but it cannot produce fullness. A structure capable of holding holiness must be built from multiplicity rather than from a single substance or mode of being.

This distinction matters deeply. The Mishkan is not built from ideal materials, nor from a standardized contribution that erases difference. It is built from what people are actually able to bring, and each offering has value not because it meets an external standard, but because it allows the whole to become complete.

The Sfas Emes takes this one step further. He explains that the diversity of materials is not a concession to human limitation; it is the design itself. A vessel capable of holding holiness must already know how to hold difference without collapsing into hierarchy or exclusion. A structure that can only tolerate one kind of contribution cannot become a dwelling place for the Divine Presence.

This is how something sacred begins to form. Not by waiting for perfection, and not by demanding sameness, but by honoring what is present and allowing it to become part of something larger than itself.

Section III — “ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם”: The Builder Must Become the Vessel

At the center of Parshat Terumah stands a verse whose wording quietly reframes the entire project of the Mishkan. “וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ, וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם” — make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell within them (שמות כ״ה:ח). Chazal famously draw attention to the shift in language. The verse does not say that Hashem will dwell within it, the structure itself, but within them. The Mishkan is not presented as the dwelling place of the Divine Presence; the people are.

The Ramban explains that the Mishkan is not meant to replace the revelation at Sinai, but to extend it into the rhythms of daily life. Sinai was an overwhelming moment of encounter, but it was momentary by design. Dwelling, by contrast, requires continuity. Revelation can arrive in an instant, but presence must be sustained. That continuity, the Ramban argues, cannot be achieved through structure alone. It requires a people who are themselves capable of holding what was revealed.

The Mei HaShiloach deepens this idea by shifting the focus from behavior to inner state. Holiness, he teaches, does not descend into chaos, even when chaos is sincere and filled with longing. It rests where there is פנימיות — inner alignment — rather than mere external correctness. Actions, structures, and rituals matter, but they are not sufficient on their own. Without an inner world that is stable enough to receive and hold presence, holiness cannot remain.

The Kedushat Levi emphasizes that the Divine Presence does not dwell where people are perfected, but where they make room — where there is enough openness and alignment for something beyond themselves to enter.

This is the point at which Parshat Terumah becomes the true continuation of everything that has preceded it. All the earlier work of Sefer Shemot — the restoration of seeing, breath, time, movement, structure, and restraint — was not the goal. It was preparation. Each stage was necessary to rebuild human capacity, but none of it yet explained how the Divine Presence would actually come to dwell among the people.

Terumah answers that question with clarity. Holiness does not settle where fear still governs. It does not dwell where force dominates, even when force is justified. And it cannot remain where the inner world is unstable, fragmented, or overwhelmed. The Divine Presence rests where people themselves have become a place capable of holding it — not perfectly, but with enough inner coherence, alignment, and readiness.

This is not theology offered for contemplation. It is instruction. The Torah is not only telling us where holiness dwells. It is teaching us how to become a place where it can remain.

Section IV — The Order of Construction: Relationship Comes Before Framework

The order in which the Torah describes the construction of the Mishkan is precise and deliberate. It does not begin with walls, curtains, or external form. Instead, it begins at the center. First the Aron is described, then the Kaporet that covers it, and then the Keruvim positioned above it. Only afterward does the Torah turn to the Menorah, the Table, and finally the structure of the Mishkan itself. This sequence is not technical. It is instructional.

The Zohar explains that each of these central elements represents a different dimension of inner readiness. The Aron holds the Torah itself and represents inner truth. The Kaporet serves as a covering and represents protection and containment. The Keruvim, facing one another above the Aron, represent relationship. Only once truth, protection, and relationship are in place can illumination and sustenance follow. Light and nourishment do not stand at the center; they surround something deeper.

Chazal draw our attention especially to the posture of the Keruvim. When the relationship between Hashem and Israel is intact, the Keruvim face one another. When that relationship fractures, they turn away. Strikingly, the Aron itself never moves. The Torah remains where it is. The values do not change. What shifts is orientation. Relationship, not content, determines whether holiness is experienced as closeness or distance.

This order reveals the Torah’s method. Before any framework is built around holiness, something relational must exist at the center. Structure without relationship may still function, but it becomes rigid rather than life-giving. Law without connection turns heavy. Expectation without attachment becomes oppressive rather than sustaining.

The Sfas Emes articulates this with clarity: Torah without relationship becomes weight. It presses down rather than lifts up. Relationship is what allows structure to remain alive, flexible, and capable of holding holiness over time. Without it, even correct forms lose their capacity to nurture.

This is how something sacred endures. Not by placing structure at the center and hoping relationship will follow, but by establishing relationship first and allowing structure to grow outward from it.

Section V — Curtains, Layers, and Coverings: Protection Is Not Distance

The Mishkan is not a single open space. It is layered, wrapped, and carefully ordered. Curtains define boundaries. Skins cover and protect. Separations distinguish between zones of access and levels of sanctity. At the heart of these divisions stands the Parochet, the curtain that separates the inner sanctum from what surrounds it. This separation is not meant to deny access or create distance for its own sake. It exists to preserve sanctity and protect what is most fragile.

The Ramban explains that concealment is not a flaw in holiness but a condition for its survival. Exposure without readiness does not produce closeness; it leads to collapse. What is sacred cannot endure constant contact without containment. Without limits, even something holy becomes vulnerable to misuse, misunderstanding, or erosion. The Torah therefore builds protection directly into the structure of the Mishkan, not as an afterthought, but as a foundational principle.

The Nesivot Shalom deepens this idea by reframing restraint itself. Restraint, he explains, is not the opposite of love. It is what allows love to remain safe over time. Unbounded access does not strengthen relationship; it often weakens it. Careful guarding, by contrast, creates the conditions in which closeness can be sustained rather than overwhelmed.

Read in light of Parshat Mishpatim, this teaching takes on added weight. Mishpatim insisted on responsibility for impact, on accountability for harm even when no malice was intended. Terumah now adds a quieter wisdom to that ethic. Sometimes the most responsible, and most ethical, act is knowing when not to enter, when not to touch, and when to allow space to remain intact.

Holiness is not sustained by constant access or total transparency. It is sustained by careful guarding, by limits that protect rather than exclude, and by restraint that serves the life of what is being held.

Section VI — A Portable Sanctuary: Stability That Can Move

The Mishkan is not designed as a permanent structure anchored to a single location. From the outset, it is built to travel. Its components can be dismantled, carried, and reassembled as the people move through the wilderness. This design choice is not logistical alone. It reflects a deeper teaching about the nature of holiness itself.

The Sfas Emes explains that a holiness bound exclusively to place would shatter the moment life changes. If sanctity depends on fixed conditions, it cannot survive transition, uncertainty, or displacement. True holiness must be able to accompany a person through movement without being diluted by it. It must remain present not only in moments of arrival, but also in periods of wandering and instability.

Seen this way, the portability of the Mishkan completes an arc that began earlier in Sefer Shemot. In Beshalach, the people learn that movement must come before calm, and that trust is forged in motion rather than in stillness. In Yitro, structure is introduced so that movement does not devolve into chaos. Terumah now shows how holiness lives within that structure without becoming rigid or controlling. The Mishkan embodies movement without collapse, structure without rigidity, and presence without domination.

The Torah is teaching that holiness cannot exist outside of time, insulated from change. It must live within time, capable of traveling with people as their circumstances shift. A sanctity that cannot move is fragile. A sanctity that can move becomes enduring.

Parenting Reflection — Becoming a Place, Not a Pressure

The Nesivot Shalom writes that a parent’s primary avodah is not the shaping of behavior, but the cultivation of a vessel capable of holding what the child is not yet able to carry alone. This framing shifts the focus of parenting away from outcomes and toward presence. It suggests that the most enduring influence a parent has is not found in correction, instruction, or enforcement, but in the quality of the inner space the parent provides.

Trust cannot be commanded into existence. Openness does not emerge under demand. Growth unfolds according to its own timing, and attempts to rush it often close the very pathways they hope to open. A child does not reveal themselves because the right words were spoken or the correct expectations were set, but because the relational space feels safe enough to receive what is being brought forward.

In this sense, a parent becomes a Mishkan not by insisting on truth, but by becoming trustworthy. Not by enforcing honesty, but by being steady enough to receive it without panic, judgment, or withdrawal. Just as the Mishkan was built through willingness, patience, and restraint, a child opens where there is space rather than pressure, and where presence is offered without conditions attached.

Parenting, like the construction of the Mishkan, is not about forcing something sacred to appear. It is about becoming the kind of place where it can dwell.

Conclusion — When Holiness Is Built, Not Declared

The Ramban brings us back to the beginning of Sefer Shemot with a quiet but decisive claim. Redemption, he explains, is not completed when people escape oppression, and it is not completed even when Torah is given. Redemption reaches completion only when the Divine Presence can dwell among the people without overwhelming them. Until that point, freedom remains fragile, instruction remains external, and holiness remains episodic rather than sustained.

Parshat Terumah teaches us how that completion becomes possible. It shows that holiness is not imposed from above, nor secured through declaration alone. It is constructed — carefully, voluntarily, and relationally — through a process that honors human capacity and respects the inner world of those who are meant to hold it. Holiness does not emerge through commanding hearts or forcing readiness. It comes into being when a space is patiently prepared in which something sacred is able to enter and remain.

Terumah teaches this not by issuing a formula, but by modeling a method. Holiness is built by first ensuring willingness rather than compliance. It is built from what people can actually bring, not from what they should be able to offer. It requires inner readiness before external form, relationship before framework, protection before exposure, and a stability that can survive movement over time. The Torah is deliberate about this order. Each stage creates the conditions for the next, and when the order is respected, holiness can dwell without overwhelming the people meant to carry it.

When holiness is built in this way, it is no longer dependent on moment, location, or ideal conditions. It does not disappear when circumstances shift or when life becomes unsettled. A holiness that has been constructed with care knows how to travel, how to adapt, and how to stay.

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar