Rebuilding the Mishkan of the Soul - Lessons from Parshat Pekudei

At first glance, Parshat Pekudei may seem like a dry list, a final tabulation of materials, weights, and dimensions of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary that would house the Divine Presence. But beneath the gold, silver, and acacia wood lies something far more profound: a timeless blueprint not just for building a holy space, but for building a holy people. And in our day, perhaps more urgently than ever, a holy community in which our struggling children can heal and flourish.

The Torah tells us: “כְּכֹל אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה' אֶת־מֹשֶׁה כֵּן עָשׂוּ בְנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל אֵת כָּל־הָעֲבֹדָה” - “According to all that Hashem had commanded Moshe, so did the Children of Israel do all the work.” (Shemot 39:42)

This verse is more than an observation, it’s a declaration. Every person in the nation had a role in building the Mishkan. It wasn’t the project of the spiritual elite; it was a national mission born from unity and shared responsibility. A structure of immense beauty and purpose emerged not from miracles, but from collaboration, intention, and heart.

And so it is today.

We are no longer building a Mishkan of beams and curtains. But we are building something just as vital—safe emotional and spiritual spaces where our children can be seen, held, and guided toward their purpose. In a world where rising numbers of teens are battling anxiety, depression, isolation, and trauma, Parshat Pekudei holds a spiritual prescription for healing: no one is left out; everyone matters; and the Shechinah only dwells where unity and compassion dwell first.

The Power of Building Together

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that the Mishkan was not built by angels or summoned into being through divine speech. It was built by human hands, ordinary people, with flaws, doubts, and imperfections, pouring themselves into a sacred task. The holiness of the Mishkan did not descend in spite of human effort, it was drawn down because of it.

This alone is a powerful truth. We live in a time when many parents, educators, and community leaders feel overwhelmed. "I'm not trained enough," they say. "I don't know how to help."

But the Torah reminds us: God does not demand perfection. God asks for presence. Effort. Willingness.

When we show up, with patience, empathy, and humility, we become modern-day builders of the Mishkan. Every kind gesture, every compassionate check-in, every moment of listening without judgment becomes another beam, another clasp, another sacred thread.

The Mishkan teaches us that it is not grand gestures that invite the Shechinah, but consistent, sincere effort. When we work together to support a struggling soul, to help a teen feel safe and understood, we are engaged in holy labor.

Seeing the Invisible Vessels

The Sforno offers a profound insight into the Mishkan’s final stage: the Shechinah did not descend until every vessel was not only constructed but placed precisely where it belonged. It wasn’t enough to have the raw materials or even completed items. Each one had to be positioned with care, purpose, and awareness.

This is more than architectural detail. It is a metaphor for our spiritual and communal lives.

Too many teens today feel like misplaced vessels. They’re sensitive, insightful, creative, but they don’t fit the narrow molds we offer. School, social expectations, family dynamics, these systems sometimes leave them feeling unseen or misunderstood. They may appear to be disconnected, rebellious, or indifferent. But more often than not, they are deeply attuned souls longing for belonging.

And yet, as the Sforno teaches, there can be no Shechinah when even one vessel is missing.

A struggling child is not a distraction from our sacred work. They are the sacred work. They are not an afterthought. They are essential.

We must ask ourselves: Have we made space for all types of vessels? Have we celebrated emotional depth, creative expression, neurodiversity, and spiritual searching? Have we taught our children that there is more than one path to holiness?

To truly build a Mishkan today means creating communities where each child knows: You matter. You belong. We see you.

The Baal Shem Tov and Rav Kook: Sparks in the Broken

The Baal Shem Tov taught that hidden within every soul—especially those who appear broken or distant—are sparks of holiness. What looks like defiance may be a soul crying for connection. What appears to be chaos may reflect a depth of feeling too powerful for containment.

Rav Kook takes this further. In Orot HaTeshuva, he writes that elevated souls often suffer more inner turmoil. Their yearning for truth is so intense that it creates friction with the world around them. They are not spiritually broken, they are spiritually intense. What others see as dysfunction may be the trembling of a soul on the verge of transformation.

In practical terms, this means we must stop interpreting every struggle as failure. We must stop labeling spiritual searching as rebellion. When a teen questions faith, disconnects from ritual, or expresses inner pain, they may be reaching for something real.

Our job is not to shut them down, but to walk beside them.

Moshe Rabbeinu and the Power of Accountability

Parshat Pekudei opens with a list of the materials used in the Mishkan. But it is also a record—an accounting. Moshe does something revolutionary: he publicly details every donation and how it was used.

According to the Chizkuni, no one accused Moshe of wrongdoing. But Moshe understood that trust is sacred. Leadership requires accountability. Transparency is not just about what we do, it's about how others experience our integrity.

This is a critical message for our generation.

Teens today are perceptive. They detect inconsistency. They know when adults preach values they don’t live. They are not looking for perfection. But they are craving authenticity.

If we want them to open their hearts to us, we must show them that we are trustworthy. That means admitting when we’re wrong. Apologizing when we've hurt them. Owning the ways our systems, families, schools, institutions, sometimes fall short.

Like Moshe, we must be brave enough to say: "Here's where I stand. Here's what I know. Here's what I still need to learn."

Accountability is not a sign of weakness. It is the foundation of trust. And it is trust that creates space for healing.

The Netziv: Presence Over Perfection

The Netziv, in his commentary Ha’amek Davar, teaches that the sanctity of the Mishkan flowed not from the value of its materials but from the generosity of the people who brought them. Nedivut lev ,  a willing, generous heart,  was the key to holiness.

And so it is today.

Our children don’t need us to be experts. They don’t need lectures or life plans. They need presence.

A teen in crisis doesn’t need you to fix them. They need you to sit beside them. To see their pain and not look away. To say with your eyes, your voice, your being: "I’m here. I see you. I’m not going anywhere."

In a world obsessed with productivity, presence is a radical act of love.

Every moment of genuine presence, every hallway check-in, every text that says "Thinking of you," every nonjudgmental conversation, becomes part of the Mishkan we are building.

The Aish Kodesh: Finding God in the Darkness

From the shadow of the Warsaw Ghetto, Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, the Piazetzner Rebbe, wrote some of the most courageous Torah of the 20th century. Known as the Aish Kodesh, he taught that even when the world is broken, even when faith trembles, the Shechinah remains.

A soul that seems lost is never truly lost. Even in silence. Even in despair. The act of reaching out, sitting with someone in pain, bearing witness without fixing, is itself holy service.

This is the message our struggling teens need.

They need to hear: You are not broken. You are not alone. You are not too far gone. You are still sacred.

When we step into their darkness, not with fear but with love, we become spiritual first responders. We don’t need the perfect words. We just need the courage to stay.

Rebuilding Together: A Communal Mission

The Mishkan was built by a community. It required every kind of person: artists, leaders, laborers, and donors. Its holiness came from unity.

So too, the healing of our youth is a collective task. It is not only the job of parents, teachers, or therapists. It is the responsibility of communities.

Parents need support, not judgment. Teachers need training, encouragement, and emotional backing. Rabbis and communal leaders must speak openly about mental health, trauma, and healing. We need to create a culture where struggling is not shameful, it’s human.

The Ramban explains that the goal of the Mishkan was to recreate the experience of Har Sinai. That moment of divine intimacy must be rebuilt in our homes, our classrooms, and our hearts.

When we act with unity, with intention, with love, we recreate Sinai. We make space for the Shechinah to dwell again.

Conclusion: A New Kind of Sanctuary

Parshat Pekudei may close the Book of Shemot, but it opens something far greater: the call to become builders of healing.

Today’s Mishkan is not made of gold or linen. It is made of presence. Empathy. Effort. It is built every time we choose connection over judgment. Every time we honor pain instead of dismissing it. Every time we hold space for a child who feels unworthy or unloved.

Let us create homes where emotions are not feared but embraced. Let us build schools where every kind of learner is seen. Let us shape communities where no one is ever too far gone.

And let us say to every struggling soul: You are not broken. You are not forgotten. You are needed. You are sacred.

And even in the silence, even in the struggle, the Shechinah is waiting to dwell.

One act of love at a time. One child at a time. One Mishkan of the soul at a time.

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar

Executive Director, Kol Haneshamot