Parashat Truma: Building Presence in Our Deserts

In this week’s parashah, Terumá, God speaks to Moses with a surprising instruction. Before describing measurements, materials, or structures—even before discussing the sanctuary itself—there is a call directed straight to the heart of the people:

"And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the children of Israel, that they take for Me a contribution; from every man whose heart moves him, you shall take My offering."

The Torah doesn’t say “give to Me,” but “take for Me”—veyikjú li terumá. How can this be? An offering is given, not taken.

The sages explain that the line between giving and receiving is far subtler than we imagine. When a person truly gives of themselves, they are not losing something; in truth, they are gaining. It is no accident that the Hebrew word נ-ת-ן (natán, “to give”) reads the same forwards and backwards. Whoever gives, receives in another dimension.

The Ben Ish Jai, Rabbi Yosef Chaim of Baghdad (1832–1909), one of the great Sephardic sages of the 19th century, illustrated this idea with a simple question: a person has ten coins and gives two in tzedakah; how many does he have left?

The answer, he said, is: two.

The two he gave remain with him forever, engraved in his heart and in his spiritual merit. The other eight, the ones he kept, will be spent on the vanities of this world and vanish without a trace.

Thus, the Torah redefines “spiritual economy”: what is truly ours is not what we retain, but what we offer.

It is no coincidence that this request comes immediately after one of the most sublime moments of the people of Israel. In the previous week’s parashah, we saw the spontaneous response of the Israelites: Naasé veNishmá—“We will do and we will hear.” Israel proclaims absolute faith, total submission to God’s will even before fully understanding it.

And then, almost like a divine smile, comes the test:

"Speak to the children of Israel, and let them take for Me a contribution."

Our tradition does not measure faith by declarations but by deeds. At the very beginning of Terumá, God seems to respond: “Are you truly willing? Let’s see what happens when your commitment is tested by your wallet.”

The Talmud, in Eruvín 65b, teaches that a person is known by three things: "BeKiso, BeKoso, UBeKaaso"—by his pocket, by his cup, and by his anger. The true nature of a person emerges when money, control, and emotions are at stake.

The teruma, the donation, tests exactly that—not words, but concrete commitment. Spiritual proclamations are easy; turning faith into action is far harder.

Do you believe in something?—asks the Torah—then commit.

Do you believe in the Torah? Invest your time in it.

Do you believe in your community? Support it.

Do you believe in an ideal? Give a part of yourself to make it real.

If there is no commitment, perhaps your belief has not yet taken root—and that is precisely where work is needed.

But there is something even deeper. The verse adds a crucial condition: “from every man whose heart moves him”—asher yidvenu libó. The Mishkan does not emerge from obligation but from inner generosity, nedivut halev, the nobility of the heart. Before measures, gold, or textiles, the Torah speaks of the heart. The sanctuary begins within the person.

The Midrash Shemot Rabá (33:1) teaches that God said to Israel:

"I do not need your gold or silver; I need your hearts."

The Mishkan was not primarily a building. It was also a collective spiritual process.

And here appears one of the most luminous teachings of the Kotzker Rebbe (1787–1859), one of the most original Hasidic masters. Regarding the verse: “They shall make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them” (Shemot 25:8), he asked: why doesn’t it say “among it,” referring to the sanctuary? And he answered: God does not dwell in buildings. He dwells where He is allowed to enter.

The Midrash Tanjumá (Naso 16) adds something extraordinary: the text does not say “I will dwell in it,” but “in their midst.” The Divine Presence does not reside in material structures, but in people who open space for it.

The Mishkan is not a place or a building; it is a spiritual opening, an opening of the human heart.

There are moments in history—and in our lives—when everything seems fragile and incomplete. Moments when the question is not how to grow, but how to sustain what we are. What can we build when nothing external supports us?

The Torah’s answer is radical: it is precisely there that the Mishkan is built. Sacred spaces are not found; they are created. And they are created when each person offers what their heart moves them to give: materials, time, energy, sensitivity, presence.

No one built it alone. Some contributed gold, others textiles, others skills, others silent labor. Each contribution was different, but all indispensable. Holiness was born of participation, not perfection.

This becomes even more striking when we remember where it happens: in the desert. A space without stability, without roots, without safety. A place where everything seems transient and fragile. Yet, it is precisely there that the sanctuary is built.

As if the Torah wanted to teach that human dignity does not depend on external conditions, but on our ability to create meaning even amid uncertainty.

There are moments—in history and in our lives—when the question is not how to grow, but simply how to hold on to what we are. When certainties vanish, when the ground seems to shift, when the desert becomes real. And it is precisely there that Terumá tells us: build.

Do not wait for stability to create holiness. Create holiness to generate stability.

In a world that rewards accumulation, the Torah proposes a different logic: what elevates a person is not what they keep, but what they give.

Giving does not impoverish.

Giving transforms.

Giving turns individuals into community.

An ancient midrash compares the human heart to a miniature sanctuary: just as the Mishkan had lamps that had to be lit daily, the heart needs constant acts of generosity to keep its light alive. Holiness is not installed once; it is built continuously.

Perhaps that is why the desert journey was necessary. Because only when nothing external sustains us do we discover what we are capable of building together.

Today, we also inhabit deserts: uncertainty, fragmentation, fear, loneliness. And yet, the invitation remains the same: offer something of yourself to create spaces where life can dwell.

Perhaps the deepest lesson of Terumá is that we are all builders—not just of the physical world, but of the human world: relationships, trust, shared responsibility.

Every act of generosity raises an invisible wall.

Every sustained commitment places a new beam.

Every gesture of care widens the space where life can flourish.

The invitation is the same as it was 3,000 years ago:

Do not wait for ideal conditions.

Do not wait for absolute certainty.

Do not wait for others to begin.

Build with what you have.

Build with who you are.

Build alongside those whose hearts are moved.

The sacred does not descend solely from above… perhaps it ignites from within: like a small light someone offers, like a hand extended, like a heart that opens and lets in.

Perhaps the entire journey—the desert, all the fragility—is the necessary process to learn what we can build when we stop waiting for others to start and take responsibility ourselves.

And then, almost without noticing, in the midst of the desert begins to rise a place where life can dwell. A place made of presence, care, and humanity.

A place where we discover that building together is the deepest form of hope.

Because the entire desert journey—the fragility we traverse—may be the space needed to learn what we can build when nothing external sustains us… and we only have each other.

May we always stand on the side of those who give, those who build, those who open space for the Divine Presence. May our hearts move before our words. And may offering the best of ourselves transform our personal and communal spaces into places where the Divine Presence finds a dwelling.

For when a people, a community, a congregation learns to build together, even in the midst of the desert, hope ceases to be just an idea… and becomes home. Perhaps, little by little, we are achieving it.

Sahabbat Shalom u Mevorach

Rabbi Gustavo Geier