Parashat Vayakhel - Pekudei: Coming Together, Building, Bearing Witness as We Walk Together

We come to the end of the book of Shemot. When we finish a book of the Torah, tradition invites us to say together: Chazak, chazak, venitchazek — “Be strong, be strong, and let us strengthen one another.”

It is an ancient formula, but there are moments when these words carry particular weight. Perhaps never more than now do we feel the need to say them with real conviction: to be strong for ourselves, strong for our communities, and strong for a humanity that seems to desperately need to come together again and rebuild a social fabric that in many places feels frayed, broken, even torn apart.

It is therefore not insignificant that the parashah with which we close the book begins with a word that speaks precisely about that: “Vayakhel Moshe…” — “Moses gathered the people.”

After the profound crisis of the Golden Calf, the first thing Moses does is not begin building the sanctuary. Before speaking of structures, materials, or measurements, he gathers the community once again. The sages had already sensed this tension. In Shemot Rabbah they teach that the people had previously gathered in order to build the Golden Calf, and now they must gather again in order to build the Mishkan. The collective energy of a community can produce idolatry… or it can produce holiness. The difference lies in the direction that energy takes.

This week we read two parashiyot together — Vayakhel and Pekudei — which at first glance seem to represent opposite impulses.

Vayakhel means gathering everyone together in unity, while Pekudei emphasizes the accounting, the individuality, and the particular contribution and talent of each person.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, explains that the order of these portions is not accidental. A necessary condition for the growth and success of a Jew is his or her connection to the unity of the people of Israel. Without that unity, the individual cannot truly stand. And when each person dedicates something of themselves to the good of the collective, in that very act they also discover their own personal growth and fulfillment.

The great Bible scholar Nechama Leibowitz observed something profound about this moment. After the episode of the Golden Calf, the problem is not only religious — the community itself has been fractured. Before building the sanctuary, the community must first be rebuilt. It is as if the Torah is teaching us that a sacred space cannot be constructed unless the human relationships that sustain it are first repaired.

The final parashah of the book introduces another expression that invites reflection: “Ele pekudei haMishkan, Mishkan ha’edut” — “These are the records of the Tabernacle, the Tabernacle of Testimony.”

Testimony of what?

Rashi explains that the Mishkan served as testimony that God had forgiven the people for the sin of the Golden Calf. By allowing the Divine Presence to dwell among them, God demonstrated that the relationship had not been broken forever.

The Midrash Tanchuma illustrates this with a beautiful parable. A king reconciles with his beloved wife after a painful conflict. The neighbors are skeptical; they doubt the reconciliation is real. But when they smell the fragrance of spices rising from the house, they understand that peace has truly returned. In the same way, the sanctuary in the wilderness — and the fragrant incense used in its rituals by the Levites and the Kohanim — became a visible sign that the bond between God and Israel had been restored.

With the very same hands that had built an idol, the people now built a sanctuary. With the same materials, they could choose either confusion and despair, or meaning and holiness. The Torah seems to insist on a deeply human truth: there is always the possibility of changing course.

Yet the word “testimony” resonates differently for us today. We live in a time in which all of us have become constant witnesses. Sitting before our screens we watch wars broadcast live, cities destroyed, populations displaced, leaders celebrated for the number of deaths they inflict. We have become captive witnesses to horror.

In recent weeks that reality has felt even closer. While Israel continues to face a painful war in the Middle East, Jewish communities here in the United States have once again experienced attacks, threats, and acts of violence that many believed belonged to another era. Hatred has returned without disguise.

In such a world, the question the Torah leaves us with is not only what we are witnessing, but what kind of testimony we ourselves will offer.

The Mishkan was called the “Tabernacle of Testimony” because within it rested the Tablets of the Covenant — the Divine word that reminded the people of their mission. Perhaps our generation also needs to rebuild spaces of testimony: places where words once again carry sanctity, where human dignity is protected, and where wealth, talent, and labor are used to build life rather than destruction.

The closing verses of Pekudei describe a scene that seems simple, yet carries profound meaning. A cloud rested over the Mishkan. When the cloud lifted, the people would set out; when it remained, the people would camp.

“For the cloud of the Eternal was upon the Tabernacle by day, and fire was in it by night, in the sight of all the house of Israel throughout all their journeys.”

The commentators explain that these movements were unpredictable. Sometimes the people remained in harsh places for a long time; other times they arrived in beautiful locations but had to move on almost immediately. The journey through the wilderness was filled with uncertainty.

Perhaps the message is that life does not always unfold according to our plans. There are moments when pain and fear seem endless, while the moments of joy and beauty pass all too quickly. Yet the image of the cloud suggests something essential: even when we do not know exactly where we are going, we do not walk alone. The people learned to keep moving forward without knowing precisely what the next stage of the journey would bring.

Perhaps that is why these final parashiyot of the book of Shemot leave us with a simple yet profound teaching. First, to gather — because no community can survive in isolation, and we must learn to bridge our differences and become one people in which everyone has a respected place despite differing perspectives and choices, united by a shared purpose. Then, to build — because even after our most serious mistakes it is always possible to begin again. And finally, to learn to walk together, even when the road ahead is not entirely clear.

In times like the ones we are living through — when war, fear, and antisemitism once again knock on the doors of our communities — these teachings carry a particular urgency. In the face of destruction, Jewish tradition calls us to do something profoundly human: to gather, to build, and to bear witness that another possibility still exists.

Perhaps the most important sanctuary we can build today will not be made of gold or wood, but of a community capable of protecting human dignity, resisting hatred, and sustaining hope even in the midst of uncertainty.

If we succeed in doing that, then the words with which we close the book of Shemot will regain all of their power:

Chazak, chazak, venitchazek.

Be strong.

Let us strengthen one another.

And let us keep walking together toward a more dignified and more humane world. Tikun Olam.

Shabbat Shalom umevorach