Parashat Terumah
This week’s Torah portion, T’rumah, can feel a little strange. The Israelites have just left Egypt, they’re still wandering in the desert, and God suddenly asks them to build a Mishkan—a portable sanctuary. But instead of commanding a tax or a set amount, God says something unusual: “Take for Me an offering from every person whose heart so moves them.” Not everyone gives the same thing. Some bring gold or silver, others fabric, wood, oil, or spices. The Mishkan is built not from uniformity, but from difference.
What’s striking is what God says next: “Make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.” Not “in it,” but “among them.” God’s presence doesn’t rest in the building itself—it emerges from the process of people choosing to contribute, each in their own way, toward something shared.
That feels deeply relevant to your lives here. On campus, many of you are constantly being measured: grades, résumés, internships, social capital. There’s pressure to perform, to optimize, to present the best version of yourself. And it’s easy to start believing that you only belong if you’re accomplished enough, confident enough, Jewish enough, or certain enough.
T’rumah pushes back against that idea. The Mishkan wasn’t built by the most talented people alone, or by those who had the most to give. It was built by people who brought what they had—and equally important, who brought it willingly. The Torah doesn’t even list who gave what. What mattered wasn’t status, but participation.
On a campus, Jewish community—or any meaningful community—works the same way. Some people bring leadership. Some bring music. Some bring deep questions, or humor, or kindness, or just showing up consistently. Some are still figuring out what they believe, or whether they believe at all. T’rumah reminds us that uncertainty isn’t a disqualification—it’s part of what builds the space.
And maybe the most powerful message is this: God doesn’t wait until the Mishkan is finished to show up. God’s presence is promised in the act of building itself. In other words, meaning isn’t something you arrive at once everything is figured out. It’s something that happens while you’re still constructing—your identity, your friendships, your sense of purpose.
College is a time when nothing feels permanent. T’rumah says that even temporary spaces can be sacred, if people show up with intention and generosity of heart. What makes a place holy isn’t perfection or certainty—it’s people choosing to invest themselves in something larger than just their own success.
You don’t have to have everything figured out to belong—holiness is created when you bring your real self and help build community together
Shabbat Shalom