Rabbi Sam Trief
“V’yikchu li terumah,” “Let them bring Me an offering.”
Bring gold, silver, and copper. Blue, purple, and crimson yarn. Fine linen. Animal skins. Wood. Oil. Spices. Precious stones.
This week, we read one of my favorite Torah portions, Terumah. What moves me most about this portion is not the long list of materials that make up the Tabernacle. Rather, it is the instruction that comes first: “From every person whose heart moves them.”
The Torah’s message is simple and powerful. Show up with the best of what you have, whether physically, emotionally, spiritually, or materially.
Terumah is about each person doing what they personally can. It is about willing hearts.
Some people had gold. Some had acacia wood. Some had skill. Some had time. Some could weave. Some could lift heavy beams. Everyone brought what they could.
And together, it was enough.
It is so easy to compare ourselves to others. To assume someone else is doing more. To wonder if what we offer even matters.
But Terumah does not ask us to bring everything.
It asks us to bring something.
And it reminds us that at different stages of our lives, in different seasons, we are able to offer different things.
A few days ago, I returned from Israel, my third visit since October 7. This trip was especially meaningful. It was a Davis Academy mothers’ mission that I co-led with Rabbi Loren Lapidus from The Temple and Rabbi Rachael Miller from Temple Emanu-El. It was a powerful and unifying moment for the Davis and broader Atlanta Jewish community.
With each trip I have taken, the country feels a little closer to healing. Not because the trauma is over, far from it, but because of the offerings people continue to bring.
In the two years since October 7, when you ask Israelis how we can help, the answer is often the same: Come to Israel. Do not abandon us. Show us you care.
For some of us, that is possible. For others, it is not. But Terumah teaches us that what may feel small to us can be received as something enormous by someone else. A visit. A donation. A message. A prayer. A conversation. A commitment to stay connected.
On our visit, we volunteered at Leket, preparing vegetables for families in need. We spent time with children awaiting heart transplants through Save a Child’s Heart. We stood in Hostage Square and removed the pictures of those who have now been brought home to Israel. We listened to survivors share their stories. We prayed at the Kotel. And we did so, so much more.
Each act was an offering.
So perhaps the question this Shabbat is not, “Am I doing everything?”
Perhaps the question is, “What is my terumah right now? What can I offer in this moment?”
To our families.
To our friends.
To our synagogue.
To the State of Israel.
When each of us brings what we can, the Divine Presence dwells not only in a building of gold and acacia wood, but among us.
Shabbat Shalom.
