We Are the Builders: Sacred Memory & Defiant Purpose (Terumah)

In memory of Oded Lifshitz z”l

Parshat Terumah commands us: “Make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.” (Ex. 25:8) This verse, so central to the Jewish experience, is not about God requiring a physical home, but rather a reminder of the human capacity — and need — to create holiness in the world. It is about the radical idea that human beings can build a space for the Divine, that we can manifest holiness through action, through intention, through the work of our hands and the love in our hearts.

This week, as we enter this portion, we hold grief and resilience in the same breath. It is day 510 since October 7th, and the pain remains raw. Families still mourn, hostages still suffer, and the Jewish people continue to stand in a state of prolonged, collective grief — a kind of national shiva. And yet, the central commandment of Terumah calls us to something profound: to build, to create, to sanctify even in the face of pain. The Mishkan, the holy sanctuary, was built in the wilderness — a place of uncertainty, fear, and transition. It was a reminder that even in displacement, even in trauma, we are commanded to make sacred space.

Last night, I was priviledged to be in the presence of Mayan Snapir, granddaughter of Oded Lipschitz, z”l, who bore witness to her grandfather’s life and loss, as he was taken hostage on October 7 and murdered in captivity by terrorists, returned just this week for proper respect and burial on the kibbutz he co-founded in Israel’s South, Kibbutz Nir Oz. His now-renowned cactus garden and his exuberant piano playing, his smile and his peace-loving life filled the room. Maayan shared her grandfather’s story with a room full of young people at UJA, in a space co-sponsored by Columbia and Barnard Hillel. In that experience, testimony became an act of sacred building. Maayan was, like our ancestors, constructing a sanctuary — through words, through presence, through the act of holy remembering.

And we, too, are builders. We build through our tears, through our prayers, through our refusal to let loss define us. We build through our insistence that every name be remembered, that no story be erased. We build by demanding the return of the 59 hostages still held captive, by standing in unwavering solidarity with their families, by refusing to let the world forget their names.

Someone said to me recently, “Rabbi, there is more in the world that deserves our attention than Israel.” I do not deny that truth. But I also know that when a person sits shiva, we do not enter their home and say, “Don’t you care about others?” We sit with them in their grief. We listen. We honor the loss. And right now, our people are in an extended shiva, a prolonged state of mourning that the world is often too quick to dismiss.

Zionism, at its core, is Jewish dignity in action. It is the declaration that our grief matters. That our pain is real. That our lives are worthy of defense and our dreams worthy of fulfillment. That we, like every other people, deserve a home, a place to build, a place to sanctify. The Mishkan (the desert sanctuary) was not inherently holy — it became holy because we made it so. The land of Israel is not inherently holy — it is a testing ground for the Jewish people, a place where our values are lived, where our commitment to justice is measured, where our determination to be a blessing is continually put to the test (see Heschel’s “Israel: An Echo of Eternity” for a beautiful reflection on this theme).

And so, in this time of grief, we affirm that we are still builders. We build sanctuaries of memory, of justice, of hope. As we rebuild our homes and tend to our homeland, we build spaces where the stories of those we have lost are honored, where our beloved hostages are not forgotten, where our children learn that their dignity is non-negotiable. We build, because to build is to defy despair.

Od Lo Avdah Tikvateinu — we have not, nor will we ever, lose our hope.

May we take this commandment of Terumah to heart. May we build spaces where the Divine dwells among us — not because God needs a home, but because we do. And may we never stop believing in our power to create holiness in this world, even — especially — when the world tells us otherwise.