By Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D., in El Cajon, California
This week’s Torah reading opens with Shabbat and then moves directly into the building of the Mishkan. That progression is deeply psychological and profoundly spiritual.
Shabbat teaches us how to relate to time. We are not meant to be driven by it, pressured by it, or defined by how efficiently we fill it. We are meant to elevate it. When we enter sacred time, we recalibrate. We remember that our worth is not measured by output but by presence. Time becomes a container for awareness, gratitude, and renewed faith.
The Mishkan teaches us how to relate to space. Environment shapes consciousness. When we designate a place for tefillah, for learning, for quiet reflection, we are not just arranging furniture. We are shaping the inner climate of the soul. Sacred space reinforces sacred identity. When we prepare a dwelling place for Hashem, we become more receptive to His presence within.
The Torah calls the builders “hakhmat lev,” wise of heart. That is integrated living. It is not enough to understand holiness conceptually. We are to feel it, choose it, and renew it. Wisdom of heart means engaging both intellect and emotion, sustaining inspiration beyond a passing moment.
When we sanctify time and sanctify space, something transformative occurs. We sanctify ourselves. Our calendar, our surroundings, our rituals are not ends in themselves. They are pathways. And when we walk them with intention, they shape us into steadier, deeper, more Hashem-aware human beings.
There are portions of Torah that move quickly. And then there are those that linger. Vayakhel and Pekudei linger. They return repeatedly to the details of constructing the Mishkan, to names, to measurements, to repetition. It’s fair to ask: Why spend so much time on this?
Because this isn’t only about a structure. It’s about a people learning who they are and who they can become.
I’m reminded of the verse from the song, “Kol Yisroel Chaveirim,” celebrating the ideal of unity and mutual responsibility among the Jewish people…“Look beyond the outside to that which lies within…Think of what someone can become, not what he’s been.”
Vayakhel begins with Moshe assembling the nation. That word matters. Not long before, the people had gathered in confusion and fear and made a terrible choice. Now Moshe gathers them again, but this time with clarity and direction. The same instinct to come together can lead to rupture or to repair. The difference is purpose. Unity and mutual responsibility…perhaps now this is a more essential lesson as we face the issues in the middle east.
That’s a powerful truth about human nature. We are wired for connection. The question is what we gather around.
Moshe does something remarkable. He doesn’t berate the people for their past failure. He invites them into responsibility. He gives them a shared mission. And in doing so, he restores their dignity.
Every person had something to offer. Resources. Skills. Time. Intention. And every offering mattered. Not because of its size, but because of its sincerity.
The Torah goes out of its way to highlight that those entrusted with leading the work came from very different backgrounds. One from a distinguished tribe, another from one less celebrated. Yet they are described with equal language, equal honor, equal Divine inspiration.
That message is timeless. Hashem is not impressed by lineage. Spiritual worth is not inherited. It is lived.
I sometimes hear people speak proudly about the observance of their grandparents or the scholarship of a distant ancestor. That history is meaningful. But it is not the point. The question that shapes a life is far more personal: Who are you becoming? What are you building? What values are you embodying and transmitting?
We live in a time when access to Torah learning is unprecedented. No one can say, “I didn’t have the opportunity.” Growth today is not limited by geography or by background. It is limited only by willingness.
And then comes Pekudei.
If Vayakhel teaches us how to come together, Pekudei teaches us what to do when things fall apart.
Before the Mishkan was formally inaugurated, Moshe assembled and disassembled it repeatedly. Not once. Not twice. Multiple times. Effort followed by undoing. Progress followed by reversal.
Life often feels like that. We invest in something meaningful, a relationship, a plan, a goal, and then circumstances shift. We experience loss, disappointment, or failure. There are no advance warnings. No schedule of hardship. No memo from Heaven.
The instinct in those moments can be to give up. To assume that if something didn’t hold the first time, it isn’t meant to endure.
But Jewish history tells us a different story. So does Jewish psychology.
The righteous person is not defined by never falling. The righteous person is defined by rising again. Growth is rarely linear. It is cyclical. There are seasons of clarity and seasons of confusion. The measure of spiritual maturity is not whether we avoid collapse, but whether we rebuild with deeper resolve.
Seven, in our tradition, represents the natural order, the fullness of a cycle. But there is also an eighth step, a movement beyond what feels predictable. There are moments when we are asked not merely to repeat the cycle, but to transcend it, to respond differently than we did before, to choose courage where we once chose fear, to choose faith where we once chose panic.
That is the quiet revolution embedded in these parshiot. First, we learn how to gather with purpose. Then, we learn how to rise with perseverance.
Community is not sustained by charisma. It is sustained by shared responsibility. Resilience is not sustained by denial. It is sustained by conviction.
Each of us carries abilities that were not placed within us randomly. The question is not whether we are gifted. The question is how we will steward those gifts. When we use them for something larger than ego, for community, for holiness, for continuity, we transform potential into meaning.
And when life dismantles something we worked hard to construct, we are not witnessing the end of our story. We are being invited into its next chapter.
You may not know when challenges will come. None of us do. But you can know this: falling does not disqualify you. It prepares you. Rebuilding is not a sign of weakness. It is evidence of strength.
We’ve all had stretches where life just feel random Things happen beyond our best planning. Our wisdom suggests that life isn’t meaningless just because meaning isn’t obvious. Often purpose lies beneath the surface, waiting for time and perspective to reveal it.
Not everything reveals its meaning immediately. Growth rarely announces itself while it’s happening. The connections, resilience, and perspective we gain often become visible only in hindsight.
We struggle most not with pain itself, but with our belief that pain is meaningless. When we allow for the possibility that our experiences, even the confusing ones, are part of a larger unfolding, something shifts. We move from isolation toward belonging, from helplessness toward participation in our own story.
You don’t have to have all the answers to live with purpose. Sometimes it begins simply by trusting that your life is not random, even when the meaning is still hidden. So, what are we to do? These parshiot suggest the following:
Gather with intention.
Contribute with sincerity.
Rise with resolve.
If we do that, both individually and collectively, we don’t merely survive. We elevate.
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Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D., prepares a weekly D’var Torah for Young Israel of San Diego, where he and his family are members. They are also active members of Congregation Adat Yeshurun.