This week we enter into a series of portions that are a fundraiser’s dream. The Israelites are asked to give, and they give generously—so much so that they have to be told to stop! And they don’t just give; they give with full hearts. The Torah tells us they were moved to contribute, inspired by the sacred task of building the Mishkan, the portable tabernacle. After all, God says, “V’asu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham”—“If you build Me a sanctuary, I will dwell among them.” Among them—the people.
It’s a beautiful and meaningful project, but it raises an important question: Why did they need a physical space at all? God’s presence isn’t confined to one location. In last week’s parsha, we received laws about building a just and ethical society, and the Torah tells us that God’s presence appeared to the people. It was as if God was saying: Live by these mitzvot, and you will feel My presence. So why was the Mishkan necessary? Why build a physical home for a God who transcends space and time?
The commentator Cassuto offers a compelling insight: the Mishkan was like a souvenir. It was a tangible reminder of God’s presence, something the Israelites could see and carry with them as they journeyed. It wasn’t the source of their connection to God, but rather a symbol that activated something already within them. Looking at the Mishkan, they would remember their relationship with God—and perhaps be inspired to live according to the mitzvot they had received.
We do this in our own lives, too. Think about a time you brought back a memento from a meaningful trip. Seeing it later, you were transported back—not because the object itself held the experience, but because it reminded you of something already inside of you. The Mishkan functioned the same way. It didn’t create God’s presence; it reminded the people of what was already there.
And while God may not operate in earthly understandings of time and space, we humans do! We sometimes need those physical, tangible ways of connecting with God. And notably, the Mishkan was portable. Unlike our synagogues today, it moved with the people, reminding them that their connection to God wasn’t tied to a fixed place—it traveled with them, wherever they went.
For me, this raises a personal question for each of us: What serves as our own reminder of connection to the Divine? It’s impossible to live in a constant state of spiritual awareness—nor should we! We spend much of our lives engaged in the practical, the mundane. But what grounds us? What is our own personal Mishkan, our own souvenir, reminding us of what is always within us as we journey through life?
