Parashat Terumah opens with a fascinating paradox about giving. God tells Moshe: “Speak to the Children of Israel, and let them take for Me an offering; from every person whose heart moves them shall you take My offering” (Exodus 25:2). It sounds like the ultimate voluntary campaign. There is no tax, no fixed assessment, only an invitation to those whose hearts are stirred. And yet, in the very next verses, the Torah offers a tightly defined list of what may be given: “This is the offering that you shall take from them: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats’ hair…” and so on (Exodus 25:3–7).
We usually assume that when we look for volunteers, we accept whatever they are willing to give. “Whatever you can do will help.” Here, God asks for volunteers – and then dictates the terms. What kind of “voluntary” is that?
One way to read this tension is through the distinction between form and heart. The Mishkan is not a free-form art project; it is a carefully designed spiritual structure. Its dimensions, its materials, even its colors are not arbitrary (Exodus 25–27). If the Mishkan is meant to be a manifestation of God’s presence in the world, its form must come from above, not from our passing moods. That part is non‑negotiable.
But within that fixed form, the Torah creates space for a remarkable freedom. The amount each person gives is not set. Whether a person steps forward at all is not coerced. The key phrase is “asher yidvenu libo” – “whose heart moves them” (Exodus 25:2). The Mishkan’s blueprint is commanded; the decision to place myself within that blueprint remains mine. The form is fixed; the heart is free.
The list of materials itself also contains an important message. It begins with gold and precious stones, but it doesn’t end there. It goes all the way down to goat hair, acacia wood, oil for lighting, and simple spices (Exodus 25:3–7). That range has long been read as a map of the community. There are those who can give gold and there are those who can give labor, craft, time, or humble materials. Not everyone brings the same thing, but everyone has something that belongs in the Mishkan. Ramban, for example, notes that these materials reflect both wealth and simple, available items from the desert environment, so that “each person could find in his hand something fit to offer” (Ramban on Exodus 25:2–3).
From this perspective, the specificity of the list is not a form of control; it is a form of inclusion. If the Torah had said, “Bring whatever you want,” those with the most dazzling offerings might have felt central, while those with less might have felt peripheral or unnecessary. By giving a detailed divine “shopping list,” the Torah effectively says to the former slave who owns no gold but does have goat hair or wood: “You are on the list. What you have – exactly what you have – is needed for holiness.” Sforno emphasizes that the word terumah implies something set aside and elevated for a higher purpose, whatever its material level (Sforno on Exodus 25:2). The list dignifies simple gifts by naming them as part of God’s plan.
There is a deeper spiritual concern at play as well. Human beings have powerful religious energies: the desire to build, to worship, to give ourselves to something greater. The Torah is keenly aware that those same energies can go terribly astray, as the Golden Calf episode will later show (Exodus 32). Left completely undirected, the impulse that can build a Mishkan can also build a Golden Calf. The question is not just, “Do you feel generous?” but also, “Where is your generosity going?”
In Terumah, God does something subtle and crucial. God does not command us to feel inspired; God does not force a stirring of the heart. But God does define the channels into which those stirrings should flow if they are to become holy. We are invited, not compelled, to give – but if we choose to give, we are shown what kinds of gifts will actually build a dwelling place for the Divine, rather than an idol of our own imagination. As one midrash puts it, “When Israel does My will, I consider it as if they have made Me a dwelling place” (Shemot Rabbah 33:1).
This helps explain another small but telling linguistic detail: “Veyikchu li terumah” – “They shall take for Me a donation” (Exodus 25:2), not “they shall give.” Many commentators note that, in a spiritual sense, the one who donates is the one who truly “takes.” The act of giving a terumah – literally, “a lifting up” – elevates the giver (Rashi on Exodus 25:2, who notes that the term implies separation and elevation). By contributing to the Mishkan on God’s terms, the donor is woven into a larger pattern, lifted out of isolation and into covenant. A completely self‑directed gift might satisfy my ego: “I gave what I wanted, how I wanted.” A gift that responds to a real, named need allows me instead to become part of something greater than myself.
All of this has striking implications for how we think about community and volunteerism today. In our synagogues, schools, and organizations, we often speak in very open‑ended terms: “Any help is appreciated. Whatever you can do.” We mean well; we don’t want to pressure anyone. But Parashat Terumah suggests a different model. Holy community is not built on vague offers of “whatever.” Holy community is built when real needs are clearly named, and people are invited – not coerced – to step forward and meet those needs from the fullness of their hearts. In that sense, we mirror God’s language: “This is the offering that you shall take from them…” (Exodus 25:3).
There is a dignity, even a kindness, in being specific:
We need someone to teach.
We need someone to visit the sick.
We need funding for those in crisis.
We need people to set up chairs and clean up afterwards.
Specificity does not kill generosity; it focuses it. It lets each person look at the “list” and say: “Where do I appear here? What is my gold – my financial resources, my professional skills, my leadership? What is my wood or goat hair – my willingness to show up early, to stay late, to do the humble tasks that make spiritual life possible?” When we speak clearly about the form of our communal Mishkan, we give one another the chance to locate our own hearts within it.
Parashat Terumah thus reframes the question we often ask ourselves. Instead of asking only, “What do I feel like giving?” the parashah invites a second, equally important question: “Where does what I have to give intersect with what this community, and this world, truly need?” The Torah’s answer is that when those two questions meet – when a moved heart responds to a real, defined need in the service of God – something wondrous happens.
“They shall make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them” (Exodus 25:8). Not “in it,” as many commentators point out, but “among them” – within the people themselves (see Rashi on Exodus 25:8 and Or HaChaim on Exodus 25:8). When we bring voluntary hearts into a divinely guided form, when we bring our particular gifts into a shared sacred structure, then God’s presence is not only in the sanctuary we build, but in the community we become.
