Parshas Terumah: Learning to Be Seen
Last year, Erev Shabbos Parshas Terumah, I shared my first public writing. I had no idea where it was going. I wasn’t trying to start a blog or build anything ongoing. I just knew I needed to get it out of my system.
Until then, most of my processing stayed private — journals, long drives, thoughts that felt safer inside my own head. A few months before that, I had started unpacking my story in therapy for the first time. I thought I understood what I was carrying. I had categories. Language. Explanations.
What I didn’t realize was that even my understanding of myself was still happening from inside the fog of my own defenses. I was trying to find myself while still hiding.
There was a quiet friction in me. A restlessness I couldn’t name. I tried to manage it. Improve around it. Stay productive through it. I didn’t yet know how to shape it into something luminous.
It felt like holding a solid block of gold and having no idea where to strike.
The cycle needed to be broken. I needed to get out of my own way.
At some point, the only honest prayer I could form was simple: Ribbono Shel Olam, I don’t know. For a moment, You take this.
And at the same time, I didn’t know where Hashem fit into my picture. I had questions. Doubt. Confusion.
That was where Terumah found me last year. Realizing I was in my own “toss gold into the fire” process, and how the weekly Torah portion was speaking directly into it, I began writing to internalize what I was living and learning.
——
“Make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.”
Among them — not when they are flawless, not when they have themselves perfectly figured out, but when they are willing to unclench one piece of gold.
This week, I’m choosing attention.
May you notice what’s already whispering. May you find the courage to release it. And may you feel His presence — not as something distant, but as something that was always there, waiting to be uncovered.
To be seen.
Good Shabbos,
Berke
Until then, most of my processing stayed private — journals, long drives, thoughts that felt safer inside my own head. A few months before that, I had started unpacking my story in therapy for the first time. I thought I understood what I was carrying. I had categories. Language. Explanations.
What I didn’t realize was that even my understanding of myself was still happening from inside the fog of my own defenses. I was trying to find myself while still hiding.
There was a quiet friction in me. A restlessness I couldn’t name. I tried to manage it. Improve around it. Stay productive through it. I didn’t yet know how to shape it into something luminous.
It felt like holding a solid block of gold and having no idea where to strike.
The cycle needed to be broken. I needed to get out of my own way.
At some point, the only honest prayer I could form was simple: Ribbono Shel Olam, I don’t know. For a moment, You take this.
And at the same time, I didn’t know where Hashem fit into my picture. I had questions. Doubt. Confusion.
That was where Terumah found me last year. Realizing I was in my own “toss gold into the fire” process, and how the weekly Torah portion was speaking directly into it, I began writing to internalize what I was living and learning.
Since Torah is forever and for everybody, the way it refracts through my glasses might help someone else see something in theirs. Sharing publicly felt like the next right step, even if nobody else reads it.
At the time, I thought the story was about my heart reopening.
Looking back now, I see it was about something deeper.
Parshas Terumah begins with an invitation. Bring gold, silver, copper, wool, oil — but only if your heart moves you. No quotas. No coercion. The Mishkan is not built through pressure. It is built through willingness.
And the purpose is almost disarming in its simplicity: “וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם.” Make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.
Which raises something personal for me.
If He is truly everywhere “among us”, then maybe the distance I sometimes feel isn’t about where He is.
Maybe it’s about what I was, and sometimes still am, holding onto.
Maybe I wanted to keep all my gold for myself.
Maybe I was still clutching the parts of me that once kept me safe.
At the time, I thought the story was about my heart reopening.
Looking back now, I see it was about something deeper.
Parshas Terumah begins with an invitation. Bring gold, silver, copper, wool, oil — but only if your heart moves you. No quotas. No coercion. The Mishkan is not built through pressure. It is built through willingness.
And the purpose is almost disarming in its simplicity: “וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם.” Make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.
Which raises something personal for me.
If He is truly everywhere “among us”, then maybe the distance I sometimes feel isn’t about where He is.
Maybe it’s about what I was, and sometimes still am, holding onto.
Maybe I wanted to keep all my gold for myself.
Maybe I was still clutching the parts of me that once kept me safe.
And if so, how could there ever be space for anything holy to dwell?
I’ve learned how easy it is to soften sharp edges instead of facing them. How easy it is to reach for something — a drink, a smoke, noise in my ears, a phone scrolling in my hand, constant busyness — not because I’m rebelling, but because I don’t want to sit still long enough to feel what’s underneath.
I’ve learned how easy it is to soften sharp edges instead of facing them. How easy it is to reach for something — a drink, a smoke, noise in my ears, a phone scrolling in my hand, constant busyness — not because I’m rebelling, but because I don’t want to sit still long enough to feel what’s underneath.
How easy it is to polish a version of myself that looks steady and capable, while something inside feels small and unsure.
None of that feels like failure. It feels human.
None of that feels like failure. It feels human.
Gold feels human too.
Terumah doesn’t ask for broken scraps. It asks for valuable things. Things that feel like part of you.
Terumah doesn’t ask for broken scraps. It asks for valuable things. Things that feel like part of you.
The Mishkan wasn’t built from what people lacked. It was built from what they were willing to release.
——
Everything in the Mishkan was complex.
——
Everything in the Mishkan was complex.
The Menorah most of all.
Fashioned from one solid block of gold, miksha achas. Branches, cups, blossoms, all emerging from a single piece. Our sages teach that even Moshe struggled to understand how it could be made. How do you turn something so solid into light without shattering it first?
Hashem told him: Throw it into the fire.
Much of the gold used for the Mishkan did not begin in holiness. It was taken from Egypt. Out of a place of constriction, survival, and impurity.
Fashioned from one solid block of gold, miksha achas. Branches, cups, blossoms, all emerging from a single piece. Our sages teach that even Moshe struggled to understand how it could be made. How do you turn something so solid into light without shattering it first?
Hashem told him: Throw it into the fire.
Much of the gold used for the Mishkan did not begin in holiness. It was taken from Egypt. Out of a place of constriction, survival, and impurity.
And yet Hashem does not say, “Leave it behind.” He says, “Bring it.”
That detail matters.
Because it means the work is not erasing where we came from. It is not pretending Egypt never formed us. It is transforming what we carried out with us.
And the Menorah had to be made from one solid block. Not branches attached later. Not pieces soldered together. One substance, shaped until it could hold light.
Which means the gold of Egypt and the light of the Mishkan were not two different metals. They were the same material, refined.
The parts of us that formed in survival are not foreign to our spiritual life. The habits, the defenses, the coping, the drive — they are the same gold.
That detail matters.
Because it means the work is not erasing where we came from. It is not pretending Egypt never formed us. It is transforming what we carried out with us.
And the Menorah had to be made from one solid block. Not branches attached later. Not pieces soldered together. One substance, shaped until it could hold light.
Which means the gold of Egypt and the light of the Mishkan were not two different metals. They were the same material, refined.
The parts of us that formed in survival are not foreign to our spiritual life. The habits, the defenses, the coping, the drive — they are the same gold.
The avodah is not dividing ourselves into holy and unholy pieces. It is allowing one block to be shaped until it becomes coherent enough to shine.
I do not need to discard my Egypt.
I do not need to discard my Egypt.
If I do, I’ll have nothing left to turn into a Menorah.
Hashgocha Protis doesn’t always arrive loudly. Often it begins as a whisper — a discomfort, a subtle misalignment, a sense that something no longer fits the way it used to. If I refuse to listen, the whisper grows clearer.
The quiet friction in me did not disappear when ignored. It escalated. Not as punishment. As invitation.
The fire did not bring G-d closer.
It removed what kept me from noticing He had been there all along.
I wasn’t just hiding from Hashem. I was hiding from myself.
If you numb fear, you numb presence.
If you quiet shame, you quiet closeness.
The same mask that protects you from feeling exposed also keeps you from feeling seen.
When something finally melted, what I found wasn’t thunder. It was stillness. Not something new arriving, but something familiar uncovered.
——
That’s what I’m sitting with this Terumah.
Not that we need to manufacture fire.
But that we need to pay attention to where our hearts are already moving.
Terumah lists many different materials. Not everyone brought gold or silver or precious stones. Not everyone brought wool or oil or spices. Each person brought what their heart moved them to give.
If it asked for the good stuff from everyone, it means even those who felt whole still had something to offer.
Which means the movement comes first. The noticing comes before the offering.
Maybe it’s a habit that once helped you cope but now dulls more than it heals.
Maybe it’s a story about yourself that feels safer inside than being fully seen.
Maybe it’s the background noise that keeps you from ever being alone with your own thoughts.
You don’t have to tear your life apart.
But you also don’t get a Menorah without some heat.
And maybe the first offering isn’t even the habit.
Maybe it’s the humility to whisper:
Ribbono Shel Olam, I sense something here. I don’t know how to shape it into light alone. Help me.
That, too, is Terumah.
Hashgocha Protis doesn’t always arrive loudly. Often it begins as a whisper — a discomfort, a subtle misalignment, a sense that something no longer fits the way it used to. If I refuse to listen, the whisper grows clearer.
The quiet friction in me did not disappear when ignored. It escalated. Not as punishment. As invitation.
The fire did not bring G-d closer.
It removed what kept me from noticing He had been there all along.
I wasn’t just hiding from Hashem. I was hiding from myself.
If you numb fear, you numb presence.
If you quiet shame, you quiet closeness.
The same mask that protects you from feeling exposed also keeps you from feeling seen.
When something finally melted, what I found wasn’t thunder. It was stillness. Not something new arriving, but something familiar uncovered.
——
That’s what I’m sitting with this Terumah.
Not that we need to manufacture fire.
But that we need to pay attention to where our hearts are already moving.
Terumah lists many different materials. Not everyone brought gold or silver or precious stones. Not everyone brought wool or oil or spices. Each person brought what their heart moved them to give.
If it asked for the good stuff from everyone, it means even those who felt whole still had something to offer.
Which means the movement comes first. The noticing comes before the offering.
Maybe it’s a habit that once helped you cope but now dulls more than it heals.
Maybe it’s a story about yourself that feels safer inside than being fully seen.
Maybe it’s the background noise that keeps you from ever being alone with your own thoughts.
You don’t have to tear your life apart.
But you also don’t get a Menorah without some heat.
And maybe the first offering isn’t even the habit.
Maybe it’s the humility to whisper:
Ribbono Shel Olam, I sense something here. I don’t know how to shape it into light alone. Help me.
That, too, is Terumah.
——
“Make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.”
Among them — not when they are flawless, not when they have themselves perfectly figured out, but when they are willing to unclench one piece of gold.
This week, I’m choosing attention.
May you notice what’s already whispering. May you find the courage to release it. And may you feel His presence — not as something distant, but as something that was always there, waiting to be uncovered.
To be seen.
Good Shabbos,
Berke