2026

Terumah — Reflections of Light

Years ago, I remember standing at a wedding reception watching a disco ball turning slowly above the dance floor. Nothing extraordinary about it — just a silver sphere hanging from the ceiling. But when the light hit it, the entire room changed. Tiny points of light scattered everywhere — across walls, faces, tables, even the ceiling. The room itself seemed to come alive.

And what struck me was this: the disco ball doesn’t create light. It reflects it. Hundreds — maybe thousands — of tiny mirrors, each angled slightly differently, each catching the same beam of light and sending it somewhere new. And if even one section is broken, you might not notice immediately — but something is missing. The light becomes thinner. The whole effect weakens. The beauty depends on every small reflection doing its part.

Watching it, I found myself wondering whether something similar might be true about people — whether what gives a community its brightness is not any single source of light, but the countless ways individuals reflect something larger than themselves.

The Torah teaches that we are all made b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. We often imagine that to mean we must resemble something grand or perfect. But maybe it means something simpler. Maybe each of us is one of those mirrors. We do not generate divine light. We reflect it — through our talents, through our character, and through the particular abilities and sensitivities that we spend a lifetime learning how to use in service of others.

Some people reflect light through kindness. Some through wisdom. Some through humor. Some through building, organizing, teaching, listening, encouraging. Each reflection is small. But together, they illuminate a world.

In this week’s Torah portion, Terumah, the drama of the Exodus and the giving of the law at Sinai are over. The people are settling into their new life. And suddenly they are given instructions for construction: wood beams, fabrics, clasps, measurements, donations. God says, “Make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.” Not among prophets. Not among the extraordinary. Among them — all of them.

The Mishkan, the portable sanctuary, will not be built by Moses alone. In fact, Moses barely builds anything himself. The sanctuary comes into being because everyone contributes what they can.

And perhaps this is what the Torah is showing us through the building of the Mishkan. Former slaves become artisans. Some bring gold. Some weave cloth. Some carve wood. Some simply give what their heart moves them to give. Holiness, the Torah suggests, is not created by greatness. It is created by participation.

And so, like a disco ball, the Mishkan only shines when many reflections work together. And this may be why the Torah emphasizes voluntary giving — gifts offered by those “whose hearts move them.” Because you cannot force reflection. A mirror shines only when it turns willingly toward the light.

There is a Hasidic story about Rabbi Zusya of Anipoli. As Rabbi Zusya lay dying, he began to cry. His students tried to comfort him, saying, “Surely heaven will not ask why you were not like Moses.” But Rabbi Zusya said, “They will not ask me why I was not Moses. They will ask me why I was not Zusya.” In other words, the question of a life is not whether we shone more brightly than someone else. The question is whether we reflected the light that was ours to reflect.

And here is where Terumah becomes deeply personal. A community is strong not because everyone is the same, but because everyone is present. If one mirror withdraws — if one person believes their contribution no longer matters — the light diminishes. Not dramatically. Quietly. A reflection disappears that no one else can replace.

And perhaps this teaching asks us to widen our understanding of who belongs within the circle of light. Many of the people who help sustain our communities — who care for children, heal the sick, build homes, prepare food, and strengthen neighborhoods — arrived here as strangers. Jewish memory knows that story well. When people who come seeking safety or opportunity are able to share their gifts, the whole community shines more brightly. When fear or exclusion dims those reflections, something sacred is diminished for all of us.

Which means holiness depends not on perfection, but on showing up with what we have.

Maybe that is Terumah’s deepest teaching. We are not asked to become Moses. We are asked to polish the mirror we were given — slowly, imperfectly, over a lifetime — and to turn it outward. And when enough reflections meet, a sanctuary appears. And God dwells among us, like light scattered gently across a room, each reflection helping the others shine.