A few weeks ago, I got sick and decided to do all the tests — RSV, flu, COVID — nothing special… just enough to flatten me for days. 

I had my annual Institute for Jewish Spirituality retreat on my calendar, and although I was still getting my strength back, I decided to get on my flight and go. 

Before we took off, the captain said:

“Welcome aboard, United flight 311 to Los Angeles. Flight time will be about five hours and fifty-six minutes.

“Boston temperature is 9 degrees, Los Angeles 79.”

An easy 70-degree decision!

But during the flight, I developed a weird, sharp pain down my left arm — from my triceps down to the forearm.

But I figured all that meditation, healthy food, sun, yoga, davening, rest, singing, and learning would take care of it.

But it just kept getting worse, to the point where I left the retreat early and flew home.

Amazingly, my PCP saw me right away and said I needed to go to the MGH Department of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation. 

Miraculously, they had an appointment the next morning. 

They x-rayed my arm: nothing. But when I described the sequence — virus, then sudden nerve pain down my dominant arm — the practitioner said, “I think you have Parsonage–Turner Syndrome.”

I nodded: “That makes sense. I’ve been living in a parsonage for 27 years!”

She said, “What’s a parsonage?” 

She recommended physical therapy.

As luck would have it, I already had a PT appointment scheduled for a torn meniscus (yes, I know — I am a bit of a mess), so I went right to my physical therapist, Al Visnick — truly one of the best. 

There’s a reason there are always Emunah members there every time I visit him.

I told him I had a new problem. He just smiled. He knows me.

I described the pain and the diagnosis of Parsonage–Turner. He examined me, paused, and asked: “Was the person who diagnosed you… on the younger side?” I said, “Yes; they looked right out of school.”

He said, “It’s a very interesting diagnosis — but you just have a pinched nerve in your neck.”

So the pain was in my arm, but the problem was somewhere else. The symptom was obvious; the source was hidden.

Sometimes, there is a deeper reality than we first see.

And that’s exactly the move Parashat T’rumah asks us to make.

On the surface, T’rumah looks like a massive building project. Materials, measurements, curtains, clasps, sockets, poles. Sacred engineering. 

But then comes the famous verse that reframes everything:

“וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם׃” God says: “Let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25:8)

Not “that I may dwell in it.”

God doesn’t say the obvious – that the Divine dwells in the Mishkan, in the sanctuary, but among the people.

The building does matter, but the building is not the point. 

The Mishkan is really about the people inside. 

It’s about building a community in which God can dwell.

The rabbis in the Talmud say it plainly:

“וּמִנַּיִן לַעֲשָׂרָה שֶׁמִּתְפַּלְּלִין שֶׁשְּׁכִינָה עִמָּהֶם — שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: אֱלֹהִים נִצָּב בַּעֲדַת אֵל.” “From where do we know that when ten pray together the Divine Presence is with them? As it says: ‘God stands in the congregation of God.’” (Berakhot 6a; cf. Psalm 82:1)

Holiness happens in the gathering.

Holiness happens in community.

Now, I love communities and they are awesome – they heal social isolation, they bring us back to the way we evolved to live in groups as hunter-gatherers. 

They help us take care of one another – mourn and celebrate together. 

I’ve been working on building community my entire career as a rabbi.

But today, I want to look at another deeper truth: communities are not simple.

They’re not frictionless. 

They’re not perfectly aligned.

Communities — like families — are complicated. 

People say the wrong thing. 

People misinterpret tone. 

Someone feels slighted. 

Someone feels unheard. 

Even when intentions are good, things get misconstrued. 

And sometimes intentions aren’t so good.

The Torah knows this. 

The Torah is not naïve about community.

The most honest line in the entire Mishkan narrative is found in the next book of the Torah, Vayikra/Leviticus, describing the Tent of Meeting:

“הַשֹּׁכֵן אִתָּם בְּתוֹךְ טֻמְאֹתָם׃” “[The Tent] that dwells with them in the midst of their uncleanness.” (Leviticus 16:16)

God dwells with them — in the midst of their impurity.

God is found: even in the middle of their mess.

It’s kind of a radical spiritual claim.

And there’s some real understanding there.

The Mishkan is built for human beings — people who get tired, who get reactive, who misunderstand, who need repair.

Communities are not going to be perfect. 

And so, communities need something really important: they need commitment.

Commitment to speak carefully.

Commitment to repair when we hurt one another.

Commitment to keep building even after something cracks.

And that is not only true in synagogues.

It is true in families. 

It is true in the Jewish people. 

And it is true in our country.

Community, real community, is complicated, and being in it means being a bit vulnerable, learning to disagree with kindness, taking care of each other, and remembering the big picture.

Now, I want to return to the main topic of the reading: holy, physical space.

I invite you to look around this sanctuary. Our Mishkan, our sacred space in which we gather each Shabbat morning.

Notice the simplicity. 

The way the cupola draws our eyes upward. 

Notice the windows that bring New England into our awareness — the beauty of the cliff, the rocks and the trees, the evergreens, the snow and ice that can make the landscape feel both simple and elegant at once.

We are not praying in a sealed room where the focus is the art on the walls. 

We are part of creation. 

We are situated in a world that is larger than any one of us.

But, my favorite design feature of this sanctuary is not the windows or the cupola:

It’s how we are arranged. 

We can see each other.

And then we are reminded.

In shul today, someone is quietly praying for a parent, another family member, or friend who is sick. 

Someone is marking a yahrzeit, the anniversary of a loved one’s passing. 

Some came in carrying private disappointment. 

Some came in carrying enormous gratitude.

Some traveled far to be here for this wonderful Bar Mitzvah. 

And yet we still have that tricky part: seeing each other is beautiful — but it’s also a little risky.

Because closeness is where misunderstanding happens.

You don’t usually hurt someone you never speak to. 

You can’t really misread someone you never engage. 

Community is where love grows — and where the possibility of hurt grows too.

Which means building a Mishkan is not about avoiding friction. 

It’s about building a communal culture strong enough to survive it.

Parashat T’rumah teaches that holiness is assembled from offerings, t’rumot — lifted up by many hands. 

Some people bring resources. 

Some bring steadiness.

Some bring the courage to say, “I think we need to talk.”

And some bring the humility to say, “I’m sorry.”

Which brings me back to my pinched nerve.

The pain is in my arm, but the problem is in my neck, at the point where the center connects to the limb. 

When that connection gets compressed, the pain can overwhelm, and the arm can’t do what it was built to do.

In communities, pain often shows up in a visible place: a sharp comment, a tense exchange, a misunderstanding in a meeting, a family blow-up.

But often the deeper issue is in the connection itself — the channel of trust, the assumption of good will, the capacity to listen.

When that connection gets pinched, the whole body suffers.

Our parashah and the verse I brought from Vayikra together teach us something profound: don’t only treat the symptom.

Restore the channel. 

Reopen the connection. 

Build a structure that can hold imperfections without collapsing.

That is the promise of community.

So, let’s all bring our t’rumah, our gift of: presence, restraint, kindness — and repair when it’s needed.

May this community be strong enough to hold joy and pain and to stay connected when misunderstandings arise.

And may we leave with the nerve restored — mind to heart, heart to hands — ready to build a Mishkan of relationship.

Because in the end, it’s not about the building.

It’s about the community.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)