Men are starving for sanctuary—and many of us don’t know it until we try to rest and can’t.

We live as if “safe” is a luxury item: a week off we never take, a calm we can’t hold, a relationship we keep half-armored because we’re afraid of being needed too much—or not needed at all. The cultural script hands men two options: be the provider with the clenched jaw, or be the performer with the curated vulnerability. Either way, we’re trained to manage our worth like a balance sheet: I give, therefore I matter. I’m in control, therefore I’m safe.

Parashat Terumah offers a different masculine ethic. It doesn’t begin with heroism or conquest. It begins with an instruction so quiet it’s radical: “Take for Me a donation (terumah) from every person whose heart moves them.” (Exodus 25:2) The Mishkan—the portable sanctuary in the wilderness—will be built not by coercion, not by conquest, and not by a charismatic leader extracting loyalty, but by voluntary giving. A sanctuary, Torah insists, can only be made from gifts that are actually gifts.

Here is a correction to modern masculinity: giving without control. Most men aren’t stingy. We give constantly—time, money, labor, problem-solving, emotional steadiness. The issue is the fine print we attach. We give to be indispensable. We give to stay in charge. We give so no one will look too closely at what we can’t offer. We give with leverage: after all I’ve done, you owe me. A natural feeling in a transactional marketplace when we know what we have to offer has value

However, Terumah dismantles that bargain. “Take for Me” is not “take for yourselves.” The giving is not supposed to build the donor’s status. It’s supposed to build a space where the Divine can dwell. In other words: give in a way that doesn’t tighten your grip on the people you love.

This is the kind of generosity that makes a man a sanctuary. It is reliable without being possessive. It is strong without being coercive. It doesn’t keep score because the goal isn’t dominance—it’s dwelling.

Then Terumah becomes intensely specific: measurements, materials, hooks, rings, wood, gold, sockets. The Ark, the Table, the Menorah—objects designed with almost obsessive detail. At first glance, it reads like an ancient blueprint. But spiritually, it’s another corrective: craft as spiritual practice.

A lot of men are trained to chase achievement: the big win, the promotion, the impressive output. And even when we love our families, we can bring the same energy home—optimize, fix, check the box. But craft is different. Craft is not about winning. Craft is about care. It’s attention paid over time, the discipline of doing something well because it matters, not because it makes you look important.

Terumah quietly re-educates masculine desire. It says: holiness isn’t only in outcomes; it’s in how you build. In the patience to sand the wood. In the steadiness of daily tending. In the humility to follow a pattern bigger than your ego. Craft asks a man to slow down long enough to become trustworthy—because what you build will only shelter others if it’s built with integrity.

And then comes the deepest move: making room for the Sacred. The Mishkan is not a trophy. It’s not a monument. It’s a container—a place where something greater can dwell. That’s the third corrective to modern masculinity: sanctuary is less about what you display and more about what you hold.

We usually talk about “safe spaces” as a political concept. Terumah talks about safe space as an existential necessity. People cannot live in constant threat—external or internal—and remain fully human. And men, in particular, are often trained to treat emotional safety as softness, which means many of us either don’t know how to create it or don’t believe we’re allowed to need it.

But making room for the Divine Presence is exactly this: the ability to create a relational environment that is trustworthy—where another person can bring their full self without fear of being punished, mocked, or managed. Being trustworthy is a masculine skill that looks like: reliability, warmth, boundaries, and focus.

A man becomes a sanctuary when people can exhale around him. 

This is not a “be nicer” pitch. It’s a survival strategy for male life. Because men who can’t find sanctuary—who can’t rest without scrolling, who can’t sit with feeling without numbing, who can’t be close without control—eventually turn their homes into extensions of the wilderness: reactive, restless, and quietly lonely.

Terumah offers a different path: build a sanctuary, and become one. Give without leverage. Build with care. Make room for Divinity. The irony is that this is not only a gift to others. It’s how a man gets free. When your generosity isn’t a strategy, you can give and still breathe. When your work is craft, you can be proud without being consumed. When your strength is being trustworthy, you can be powerful without being frightening—solid without being hardened.

We keep asking what’s wrong with men. Instead Terumah offers a path forward for any man to become a sanctuary that is safe for all.

The Mishkan was portable for a reason. Sanctuary isn’t a place you visit once a week. It’s something you carry. It’s something you build into your friendships, your parenting, your leadership, your marriage, your inner life. A man’s holiness is not proven by how loudly he performs his values, but by whether his presence makes space for life.

In a time when being around men can feel unsafe or uncertain, Terumah doesn’t call men to be tougher. It calls us to become dwelling places—generous without control, attentive and caring, and steady enough to be trusted. That is how you find sanctuary. And that is how you become it.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)