Each year, when I read Parashat Terumah, I struggle to visualize the details of the Mishkan, the tabernacle we were instructed to build in the wilderness. This year, the meticulous descriptions of gold clasps, acacia wood, and embroidered curtains left me bored. But as I sat with the text, three other thoughts emerged.
1. Creation and the Tabernacle
Commentators often compare the construction of the Mishkan to the creation of the world. This year, I finally compared the two texts myself. The contrast is striking: God’s creation of the world is described in one parasha. The instructions for building the Mishkan span many chapters. Why does it take so much effort for us to make space for God, when it took much less for God to make space for us?
Perhaps the answer lies in love. God’s creation of the world was effortless; but our building of sacred space requires effort, generosity, and precision. Parashat Terumah tells us that donations for the Mishkan should come from the heart. Maybe that is the dwelling place that God desires, not a physical structure, but the space we conscientiously carve out in ourselves through effort and intention. It may even be that the labor itself makes room in our hearts
2. The Curtain Between the Holy and the Most Holy
The Mishkan is a place of order and separation, much like the laws of kashrut or Shabbat, which divide the sacred from the profane. But the Mishkan doesn’t just divide between holy and secular; it distinguishes between holy and most holy. The innermost chamber, the Holy of Holies, is concealed behind a curtain, as the summit of Har Sinai was hidden by cloud. Holiness is not a simple binary. We might want the world to be black and white, but reality is multi-layered and complex and worthy of contemplation.
3. Hope in the Midst of Darkness
The most powerful idea in this parasha for me this year comes from a legend that the wood used to build the Mishkan came from trees that Jacob had brought to Egypt generations earlier. Over the generations, those trees stood as a silent promise. Whenever the enslaved Israelites looked at them, they felt hope that redemption would come.
Not the most compelling of Jewish legends, but it made me reflect, as I often have the last few weeks, on the hope and resilience shown by the recently released hostages who, despite the horrors of their captivity and the grief that awaited them at home, have still found a way to lift up and display their hope for all of us to see. Each and every one of them has been a radiant exemplar of the best quality of Israelis: resilience.
At the funeral of his wife and two children, for whom he had sacrificed himself, only to learn they had perished while he was in captivity, Yarden Bibas said, “Shiri, guard me so I don’t sink into darkness.” He still sees light! He still has hope. I don't know how that is possible.
An Australian news station desribed the day of the funeral as a dark day for Israel. And yet, for the first time in months, I saw light— not because of my own worldview, but because Yarden Bibas, of all people, could still find words of hope.
The Israelites carried Jacob’s trees with them into the wilderness, using them to build the Mishkan. Perhaps we, too, carry some unseen reserve of strength and resilience that allows us to build light even in the darkest places.
My mother, who was born in 1925, always emphasized that abortion was a woman's most important right. Growing up, I accepted this belief without question. My confidence in this “right” shifted during paralegal school when I decided to read Roe v. Wade. I was shocked by the poor legal reasoning of the decision and realized it was only a matter of time before it would be overturned.
The recent overturning of Roe and the ensuing debate have prompted me to examine the issue more deeply.
Before the advent of modern medicine and contraceptives, women often valued chastity before marriage not because of societal or patriarchal control but out of necessity. Childbirth was dangerous, sometimes fatal, and unmarried women who died in childbirth left no one to care for their children. This grim reality profoundly shaped women’s behavior and choices. When a woman did survive childbirth, she required a partner to raise her children.
Before the judicial legalization of abortion, even married women sometimes risked their lives to obtain abortions in unsanitary and unsafe conditions. The issue has never been a simple debate between "life" and "choice." It’s a deeply complex matter of survival, autonomy, supporting existing children, and moral gray areas.
The necessity for unsafe, illegal abortions diminished with the introduction of reliable contraceptives. Contraceptives transformed society, giving women control over when they gave birth and enabling them to shape their economic futures-- and also enabling families to acquire more wealth. This empowerment significantly contributed to equality of the sexes. (It had other, less fortunate consequences that are less black and white, but I won't address those now.)
Yet many who identify as "pro-life" also oppose contraceptives, creating a contradiction in their stance. If the goal is to reduce abortions, accessible contraception should be a shared priority. Limiting access to contraceptives undermines the very foundation of women’s autonomy and progress.
I’ve never thought the pro-life side was entirely pro-life, as many within the movement don't support childcare and also oppose contraceptives. Today, I don’t believe the pro-choice side is entirely pro-choice either! I’ve become disillusioned by the radicalism of some pro-choice rhetoric.
A few years ago, there was a campaign to “advertise your abortion.” The intention was to reduce stigma and normalize abortion by encouraging women to share their stories openly. While presumably well-intended, it seemed counterproductive. Abortion is a deeply personal and often painful decision. Making it public may increase awareness of the number of women who have abortions, but I hardly think it will foster acceptance of those choices.
I had a friend in college who realized she was pregnant (apparently, morning sickness starts right away) and decided, seemingly without hesitation, to have an abortion. Nonetheless, she kept her decision private, reflecting what many women felt then: abortion should be safe, legal, and private.
More recently, I’ve seen statements from trans women in which they express the aspiration to have abortions as a validation of their womanhood. Vocalizing this aspiration often alienates people from the pro-choice argument. Most people, male and female don't believe that abortion should be a goal, and for most women, motherhood is a goal.
It’s hard to argue that a newly formed embryo is not a life. At the same time, it's just as hard to argue that a woman must carry and give birth to that life. This is where some of the tension lies: balancing the value of life with the value of a woman's wisdom.
I don’t believe there are simple answers to this debate. Both extremes— opposing abortion entirely and glorifying it— fail to address the complexity of the issue.
The abortion debate isn’t just about life or choice; it’s also about autonomy, family values, and the profound human questions that arise when these values conflict. To move forward, we must approach the issue with empathy and nuance, rejecting the extremes that dominate the discourse. For me, and I suspect, for many others, the ideal is for abortion to remain "legal, safe, and rare," limited to the first trimester except in cases of medical necessity.
