Shiri's Final Act of Love: Terumah

The image of Shiri Bibas courageously trying to protect her babies from the monsters has been seared into our consciousness because it encapsulates the essence of Judaism throughout history: family, love, life, and connection. As social beings, we thrive on connection—but connection requires a delicate balance between our individual needs and desires and those of others, or the greater whole.

Staring at the image of Shiri, her blanket desperately wrapped around her most precious possessions, one can feel the overwhelming power of a mother’s unconditional, unbridled love for her children—the complete opposite of those who use their children as weapons in the battle for a so-called "greater good."

Shiri embodies the right balance, the true way of navigating the tension between the individual and the collective, between the dignity and love of a unique person and what thinkers have called the greater or common good. To truly belong means to transcend the self; but to be truly human, the self must not be lost in the conformity of the masses, the depravity of an ideology that celebrates death, or the blind allegiance of those marching as useful idiots for a cause they barely understand.

It is an exquisitely difficult dance, and if misstepped, it can destroy the very foundation of our humanity.

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This week’s parsha presents an interesting juxtaposition: Parshiot Terumah and Tetzaveh. Terumah—to donate, to give. Tetzaveh—to command. These two concepts represent opposing values. Giving is open, unlimited, and boundless, while command is restrictive, rigid, and obligatory.

It is the balance between these two forces that shapes how an individual can truly belong to a larger whole. True liberty requires more than fulfilling our immediate needs; it demands self-discipline, the imposition of boundaries, and a commitment to long-term values and meaning.

The machatzit ha'shekel—the half-shekel each person was mandated to donate to the Mishkan—reflects this idea. None of us are complete alone. The sacred foundation of society is built upon the conscious recognition that our lives transcend the solitary experience of the self.

This lesson is a necessary step for a people transitioning from slavery to freedom, from dependence to independence. In child-rearing, we navigate a similar path, guiding our children from dependency to autonomy—often in a challenging and difficult process.

Becoming a balanced, well-adjusted adult requires two equal yet opposing forces: freedom and boundaries. The project of the Mishkan (Tabernacle) serves as the vehicle for this delicate dance. It channels the people's unbridled freedom, providing them with purpose and meaning beyond the parochial self.

It teaches a crucial lesson: true freedom, maturity, and growth require giving in order to receive, surrendering to something beyond oneself to gain a coherent life structure, and constructing something together to cultivate both individual character and collective happiness.

Though we are no longer slaves in a physical sense, we remain enslaved in many other ways. The balance between the individual and the greater good of society is more relevant today than ever, demanding our thought and attention.

We claim rights and freedoms but often neglect the corresponding responsibilities and obligations. We are slaves to our passions, to popularity, to the pursuit of immediate results. These are the symptoms of a society in decline—warning signs that lead not to the construction of a Mishkan (Tabernacle) but to the worship of another golden calf.

The foundations of freedom and a healthy society require long-term commitment: courage, honesty, humility, and obedience to transcendent values, relationships, and callings—qualities that are often anathema to the ethos of our time.

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Exactly a decade ago, Ari Shavit wrote My Promised Land, a book in which he voiced the central concern of our parsha: how to balance vision, Zionist ideology, and national resolve with the individualist culture that permeates many Western liberal democracies—one that often prioritizes personal autonomy over collective responsibility, and short-term gratification over long-term commitment.

“Contemporary Israel has no utopia and no commune and only a semblance of the resolve and commitment it once had.  Can we survive here without them?  Can we still fight for our banal Israel as the soldiers of Degania fought for their Kibbutz dream? Can our consumerist democracy hold in times of real hardship? Within the Islamic-threat circle and the Arab-threat circle and the Palestinian-challenge circle and the internal-threat circle lies the fifth threat of the mental challenge.  Might it be that Israel's collective psyche is no longer suited to Israel's tragic circumstances?”

I believe Shavit’s question was answered on 07/10—and again yesterday.

The bravery, resilience, pride, commitment, and endurance of Israeli soldiers, citizens and jews in the diaspora has been astounding.

The image from yesterday’s funeral—of Yarden Bibas and his nephew (Shiri’s sister’s son) copying the sign son Ariel loved to do which also happens to be the powerful image of resilience made by freed hostage, Emily Damari’s who was missing two fingers—was a profound symbol of hope in the face of unimaginable suffering and tragedy. One can only stand in awe. This together with the images of thousands gathered in shared pain, grief, and devastation to accompany the Bibas family on their final journey are a testament to the fact that, despite all the despair and tragedy of the past 16 months, we remain steadfast in our commitment to the Israel of tomorrow. We are still devoted to the sacred values of life, love, family, and our connection to our people—values that have sustained us throughout our long and tumultuous history.

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On October 7th, we witnessed evil—an ideology that raises its people to choose hate over love, doctrine over human dignity, and depravity over sanctity.

In that unforgettable image, Shiri Bibas reminded us of the mandate to build a sanctuary within the people. She embodied Moshe’s words in this week’s parsha:

ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם"

You shall make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell in YOU."

God does not say, “Make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell in IT.” Because when we sanctify our world—by dignifying the other, by loving our children unconditionally, by recognizing our deep connection to our people, our land, our history, and our destiny—God dwells within each of us. And with that Divine strength, we find the courage to mend this broken world, transforming depravity and evil into a place where God’s presence can dwell.