Terumah. Skin, laugther, meaning

“And they shall make Me a sanctuary, and I shall dwell among them.”

וְעָ֥שׂוּ לִ֖י מִקְדָּ֑שׁ וְשָֽׁכַנְתִּ֖י בְּתוֹכָֽם:

shemot 25.8

To me, this is one of the most beautiful sentences in the Torah.

It reminds us that God needs us — if we want to feel His presence in the world.

In the biblical narrative, once we have miraculously left Egypt, once we have received divine revelation at Sinai, it is now our turn to act: it is up to us to build the keli (the vessel) so that the Shekhina (Divine Presence) can become a reality in our lives.

That is the entire purpose of constructing the Mishkan.

Yet a container, a place of welcome, is not always a garment or an architectural space. My body too can be — must be — the vessel that makes itself available to receive divine presence.

“And they shall make Me a sanctuary, and I shall dwell among them.”

“Among them” — betokham — can also be read as “within them.”

What might be the connection between this profound injunction — which can also seem so abstract — and the invitation, during the month of Adar, to “increase in joy,” to prepare ourselves to enter into the spirit of carnival, parody, humorous subversion, and playful satire, as we approach Purim?

We begin to learn this from the symbolic meaning of objects that appear, at first glance, trivial — details of materials and architecture in all the parashiot that follow.

This week, the Kedushat Levi reflects on the purpose of the “skins of tachash” (orot tachashim, Exodus 26:14), which were used to cover many of the objects involved in building the Holy space — the dedicated place.

The tachash is a kind of mythical sea creature whose appearance is uncertain. Some say it was a sea unicorn; others say its skin resembled that of a dolphin.

While some describe a magnificent multicolored hide that would justify its use in the Mishkan, for the Kedushat Levi, on the contrary, it may have been a rather ungainly material — an almost unsettling skin, much like humor itself can sometimes be — milta de-bediḥuta, playful banter.

What determines whether humor is healthy and good, or whether it becomes mockery that harms?

For the Kedushat Levi, what shifts its meaning is what it covers.

If humor serves as the shell, the garment, the language that clothes a message whose core shines with irah — deep reverence for Life — then it is good, it is beneficial.

That must be our criterion when judging mockery, which can be so healthy for a society when the message it carries is ultimately benevolent.

Thus, according to the Kedushat Levi, regarding the skins of the tachash:

“And so too with the tachashim: the exterior was not beautiful, but the interior was good.”

וכן תחשים החיצוניות לא היה טוב אבל הפנימיות היה טוב.

At a time when comedians and stand-up artists increasingly find themselves constrained by audiences who are themselves internally chained by the trap of political correctness into which they have fallen — when those who dare to use humor to say something real are attacked for offending one group or another, groups that have grown so morbidly serious about themselves that much joy and lightness has vanished from their own experience of themselves, as they have forgotten how second-degree speech allows true critical vision, and how self-irony enables individuals and societies alike to grow.

And as we approach Purim, whose deep message slips quietly beneath its costume of extravagant and terrifying fable —

From across the centuries, the Kedushat Levi reminds us of the importance of humor. Its lightness, he teaches, allows profound truths to be conveyed.

This too is becoming a Mishkan — a vessel for divine presence.

We are on earth because we have a role to play — something unique to say, and something to remind one another of. And as the Kedushat Levi reminds us, lightness often helps convey the deepest messages.

Suddenly, the laughter and joy we are invited to in the weeks leading to Purim take on a whole different meaning.

Are you ready to play along?