Parshat Pekudei marks the completion of the Mishkan, the sacred space where B’nei Yisrael would connect with the divine. After weeks of meticulous construction, the Torah describes how Moshe saw all the work that had been done and blessed the people for their efforts. The Mishkan was not just a structure; it was a home for holiness, a place where God’s presence could dwell among the people.

This moment is echoed in a powerful blessing that we recite upon seeing a restored synagogue or place of worship: Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, matziv gvul almana. “Blessed are you, our God, sovereign of the universe, who sets a boundary for the widow.” At first glance, this blessing seems unusual. Why compare a rebuilt synagogue to a widow? The answer lies in understanding the deep loss that comes when a sacred space is destroyed. A widow is someone who has lost her partner, her foundation of stability. A community that loses its synagogue or beit midrash experiences a similar grief—a sense of displacement, a rupture in its spiritual life. The rebuilding of that space is a restoration of hope, a reconnection to what was lost.

This idea feels particularly relevant today. Across the world, we see communities striving to rebuild after destruction—synagogues targeted by antisemitic attacks, towns recovering from war, or regions devastated by natural disasters. Just as the Israelites found their spiritual anchor in the Mishkan, modern communities seek to restore their sacred spaces as symbols of resilience and faith.

The joy of reopening the doors, of placing a Torah back in the aron kodesh, is akin to the moment when the Shechinah filled the Mishkan in Pekudei. The blessing of matziv gvul almana reminds us that while destruction can be devastating, restoration is always possible. The widow, once left vulnerable, finds strength again. The community, once displaced, returns home.

May we all work toward a world where sacred spaces are not only protected but also cherished, where every place of worship stands strong as a beacon of divine presence. And may we never lose hope that what is broken can one day be rebuilt.

As much as I’m completely over Daylight Saving Time and ready to just stick with one time and be done with it, the twice-yearly shift does serve one valuable purpose for me. As a creature of habit, I thrive on routine, and this jarring, sudden change is enough to short-circuit my autopilot, at least temporarily. Otherwise, I don’t tend to notice certain changes until they knock me over the head.

For example, I often walk the loop of my neighborhood. It’s a path I know so well that I don’t have to think about it. I’m aware of my surroundings, so I see other people and cars, but my feet know the route intimately enough that I don’t always watch where I’m going because my body just goes. Zoning out can be helpful, but it also means I can miss the little things like buds appearing on the trees in spring or leaves disappearing on the trees in fall. At some point, it will hit me (not literally the tree) and all of a sudden I’m in awe of this beautiful place.

This is the difference between being merely present and having an encounter. You can be present as you experience the natural, ongoing, slowly changing world, but it’s the encounters that wow you and grab your attention. As our Torah reading this week teaches us, both are necessary and holy. 

Parshat Pekudei brings to a close the book of Exodus. During this book, we’ve read about the encounters the Israelites had with God at Mount Sinai and in the desert, as well as about the sacred spaces they were asked to create for God. The parshah itself deals with the final judgments about who will work on the Tabernacle (the Mishkan) and what the priests are supposed to wear. Finally, the text takes up the building and establishment of the Mishkan.

As we end the book of Exodus we find that the Israelites have created two embodiments of holiness in the Israelite camp: the Tent of Meeting (Ohel Moed) and the Mishkan. The Ohel Moed is a place to be present. On the other hand, the Mishkan, the sacred space where God will dwell among the Israelites, travels with the Israelites and is often at the center of moments of awe and wonder. In other words, God has asked the Israelites to create routine reminders of God’s presence but not to become oblivious to the extraordinary moments when they happen. 

“We go together, like . . .” If you’re a fan of the movie Grease, I’m sure you’re able to finish that phrase, and now I have to apologize for getting the song stuck in your head. In the last few years I’ve been doing some “extracurricular” work learning about my strengths and weaknesses as a human being and a leader. This process isn’t really anything new for me; my father used to make me take the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator yearly to find out how to best parent me (he was a social worker, if that wasn’t obvious). As long as I can remember, I’ve been an I/ENFJ. That means, among other things, that there are certain personality types with whom I will naturally either find affinity or clash. This has been helpful as I’ve navigated a path figuring out how best to get along with someone with opposite traits, because in my experience, opposites don’t always attract (no disrespect to Paula Abdul).

Sometimes things pair well together, not because they’re similar and not because they’re opposite, but because the whole is greater than the sum of its two parts. How did peanut butter and jelly get together? Or cream cheese and lox? Think about it – fish and cream cheese? 

This week we read Parshat Pikudei, which details the building of the Mishkan, the artistry involved, the outpouring of gifts the Israelite people bring, and the artists who fashion the piece together. For the construction of this precious piece, God has singled out Be’tzalel to be the builder. We learn about the gathering of the Israelite nation and the cloud that will henceforth guide them as they make their way through the desert.

As the priestly garments are being finalized, we learn of two pieces that are forever together, the breastpiece and the ephod (a linen apron). In chapter 39, verse 21 we read that the breastpiece, as commanded by God, was held in place by a cord of blue from its rings to the rings of the ephod, so that they did not come loose from one another. But what was so critical that connected those two pieces? Why did they need to be together? 

The breastpiece is referred to as the “breastpiece of judgment” in Exodus. It’s a symbol of the ways in which people should act with one another. The ephod was a symbol of worship, the way in which people are to interact with God. This seems to indicate that these two pieces are bound together because justice and worship, even though they are two separate concepts, must go hand in hand as well.

Parshat Pekudei reminds us of the connection between our faith and the pursuit of justice, and, more importantly, that religion does not supersede justice. Only when these ideas are hand in hand can we expect to walk hand in hand with each other.