Terumah: A Place for Religious Experience

It was at a post-graduate seminar many years ago that I first became aware of the distinction many make between “religion” and “spirituality.” The members of the seminar were all PhDs in psychology with varying degrees of experience and expertise. They were of a wide range of religious persuasions. Some identified with a specific faith system or denomination. Others claimed allegiance to no formal religion but insisted that although they were not particularly “religious,” they were “spiritual.”

The text that was referred to during this discussion was The Varieties of Religious Experience, by the noted American philosopher William James. That book could serve as a prooftext that at least one major thinker considered purely “spiritual” experiences to be “religious” experiences. The author makes it quite clear that atheists and agnostics can have “religious” experiences

I must add, parenthetically, that some time ago I found a Hebrew translation of James’ book in a Jerusalem bookstore and came away from that translation with a different understanding of what the author was trying to say.

Most of all, I was impressed by the extent to which the translator used terminology that helped me understand that the Jewish expressions of religiosity with which I was personally familiar were the same as the “religious experiences” described by James, who incidentally was quite unfamiliar with Judaism.

The only difference between the two was that what James called “religious experience” we would call “the presence of the Shechinah,” or the sensation that the Almighty is close to us, sees us, hears us, teaches us, and comforts us.

The concept of “religious experience” helps us understand a distinction made by several commentators on the weekly portions that we are now “experiencing,” the parsha that we read two weeks ago, Yitro, and this week’s parsha, Terumah (Exodus 25:1-27:19). 

The distinction was, to my knowledge, first made by Rabbi Ovadiah Sforno. He is impressed by the contrast between two verses, one near the end of Parshat Yitro and one which begins this week’s parsha.

The first verse, Exodus 20:21, reads, in my loose translation, “In every place (…b’chol makom) where I will mention My Name, I will approach you and bless you.”

The phrasing is an assertion of the Shechina’s presence in the world at large. “In every place”!

On the other hand, in this week’s parsha we read of the construction of the mishkan, or tabernacle, a physical structure with walls and a ceiling, a very constricted space indeed. Note that the root of the word mishkan is the same as in the word shechinah. The message seems clear: God is only accessible in this single space, this limited structure, and nowhere else.

Rabbi Sforno, an Italian scholar of the late Middle Ages, wonders about this contradiction between the ease of attaching oneself to the Almighty everywhere and anywhere versus the scarcity of His availability anywhere but in the relatively tiny tabernacle.

To deal with this contradiction, Sforno distinguishes between the time prior to the sin of the Golden Calf and the time subsequent to that atrocious sin.

Before that idolatrous and orgiastic display, closeness to the Shechinah, the religious experience of encounter with the Divine, could be achieved anywhere. But after such a scandalous and rebellious offense, substituting a Golden Calf, a graven image, for the Master of the Universe, the Almighty, so to speak, made Himself scarce. Now He would confine His presence to extremely limited venues, especially holy places.

Rabbi Yerucham Levovitz, an early twentieth century inspirational teacher whom I’ve quoted frequently in these weekly columns, accepts Rabbi Sforno’s distinction but broadens it somewhat. In his words, in an essay entitled, “In Every Place”:

“Before the sin of the Golden Calf our forefathers experienced the presence of the Shechinah everywhere. They were shepherds and felt the Almighty with them in the fields. They felt the Shechinah in their interactions with others, and felt enabled by the Shechinah as they went to war. The entire world was holy!

“But after the great sin the world was no longer holy. It was desacralized, ordinary, mundane. The Shechinah retreated from the world at large to the tiny desert structure, the Mishkan. There, and only there, was a “religious experience” possible.”

The distinction introduced by Sforno, whose surname is pronounced “Siporno” by some, always captivated me. The expansion of his thesis by Rabbi Levovitz held my attention for a long time.

But over the years, I began to be irritated by the pessimism inherent in their approach. Is the Shechinah so elusive? Are authentic “religious experiences” so hard to come by? Must we restrict our attachment to the Almighty only to the tabernacles of our era, synagogues and holy sites?

What about by the bedside of a dear friend who is suffering from a terrible illness? Are we not taught that the Shechinah hovers over the head of the choleh, the sick person? As I stand respectfully by the bedside of my barely conscious friend and silently utter a prayer, am I deluding myself if I sense a “religious experience”? Frankly, if I offered a communal prayer for my friend in synagogue, I would not have felt nearly as emotionally impacted as I do at his sickbed!

Ask yourselves, or ask others around you, when they last felt the Shechinah’s presence. I wager that if you receive a sincere response, it would not have been in a tabernacle or anything like it. It would more likely be the result of some poignant human interaction, perhaps the birth of a baby, or the celebration of a significant birthday, or the satisfaction of a difficult achievement.

The Jewish people have been amid a most challenging set of circumstances for well over a year. Listen to the returning soldiers and hear their stories of “religious experiences” on the battlefield.

Or, even more impressive, listen to the thankfully freed former hostages and the “religious experiences” that they so modestly share.

Speak to the women soldiers who lit Shabbos candles beside an armored vehicle and experienced the comforting presence of the Shechinah in a tank!

Or join in the joy of reunited families whose dear ones have been freed. You too will sense the Shechinah and participate in a “religious experience.”

The Shechinah was present in the tunnels of Gaza, as it is in the homes of the bereaved widows and orphans whom we must support in every way we can, assured that in assisting them we are participating in a “religious experience” of the highest order.

“Religious experience” is not a “high,” as those who have attempted to achieve such experiences by ingesting narcotic substances have, often tragically, discovered.

No. “Religious experiences” are not always pleasurable in a physical sense. They are spiritual occurrences, often provocative and challenging, requiring a response adequate to the experience, which generally means great changes in our lifestyles. But we can be comforted by the many phrases in our sacred works that express assurances like this one:

“True sacrifice to God is a contrite spirit.

“God, You will not despise

“a broken and crushed heart.” Psalms 51-19