Pekudey / פּקודי

This is a weekly series of parsha dvarim written by a frum, atheist, transsexual anarchist. It's crucial in these times that we resist the narrative that Zionism owns Judaism. Our texts are rich—sometimes opaque, but absolutely teeming with wisdom and fierce debate. It's the work of each generation to extricate meaning from our cultural and religious inheritance. I aim to offer comment which is true to the source material (i.e. doesn't invert or invent meaning to make us more comfortable) and uses Torah like a light to reflect on our modern times. The full dvar is paywalled for four weeks to help me sustain my work as a writer; if you can't afford to subscribe, email me and I'll send you the link for free.

An appeal: It's Ramadan, which means it's a great time to donate to people in Gaza. My friend Madleen needs help to support her children. This fundraiser is run by a friend of a comrade, and I talk to Madleen regularly. Any amount helps, no matter how small.

Content note: Khurbn (Holocaust) images and stories; images of cultural genocide in Palestine.

This is the final parsha in the book of Shemoys (Exodus). The bulk of the text is dedicated to the details of erecting the Mishkon (Tabernacle, or meeting tent) and all the craft work required to fulfill the commandments to build and furnish it. We also get further details on how to dress and consecrate the Kohanim. Then, in the final verses, some narrative: when Moishe Rebeynu finishes setting up the Mishkon, a fiery cloud covers the Mishkon and it was filled with the divine presence of Hashem.

While our world appears to go up in smoke, we continue to carry our tradition through exile just like Moishe and the Israelites carry the Mishkon. Blessedly, our tradition places a high importance on remembrance, words and actions. Creation is a dialogue between us and Hashem, and it is urgent that we do our part.

Hashem appears on Earth in the extraordinary physical manifestations of clouds and fire several times throughout Shemoys: through the burning bush (3:2); in the wilderness as a pillar of cloud (13:21) and then a pillar of fire and cloud (14:24); atop Sinai in fire and smoke (19:18) and cloud (24:16); and now upon the Mishkon.

This is incredible imagery and some fun, creative horror writing. Imagine the terror as you see the Mishkon—your holiest site, which you've personally labored over constructing—in smoke and flames. You're confused and upset as you try to take in this disorienting scene. But in the morning, the fire is gone and the tent is unharmed.

It isn't difficult to imagine the terror that the Jews must have felt when the Mishkon was ostensibly on fire. The Khurbn (Holocaust) imagery of burning shuls is seared into my memory, as if I lived it myself. Just one such example, pictured above, is the Łęczyca Synagogue in Poland:

In December 1939 Jewish families were evicted from many streets and from the buildings around the marketplace to be segregated in a separate, crowded Jewish district. To further repress and humiliate the Jews the Germans forced them to destroy their own cemetery and set fire to their synagogue. The Judenrat was compelled to sign a declaration that the "arson" was committed by Jews, and a heavy fine was imposed upon the community. During 1940 groups of Jews left the town, either voluntarily or by force. In January 1941 all Jews were ordered to appear in the marketplace with their kitchen utensils and some bedding. Some 600 people were then selected and sent under German police convoy to Poddębice. Another group of 450 were sent to Grabow. The Jewish area was then surrounded with barbed wire and as a result of famine and lack of fuel epidemics broke out. The final liquidation of the community took place on April 10–11, 1942, when the remaining 1,750 Jews were sent to the death camp at Chełmno.

—Danuta Dombrowska, Encyclopedia entry on Łęczyca

Nagrobki były ułożone do góry symbolami religijnymi, by przechodnie je deptali.

The tombstones were arranged with religious symbols facing upwards, so that passers-by would trample on them.

—"Represje wobec Żydów w Łęczycy" ("Repression against the Jews of Łęczycy"). Content note for that link:Holocaust images of desecrated Jewish dead

The photographs are striking and upsetting enough, the but details are unimaginably cruel. The destruction of the fire is not as devastating as the indignities, the deliberate and extreme acts of violence, the erasure of history.

Hashem isn't the cloud or the fire, but those things represent a clear indication of Hashem's presence. While Moishe has a unique relationship with Hashem, the rest of the Jews are still bearing witness to divinity. This highlights a paradox: Hashem is totalizing, everything and everywhere; and Hashem dwells only/especially in specific holy places and times. Unfortunately for us, we're living in times where the fires are destructive rather than divine.

The Mishkon was the physical dwelling place of Hashem on Earth: portable, collapsible, something we carried with us as we wandered when the cloud lifted. It was a center of Jewish communal life until it was superseded by the First and Second Temples. The desire for the Third Temple is part of our thrice-daily liturgy in the Amidah. It represents a return to Zion and a central Jewish place of worship, but we will not build it until Moshiakh comes.

In the meantime, Yiddishkeyt is something we carry with us. We live in גלות (diaspora, exile) and cannot construct the Mishkon/Temple or complete its rituals and sacrifices today. There is no cloud or fire to give us proof of Hashem's presence—are we to remain idle? Studying the details of the Mishkon is equivalent to building it, and saying the details of the sacrifices aloud is equivalent to offering them (Midrash Tankhumo Tsav 14). Our tradition places a great deal of importance on the word, on remembrance, on not just thinking a thought but committing it to paper and our lips.

The completion of the Mishkon mimics the completion of creation in Bereshis. Creation is a dialogue, not a monologue. We co-construct reality with Hashem. If you want something from Hashem you can't just think about it really hard. You have to say it out loud in your davening. And what's more, you can't ask for thing that you haven't done everything in your power to action already. We don't bother Hashem with things we haven't tried to fix ourselves. It is not enough to be against oppression. It is not enough to simply want peace in Israel-Palestine, and it is not enough to say we want peace. We must commit ourselves to word and to action.

Everything feels urgent, because it is. Some things feel more urgent than before, like ending the war in Palestine feels more pressing now than it did before October 7. But the work of repairing the world, of welcoming Moshiakh, of honoring ourselves and the beauty of creation, whether divine or accidental—that work has always been urgent. It is always urgent to feed children, to help each other, to interrupt violence. As long as there is suffering, there is urgent work to do.

As an anarchist I feel compelled to point out the difference between direct and indirect action. Indirect actions include appeals to power and narrative; things like JVP's recent occupation of Trump Tower, demanding the release of abducted Palestinian Columbia student Mahmoud Khalil. Direct action, however, is immediate intervention to solve a problem. The direct action for stopping deportation isn't blocking any old bridge, but placing yourself immediately in the way of the immigration van or plane. We're re-launching the Pink Peacock in order to directly address food insecurity by feeding people for free. If you feel guilty for not doing enough, then pick a small, direct thing you can do today which will help.

It's the dead of night. We're looking upon our hard work—to build community, to protect each other, to get a ceasefire—and it's burning. Was our effort for nothing? Are we being punished? We're presented with an onslaught of baffling, imperfect (mis)information and like the Jews במדבר (in the wilderness), we don't understand what to do. We will not have clarity until the morning, when our holy sites and precious heritage is either safe or destroyed.

But even in the absence of clarity, we must keep building. Even if it burns down, we will build again. We carry our ethics and traditions with us, and we co-author our existence through action. May we see the dawn soon.