Helen Keller famously said, “Alone we can do so little, together we can do so much”. The biblical term for coming together as a community or nation derives from the root k-h-l (קהל), which is the root of the name of this week’s parashah—Parashat Vayakhel (פרשת ויקהל). The truth of Keller’s observation about the power of community can be clearly demonstrated by Megillat Esther that we read on Purim, by Parashat Ki Tisa that we read last week, and by Parashat Vayakhel that we read this week.
When Haman was enraged by Mordechai’s refusal to bow down to him and convinced King Ahasuerus to issue a decree to “destroy, massacre, and exterminate all the Jews, young and old, children and women on a single day (Esther 3:13) the Jews mourned, fasted, wept, wailed and lay in sackcloth and ashes (Esther 4:3). Apparently, they lacked the self-esteem and wherewithal to do anything about this ominous decree. Only Mordechai and Esther possessed the courage and tenacity to try to reverse it. Yet, even after they succeeded in their efforts, victory of the Jews over their enemies was not achieved until they (נִקְהֲל֨וּ) nikhalu—”gathered together” as a people (Esther 9:2, 15, 18) to defend themselves. It was the celebration of this victory that then became the festival of Purim (Esther 9:15-19).
Conversely, in Parashat Ki Tisa that we read last week, we saw how the people came together to undermine the very foundations of Jewish religious life. “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered together (וַיִּקָּהֵ֨ל הָעָ֜ם)—vayikahel ha’am against Aaron and said to him, “Come make us a god who shall go before us…” (Exodus 32:1) and they proceeded to build a golden calf. If Moses had not interceded with God on their behalf, God would have carried out His threat to destroy them and make a great nation out of Moses instead (Exodus 32:9-14). Thus, we also see how a community can come together in a way that leads to its own death and destruction.
In Parashat Vayakhel, the people come together again (וַיַּקְהֵל) but, this time, for the holiest of purposes, to build the mishkan—the sanctuary. As Rabbi Sacks points out, the vayakhel to build a sanctuary for God is “a tikkun: a restoration, a making-good-again” for their desire to build a golden calf as God’s replacement (Covenant and Conversation: Exodus, p. 284). Thus, we see once again the great heights that can be achieved when the community comes together.
In a similar vein, after October 7, we, as a people, came together in magnificent fashion. Soldiers from all backgrounds and affiliations stood side-by-side and fought together in defense of Israel, families around the country opened their homes to evacuees, communities from Israel and abroad donated money, food and supplies for soldiers, displaced families and families of the hostages, and thousands volunteered in a myriad of ways to help in the war efforts. The rallying cry that we saw everywhere and all the time, and which we largely internalized, was “יַחַד נְנַצֵּחַ”—“together we shall be victorious”.
Yet, of late, this sense of togetherness has begun to unravel due, in large part, to the divisive actions of the Prime Minister and the Israeli government. Among these are the decisions to fire the director of the Israeli Security Agency, to begin proceedings to oust the Attorney General, and to reappoint a fanatic and troublemaker as police minister despite the AG’s objections. Furthermore, the government refuses to establish a national commission of inquiry into the abysmal failures of October 7 despite overwhelming popular demand to do so. Finally, it continues with its infuriating, outrageous and morally bankrupt effort to exempt the entire Haredi population from army service while simultaneously calling up 400,00 reserves, including those who have already served four stints and have been away from their homes and families for hundreds of days since the outbreak of the war.
So until this government is forced to change course, or to step down, where can we find hope? The answer, for me, came at a wedding of friends that my wife and I attended last night. The bride is currently serving in a military intelligence unit but I spent most of the night watching the groom and his friends. The groom is a member of Egoz, an elite IDF commando unit, as are many of his friends. Last year, several were killed in an incident in Gaza and many others were wounded. Under the chuppah (canopy), and before the breaking of the glass to recall the churban (destruction) of the Temple, the groom mentioned the names of his friends killed in combat and who represent, for him, a contemporary churban.
Then, during the incredibly lively and joyous dancing, I noticed that among his friends were those with and without kippot (skullcaps), ashkenazim and sephardim, and, I assume, some from the political right, others from the left and yet others from the center. The point is that none of these things mattered. They had fought together, cried together, they were now celebrating together, and they will almost certainly continue to experience life together for years to come.
And so it occurred to me that we do not just need our amazing and wonderful soldiers to protect us from our enemies; we need them to protect us from ourselves, to teach us how to come together as a people despite our differences and to build a healthier and more unified society, now and for the future.
Shabbat Shalom.
