By Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D.
EL CAJON, California — Ibn Ezra, an 11th century commentator wrote, “The Torah found it vital to stress that Bezalel…was endowed with the ability and the will to teach and communicate his skills and knowledge to those willing to learn.”
What is the value of knowledge that is not transmitted and shared with others? If we look at this week’s parsha, Vayakhel, and follow the path of Betzalel, my father’s name zt’l, we may find an answer to that question.
We are told in Vayakhel that Betzalel was filled with ruach Elohim (spirit of God), and according to Rashi, Betzalel also had chochmah, t’vunah, (insight or experience) and daat (knowledge, understanding). The name “Betzalel” means “being in Hashem’s shadow,” suggesting that he had attained the level of tzadik (righteous person) and achieved yihud (seclusion) with Hashem. But simply possessing chochmah, t’vunah and daat, simply sharing a unity with Hashem, are not enough. It’s what you do with your education and knowledge that matters.
Chaim ibn Attar, an 18th century rabbi, stated, “Being able to share one’s wisdom with others is a special gift. Yet, to do so one needs not only talent, but also a generous spirit. Not everyone can teach.” The Rabbi observed, “Some wise men are on so high a plane that they cannot descend to the people to speak their language.” Betzalel had this special gift, the ability to teach from his heart, and B’H, used it well.
Think about our last parsha. The people gathered (vayikahel) in a frenzy of fear and built the Golden Calf. This week, they gather (vayakhel) again, but this time with purpose, with discipline, with devotion. Same word. Different outcome. That’s the power of teaching—when we share wisdom, we don’t just inform, we transform.
So, here’s the question: Are you passing on what you’ve learned? Are you lifting others with your insight, your experience, your heart? Because at the end of the day, knowledge hoarded is knowledge wasted.
Let’s be honest—human beings are not often great at self-control. We like to think we are, but we’re constantly tripping over our own impulses and irrational thoughts. We reach for the easy fix, the quick win, the thing that soothes in the moment but leaves us emptier in the long run. The Torah understands this about us. We just read of the fear that drove the people to make the Golden Calf—a tangible, glittering idol to cling to. This week, Hashem redirects that impulse. Before they can build the Mishkan, Moshe commands them to keep. Pause. Stop. Create space.
This is the spiritual blueprint the Torah lays out for our growth: first, sanctify time (Shabbat). Rest. Trauma survivors often struggle with feelings of guilt—why should they take time to recover when others suffered? But here, the Torah insists: stop working, eat well, be with loved ones. You are wise to take care of yourself.
The very first word of the portion is “Vayakhel”—Moses gathered the people. And not just a few of them. “The entire community of Israel.” This word, “Vayakhel,” shares a root with “Kahal” (congregation) and emphasizes togetherness. The Torah is practically shouting at us: when you feel broken, don’t isolate. Be with others. Show up. Even when it’s hard. Even when you don’t want to. Is the Torah revealing a bit of the Blue Zones emphasis on social connection?
Then, sanctify space (the Mishkan). Left unchecked, human nature will always chase more—more wealth, more power, more certainty. Moses asks the people to contribute materials for the Mishkan, and they respond so generously that he has to tell them to stop. The act of giving—of participating in something larger than yourself—has been shown time and again to be one of the most effective ways to heal from trauma. It provides purpose, structure, connection. Helping others helps us. Yet another Blue Zone reveal?
The Mishkan isn’t just a Mishkan structure—it’s a work of art. Skilled artisans, led by Bezalel and Oholiab, transform raw materials into something holy and beautiful. That’s another key to healing: taking what’s broken and creating something new. Whether through art, music, writing, or simply reshaping our lives after devastation, creativity allows us to process pain and find meaning in the aftermath.
The construction of the Mishkan—the portable sanctuary—gets a staggering amount of detail in the Torah. We’re talking about an inventory list so rich it could make a luxury goods dealer jealous. Blue, purple, and crimson yarns. Gold, silver, and bronze. Exotic spices. Precious stones. The question practically asks itself: Where in the world did a bunch of former slaves wandering the desert get all these high-end materials?
But if we pay close attention, we realize the real wonder isn’t the physical treasures. It’s not the gold, the gems, or the rare dyes. It’s the offering of the heart. That’s the very first thing the Torah emphasizes. Before we talk materials, we talk intention.
And here’s the part that speaks to me the most: This parsha isn’t just about laws and blueprints—it’s about the heart. The Torah emphasizes lev, the heart. It tells us that those who contributed to the Mishkan did so out of generosity—”Kol nidvat libo”—”all whose hearts were moved shall bring it, the gift, to Hashem.”
Now, grammatically speaking, there’s something interesting happening here. The verse talks about bringing it—singular. But if the “gift” is all these expensive raw materials, why is the Torah using the singular form? The S’fat Emet (Rabbi Yehuda Aryeh Alter) suggests a powerful reading: The true gift isn’t the physical materials at all. It’s the heart behind them.
But what does it really mean to “offer your heart”? In Western culture, we tend to think of the heart as the seat of emotions—love, passion, desire. But in ancient Jewish thought, the heart (lev) was also associated with wisdom and discernment. That’s why when the Torah talks about the artisans who build the Mishkan, it calls them chachmei lev—literally, “wise-hearted.” The message? The best builders aren’t just technically skilled. They bring a depth of understanding. They infuse their work with sacred intention.
This week’s parsha reveals a profound truth — the path to building a dwelling for Hashem begins not with skill alone, but with wisdom of the heart, what some may refer to as “emotional intelligence.” This sacred quality is named as the defining trait of Betzalel, Oholiav, and those entrusted to create the Tabernacle — a space for Hashem to dwell among us. Centuries later, King Solomon — the wisest of all — was gifted this very quality, a heart of wisdom and understanding, to fulfill his destiny in building the First Temple.
This wisdom of the heart transcends intellect; it is the deep spiritual awareness that aligns us with Hashem’s presence. It’s the quiet strength that allows us to create sanctuaries — in our homes, our communities, and within ourselves — where holiness can reside.
Now, let’s zoom out for a second. Last week’s parsha, Ki Tissa, was all about the Golden Calf. That, too, was a community project. That, too, involved donations of gold. But the difference? The direction of the heart. In Ki Tissa, the people acted out of fear and impulse. They just wanted something tangible, something to hold onto. But in Vayakhel, the same people—having gone through failure, punishment, and repentance—redirect their hearts toward something holier. The Mishkan is their second chance, a physical manifestation of their desire to reconnect with God.
It’s a powerful contrast: the Golden Calf was born out of panic. The Mishkan was built with intention. When people gather, they can build an idol, or they can build a sanctuary. The difference is in the heart. That “wise heart” is more than just an individual trait—it’s the lifeblood of any healthy society, any sacred mission. It’s about stepping away from ego and placing yourself in service to something greater. It’s about recognizing the larger narrative of your life, your context, and knowing that real, lasting change doesn’t happen in quick, self-serving fixes. It requires commitment, patience, and an organic process that builds something greater than just personal gratification.
And here’s where things get personal. If the Mishkan is a dwelling place for Hashem then the real question is: Where does Hashem dwell in you? The Torah isn’t just giving us construction specs for an ancient sanctuary—it’s handing us a blueprint for our soul. The Mishkan isn’t just a structure. It’s a process. The real work isn’t in the materials; it’s in transforming ourselves into vessels worthy of holiness.
And what does Hashem say at the end of all this? “Don’t give Me your heart—make a space for Me inside it.”
So, what are we building? What are we channeling our energy, our gifts, our wisdom into? Because the choice isn’t abstract. It’s daily. It’s real. And it’s in our hands. That’s the challenge. That’s the invitation. Not just to build a sanctuary in the desert, but to construct our inner sanctuary—day by day, moment by moment, offering up the best of ourselves, with wisdom, with passion, and with intention.
*
Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D., prepares a weekly D’var Torah for Young Israel of San Diego, where he and his family are members. They are also active members of Congregation Adat Yeshurun.