When our hearts are moved we’re inclined to do so much. It’s just as our Torah portion opens in Exodus 25, “Tell the Israelite people to bring Me Gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved.” Torah commentaries explain that even one person whose heart was moved sufficiently could have brought everything necessary for building the Mishkan, which God commanded to be built. But, as we know, everybody contributed.

Though many building projects and other needs have been met by volunteers whose hearts are moved, there are limits to what we can bring. There are those with much, and they should be moved to give more than others. There are those who give what they can, and they fulfill the mitzvah, meaningfully. There are those who give a little, and it means they are part of community building, too.

But what happens when our hearts are exhausted, spent, and torn up? It’s not an unfamiliar feeling when elation turns to misery, and when anticipation turns to despair. News out of Israel has filled us with all these feelings and many more. I know people who can’t watch the news anymore and others who can’t get enough. I know people who give more to Israel now than ever before, and others who are giving for the first time. I know people who are traveling to Israel to make a difference where they can, and others who are unable to go but make a difference from home. You know all of these people, too. You might be one of them or all of them, too.

The only group that I haven’t noted is the one that stands idly or indifferently. They are there, too. There are times when we can be frozen in our tracks because we’re overwhelmed with information or issues. Rather than finding a way, we find there’s no way to do all of it, so it’s safer to do none of it. But in Judaism, doing nothing is never an option. The Mishkan is a perfect example. Everybody whose heart was moved, not just by inspiration, but also by breath and blood and muscle, was expected to participate. If you were alive then you were expected to adhere to the community’s obligation to build.

In Judaism, living means doing. Judaism is a religion of action that demands a response from us. It doesn’t have to be large, but it has to make a difference. Many teachings have explained how to give and when to give, but no teaching excludes any individual. Even a person with a selah of flour, according to text, has something to offer.

I know and understand how tired one can be after the emotional trauma our people has experienced since October 7th. But it’s nothing compared to what individuals have known, personally, after they endured captivity or feared for their loved ones held hostage. And nothing compares to the families whose loved ones died at the hands of savage terrorists. Whatever our angst, it’s time to dig a little deeper into our hearts and find a way to respond. It’s time to respond with whatever our hearts are able to do, today, and again, tomorrow. The Jewish people has endured but not by the grace of God, alone; it has always been by the will of the people whose hearts were moved.

If you want to learn a little Hebrew, then learn these words, “Ein Eretz Acheret,” there is no other land; that is, there is no other country but Israel for Israelis and those seeking the Jewish homeland. If your heart is beating but it’s not moved, then repeat these words to yourself. Come to know the difference you can make, alone, or even better, with the community. It’s time to build, again. It’s time to strengthen our people, “mei chayyil l’chayyil,” from strength to greater strength.

L’Shalom,