Everyone Has Something to Contribute

In Parshat Terumah, something quite radical happens. Every single person is invited to help build the Mishkan. Not just leaders, artisans, or the wealthy, but everyone. Gold and silver, copper and wool, skills and time. A wide range of materials and services are requested, because the Mishkan was never meant to be built by one type of person alone. It was meant to be built by a community.

What’s striking is that the Torah doesn’t rank the contributions. It doesn’t tell us whose gift mattered more. The Mishkan stood not because of one spectacular donation, but because many people showed up and gave what they could.

That idea speaks powerfully to life itself.

We often underestimate our value because we compare ourselves to others. Someone else seems to have more resources, more talent, more influence. We start asking: What can I possibly add? What difference would my contribution make? And sometimes, because of those questions, we do nothing at all.

As the famous Warren Buffet often says, we regret the things we didn’t do more than the things we did. The missed opportunities. The moments we held back because we thought we weren’t enough.

Parshat Terumah reminds us that contribution isn’t about quantity, it’s about participation. Being part of something bigger than yourself. Offering what you have, not what you wish you had.

At times, it’s easy to feel lost. Unsure of how we fit in, or how our presence improves the spaces we move through. But the very fact that we exist is proof that we are needed. Why exactly, or how, we may not always know. Sometimes clarity only comes in hindsight. And sometimes it never comes at all.

Still, a life lived with intention, to help, to build, to leave the world a little better than we found it, has immense power. When we see our lives as a mission rather than a performance, contribution becomes natural. Even small acts take on meaning.

The Mishkan was a physical space for holiness. Our world is no different. It is waiting for what only you can bring.

Who Is a Good Person, Really?

Parshat Mishpatim is striking in its simplicity. After the thunder and revelation of Sinai, the Torah turns its attention away from dramatic moments and focuses instead on interpersonal law, how people treat one another in everyday life. Money, responsibility, damages, disputes. No miracles, no spectacle, just life as it is lived day to day. And perhaps that is the point.

We often associate goodness with image. The way someone speaks, dresses, carries themselves, or the persona they project to the world. But Mishpatim quietly asks a different and more challenging question. What really makes a good person?

Is it how someone presents when things are calm and comfortable, or how they behave when life becomes inconvenient and demanding?

Most of us recognise the experience. You are stuck in traffic, someone cuts you off, patience disappears, and suddenly words or reactions emerge that do not align with who you believe yourself to be. Afterwards there is a pause, sometimes even a sense of discomfort, and the question arises, was that really me?

Moments like these raise deeper questions. If someone loses their temper under pressure, are they suddenly a bad person? If a person finds it difficult to give charity, does that define them negatively? And if I give charity, does that automatically make me a good person?

Judaism offers a nuanced and honest answer. Mishpatim does not define goodness by intention alone, nor by isolated acts of virtue. Instead, it places holiness in consistency, in how we act when it costs us something, when no one is watching, and when there is friction, inconvenience, or financial consequence.

Spiritual growth is not proven only in prayer or moments of inspiration. It is revealed in how we handle responsibility, conflict, and commitment. It shows up in contracts that are honoured, obligations that are upheld, patience that is exercised, and dignity that is preserved even when it would be easier to act otherwise.

Of course, we all make mistakes. We all go through periods of stress, fatigue, and pressure that can bring out sides of ourselves we are not proud of. Judaism does not deny this. It allows for failure, growth, and return. But it also insists on reflection.

From time to time, each of us must pause and ask ourselves who we really are, what we stand for, and whether we are living by the values we claim to hold. Are we contributing to society not just by existing within it, but by actively making a positive difference?

A good person is not someone who never stumbles. A good person is someone who strives for integrity across the whole of life, in public and in private, in moments of inspiration and in moments of inconvenience.

Mishpatim reminds us that holiness is not found only in grand or dramatic moments, but in the quiet, often unglamorous choices we make each day. It is those choices, repeated over time, that shape who we become.

What Is a Good Life?

What does a good life actually look like?

Is it lying on the beach with nothing to do? Sitting on the couch watching movies? Playing video games, shopping, eating and drinking? Just having free, unstructured, unbridled fun and pleasure?

All of these things can be enjoyable for a time. But eventually something happens. The novelty wears off. The enjoyment fades. What once felt exciting starts to feel empty, or at best insufficient.

It seems that a truly good life requires more than pleasure alone. We need a balance of structure and freedom, effort and rest, work and play, social connection and purpose. We also need something deeper, a sense of spirituality and connection that anchors us beyond the physical and the momentary. Without that inner dimension, even a full life can still feel hollow.

The same is true for society. For a society to function, there must be structure and shared rules that protect everyone within it. Laws create trust, and trust allows people to live together without constant fear or suspicion.

A simple example is traffic lights. We stop at a red light not because stopping is enjoyable, but because we trust the system. When my light is green, I can drive through the intersection with confidence, knowing the cars coming from the other direction will stop. Then the light changes and I stop so others can go. That structure allows everyone to reach their destination safely and efficiently.

If there were no rules and no structure, if everyone simply did what pleased them, life would quickly become chaotic and unsafe. No one could truly coexist. Ironically, the absence of limits would not create freedom, but suffering.

This idea comes through powerfully in this week’s parsha. The Jewish people receive the Ten Commandments engraved on the tablets, along with the broader framework of mitzvot that form the foundation of Jewish life and, in many ways, the moral foundation of Western civilisation. These laws are not only about order, but about shaping a life of meaning, responsibility, and connection to something greater than ourselves.

There is a well-known story of a person who came to Hillel the Elder and asked him to teach the entire Torah while standing on one foot. Hillel replied, “What you do not like, do not do to others. The rest is commentary. Go and learn.” At its core, Torah is about how we relate to one another and how we live with awareness, empathy, and spiritual sensitivity.

At times, structure can feel frustrating. We do not always like being told no. We may want to rush through the red light to get where we are going faster. But those limits exist not to restrict life, but to protect it. They dramatically increase the chances that we actually arrive alive, intact, and able to continue the journey.

A good life is not one without boundaries. It is one where structure, purpose, spirituality, and connection come together to create space for meaning, growth, and lasting fulfilment.

And perhaps that is the deeper message. True freedom is not doing whatever we want in the moment. It is living in a way that allows us, and those around us, to truly thrive.