Sermon: Buildings and the Complexity of Congregational Life

Written by Rabbi Josh Levy — 27 February 2021

Read the Torah portions of Terumah and T’tzaveh, the instructions for the great Israelite building project of the tabernacle, and one word will stand out by its repetition. ‘V’asitah’ – you, singular, shall build.
Colin read for us today a section beginning ‘v’asitah mizbeach’ – you, singular, shall build an altar.

Throughout the two portions, almost everything that is to be made begins with that word – ‘v’asitah’ – you, singular, shall build.  Ultimately this project of building is an instruction to Moses to get it done. And he does so, as we discover a little later, through a process of delegation to those with the skill to do it well – to Bezalel and Oholiav who are tasked with the building itself.

I said almost everything. There are two instructions in the plural. The very first: ‘v’asu li mikdash’ – let them make me a sanctuary. Even though this project is to be carried out by individuals, this is a communal project – one that is to be led by leaders, acting on behalf of all, with the contributions of everybody who is moved to do so.

And at the very heart of the physical tabernacle is a single communal instruction – ‘v’asu aron’ – they shall make an ark. Though the building of the physical infrastructure is to be done for the people, not everything can be done for them – they are still responsible for their own religious lives whatever happens around them.

* * *

One way of analysing, of understanding what I’ve just described, is as a ‘congregational polarity’ (though this certainly isn’t language that Moses would have recognised).

It is an idea taken from theory about congregational management, on which there are a surprisingly large number of books (for those who I have welcomed into my study over zoom over the last year, they live on my management and leadership shelf which is just over my right hand shoulder).

The idea of managing polarities is that any substantial synagogue, church, place of worship will find itself holding opposing but equally important concepts: core ideas pulling in opposite directions. These polarities have the potential to contribute to growth or decline, to be held in discussion or in conflict.

For example, synagogues hold ideas of both ‘in-reach and outreach’ ‘tradition and innovation’ ‘strong professional leadership and strong lay leadership’, and so on. Each with their own upsides and downsides, with balance between them a constant task.

According to the main book on the subject: “Congregations often find themselves in power struggles over the two poles of a polarity. People on each side assume that if they are right, their opponents must be wrong… [But] when people argue about two truths, both sides will be right, and they need each other to experience the whole truth”.

Returning to the great Israelite building project, the text is trying to hold two poles, two truths, in balance.  In fact, it is an example of what I would argue is the classic, and most difficult, of all congregation polarities: ‘V’asitah’ – ‘you shall build’ – Moses, get this job done.  We need leaders to make decisions, to get things done, to take responsibility; ‘V’asu’ – ‘they shall build’ – but at the same time, remember, this belongs to all of us, all of us are invested, all of us matter. The interdependent poles of communal ownership and of leadership in one text.

It is a polarity that every large congregation holds – as soon as it is large enough that not everyone can be involved in every decision. And it is a polarity that accompanies any leader, accompanies Moses on his journey, finding its culmination in the challenge of Korach, who sees only one pole.

* * *

One of the reasons that the language of polarities is helpful, is that it recognises something which our tradition has always known – that we can both be right.  That truths can be in tension. As the Danish physicist Niels Bohr put it so beautifully, “[While] the opposite of a correct statement is a false statement… the opposite of a profound truth may be another profound truth.”

This is one of the defining features of our texts – our tradition holds truths that directly contradict one another.

This morning we read from the Prophet Ezekiel, in our haftarah, “This is the place of My throne and the place for the soles of My feet, where I will dwell in the midst of the people Israel forever”. Ezekiel’s truth is that we need physical space to have a sense of grounded-ness for our religious life.

But, if I had been feeling more subversive, I could have chosen a different haftarah. At the other pole, the Prophet Isaiah, in direct contradiction, states, “The heaven is My throne And the earth is My footstool: What house could you build for Me? What place could serve as My abode?”

Of course, to our tradition (and the underlying idea of managing polarities) is that they are both truths: buildings are important, and buildings are limiting; focus on physical space runs the risk of ignoring the greater purpose of our religious life as well as creating fixities that bind future generations.  Isaiah is right – what an act of folly, what an act of religious chutzpah.

But worrying only about what we do and not where we do it?  This ignores the importance of gathering, of creating a place which is dedicated for communal life, which feels special and beautiful, where, as Ezekiel states, God can dwell in our midst.

* * *

It’s probably time for me to stop pretending that I am not talking about the Alyth building.

There is a wonderful coincidence that tomorrow morning, having read the portions of Terumah and T’tzaveh, we will meet as a community to either approve or to call time on our building project.

There are many ways in which the trajectory of our project differs. For the Israelites, there was no argument over the colour of the hangings, or where to put the walls. Disagreements about floor plans are much easier to handle when you are presented with one by the divine architect.

But our text gives us this wonderful gift, this wonderful insight:  even in the Israelite project, balancing truths was part of their reality.

And of course it has been for us too.

Like the Israelites, we have heard the truth of Ezekiel: the voice that says physical space is fundamental to our religious life; that it matters that we have a space that is special, a space to pray that feels sacred, a building that people will come to. In fact, it is important to remember that this was one of the driving forces that began the process of looking at our building back in 2012 when many of those who were praying in the Leo Baeck or Youth Halls articulated their need for spiritual space.

And we also hear another voice, the other voice is not ignored – the voice of Isaiah, that said, ‘Don’t worry about bricks and mortar – what matters in congregational life is what we do, not where we do it’. I know that there are still members of this community who do not believe that we should be building at all despite everything we now also know about the state of the building.

We’ve heard both these truths, both these polarities to balance.  To reflect both has taken a long time, found us trying to balance, to build, but in a way that has an eye to the future, that doesn’t create a burden on future generations, that also allows investment in programmes, in people, in what we do as well as where we do it.

* * *

And this is not the only polarity we share with the Israelites.  Even more than them, we feel the polarity of v’asitah and v’asu.

It is the great Alyth polarity. It is more real here than in any other community I have worked in, or encountered:

‘V’asitah’ – ‘you shall build’ – as a community we appoint leaders to make decisions, to get things done, to take responsibility and we demand of them that they do so;
And then we say to them:  ‘V’asu’ – ‘they shall build’ –  at the same time, you have to do what we say, because it belongs to us.

It’s why this has taken eight years of conversation, across hundreds of hours of meetings and community consultations – as we have faced the question of whether to build, and then hundreds of small, difficult, necessary compromises. Choices between different goods that come whenever resources are limited – which they are. And the challenges whenever a community of thousands of people with different needs, different preferences, different priorities come together.

* * *

One of the joys of Torah for me is that it holds this kind of subtlety.  It doesn’t suggest life is simple.  It recognises complexity; it recognises the reality of difference, of argument, of different voices, of poles in tension; it presents to us the pragmatism necessary to make things happen; and the challenge of hard choices.

What can we learn from Teruman and T’tzaveh?  Building projects, it turns out, are complicated. Even divinely ordained ones.

And of course congregational life is complicated. Even thriving communities are full of competing, interdependent truths.

V’asitah and V’asu:  No-one pretends that this stuff is straightforward: questions of leadership, ownership, decision making.  No-one pretends that this is straightforward, that it doesn’t involve compromises – even when God is involved.

Our tradition teaches us that we can say ‘You’re right’, and ‘You’re right’.  But ultimately whether in the singular or the plural, whether in bricks or in programmes, whether we all like the plans or not, the imperative is to build.

After years of balancing truths, tomorrow we need to decide how to respond to that demand.