In 1831, long before President Trump, a 26 year-old Frenchman named Alexis de Tocqueville was very interested in what made America great. He was sent by the French king to the newly formed United States of America to observe the institutions of our nascent democracy. He wrote:
“I sought for the key to the greatness and genius of America... in her harbors... fertile fields and boundless forests; in her public school system and institutions of learning. I sought for it in her democratic Congress and in her matchless Constitution. Not until I went into the churches of America and heard her pulpits flame with righteousness did I understand the secret of her genius and power. Religion in America...must be regarded as the foremost of the political institutions of that country; for if it does not impart a taste for freedom, it facilitates the use of it.”
De Tocqueville, himself a devout Catholic, was surprised to discover this. Religion in America was something different from religion anywhere else, certainly his native France, in many ways: It was not established by the state, it was separate from the political process, and it was ecumenical, with many different forms of faith existing side by side.
These unique qualities of religion in America were the core building blocks of something else that was uniquely American, what de Tocqueville called "associations,” and what we call school boards, Elk Lodges, Rotary Clubs, and other institutions of civil society. The community-based values inherent in a society based on principles of religious freedom allowed these associations to flourish, and they formed the bedrock of America’s greatness.
Which brings us to this week’s Torah portion.
Vayakhel Moshe at kol adat benei yisrael - And Moshe congregated the entire Jewish people to finally build the mishkan.
This vayakhel, this gathering of a community, for the purpose of making an association, using de Tocqueville’s words, is the second use of the root qof hey lamed in two weeks. Just last week we read vayikahel ha’am al Aharon - the nation gathered onto Aaron… to get him to build the golden calf.
Two gatherings, two parshiot, two consecutive stories of a people coming together. Both use the same verb; both involve the donation of goods; both involve the people and the leaders of the Jewish people; both might even involve gold thrown into fire that emerges into a shape (the calf and later, in a midrash cited by Rashi, the menorah).
These are gatherings with profound parallels, yet as this midrash from Tehillim shows, they are actually worlds apart:
Saneiti kahal Mirei’im I hate the gathering of evildoers.” (Tehillim 26, 5) What is a gathering of evildoers? “The people gathered on Aharon,” (Shmot 32, 1) in the act of the [sin of the golden] calf. And which gathering do I like? “Moshe gathered the whole congregation of the Children of Israel.” (Shmot 35,1). (Midrash Tehillim (Buber) Mizmor 26, 4)
Associations, groups, even from the context of religious community, can be both good and bad. And though the kahal, or congregation, of Korach, which we will read about later in the Torah, was perhaps more devious, I would argue that kahal of the golden calf was the worst, the most shameful, embarrassing one for us as a nation.
When we step back, the whole episode seems so ridiculous. How could the Jewish people have deluded themselves into worshipping a golden calf?
How could they point to a statue made by their own hands from their own jewelry and say, “This is the God that took you from Egypt?”
Really? How could they say that after experiencing God’s voice at Mt. Sinai, the manna, the victory with Amalek, the splitting of the sea, the ten plagues—all of which the God of Israel, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, their God had done for them in the last few months?
Furthermore, how could a golden calf that didn’t even exist a day ago have taken you out of Egypt? And what’s the plan with this new God anyway? Let’s see…you’re in the desert, you had a big party and worshipped a statue of gold, and now... what? How are you going to make it to the promised land? How are you going to make it through the desert? How is that idol going to feed you tomorrow?
The idolatrous king of the Khazars in Rabbi Yehuda haLevi’s commentary the Kuzari mocks the Jewish people for this episode. How could this supposedly wise and righteous nation fall for something so stupid?
Rabbi Yehuda haLevi, a 12th-century Spanish philosopher and poet, tries to explain. He responds that the Jewish people did not set out to worship this avodah zara, this idolatry. Rather, they were worried after Moshe had not returned, they were desperate to feel God’s presence, and they wanted to feel something that would bring the certainty and clarity of God’s presence back to their lives. The Rambam in the Mishne Torah adds that, after living in Egypt for so long, idol worship was simply what they had been used to.
It’s a little more understandable. In a new and uncertain environment, with a leader who is perceived to be unresponsive and disconnected from your needs, people tend to turn to something familiar and comforting, even if it doesn’t make sense. We turn to the luster of gold. After years of deprivation, we turn towards the lure of entitlement.
We turn to a familiar icon that makes no demands on us ethically or spiritually, an icon that encourages us to revel in our base lusts and desires, without shame, in the safety of a mob. Though it may seem absurd to us today, the gathering of the golden calf was powerful. It spoke to profound desires within the souls of those who worshipped around it.
But just because something speaks deeply to the soul, doesn’t mean it’s right or that it can last. The gathering of the golden calf was short lived, because Moshe came down and destroyed it. But even if he hadn’t, it would have failed anyway.
Though the kahal, the group, was united in their momentary desire, at a deeper level, they were profoundly fractured.
The Gemara in Sanhedrin notes that the Torah writes that when the people said: vayomru Yisrael: eleh eloheicha asher he-e-lucha, the verb he-e-lucha is in the plural. The people were not worshipping one but many false gods – among them were the false god of greed and the false god of gold.
This was a mob made up of people looking for all different kinds of things, and while mobs unite massive numbers of people for a short time, they can’t be channeled into lasting associations, into good, sustainable communities. Anger, lust, and desire, though they burn brightly, burn out, leaving the charred remains of relationships and community behind.
The Yerushalmi Masechet Shekalim notes that when it came to providing the resources to build the golden calf, vayitparku kol ha’am - everyone was involved. And when the mishkan, the dwelling place for the Torah, is finally built in our parasha, it says it was built by-“kol nidvei lev” all those who had a generous heart. This is a much smaller group. A smaller association, a smaller kahal, that managed to focus their strengths and energies on something that would last.
Instead of a center of gold they built something with a center of rock—two rocks inscribed with words including don’t steal, don’t kill, keep Shabbat, don’t covet. That association built a mishkan that guided the people for 40 years and brought a nation to the promised land. That kahal helped lay the foundation for a relationship between a people and God. A relationship founded on veshamru derech hashem, laasot tzedaka umishpat - on guarding God’s way to do righteousness and justice, a relationship that has shaped who we are from that time until this one.
This is the real difference between the kahal, the association, of the egel, the calf, and that of the mishkan, the Tabernacle. One was a coming together of the masses, bound by momentary feelings of anger, despair, and desire. The second, smaller but stronger one in our parasha, of building the mishkan, was the coming together of the people grounded in goodness, long-term commitment, and shared ethical values.
The Torah’s teachings about the power of groups rooted in ethics and faith were true 5000 years ago in the desert, in the time of De Tocqueville, and today. They are true in our Jewish communal lives and in our American, civic lives.
A few months ago we elected President Trump who promised to “Make America Great Again.” What might American greatness actually mean? For De Tocqueville, the answer is simple. He is quoted as saying: “America is great because America is good, and if America ever ceases to be good, America will cease to be great.” That’s something of which we all can, and must, be a part. And those of us of faith must be vigilant to live out our spiritual values in the public sphere. Not as demagogues or fanatics, but as humble servants of God doing our best to actualize God’s values in this world, values like justice, family, compassion, loyalty, holiness, protection of the vulnerable, and more.
We cannot hand over the responsbility for a good society to politicians. We must build it ourselves, with our own hands. We do it when we visit the sick, honor those who sacrificed for us, listen to our neighbors, argue respectfully, and so many other ways. When we do this, giving our time and our resources to each other in these ways, we become nadivei lev, people of generous heart. These hearts unite to build good institutions, good communities, good cities, good states, and, ultimately, a good nation.
May our relationship with God inspire us to strive for goodness, and through that goodness may we achieve greatness.