Ashdod, Israel – 19th February, 2026
By Shuva Israel Editorial Team | Based on the Shiur on Parshat Terumah & The Essence of Adar delivered by Rabbi Moshe Pinto Shlita
The atmosphere in the study hall was electric, marked by a palpable sense of reunion. As our Teacher and Master returned to the podium after an involuntary absence, the message he delivered was not merely a commentary on the weekly Torah portion, but a manifesto for the Jewish soul entering the month of Adar.
Standing at the nexus of winter and spring, the Rabbi presented a profound thesis: The construction of the Tabernacle (Mishkan) is not a deviation from the spiritual narrative of the Exodus, but the ultimate test of the human condition. It is here, among beams of acacia and sockets of silver, that we discover the “Market Day of Heaven”—a unique opportunity where the material and the spiritual do not just meet, but collide and fuse.
The Great Transition: From Miracles to Masonry
For weeks, the Torah reading has been a sequence of supernatural fireworks: the Ten Plagues, the Splitting of the Sea, the revelation at Sinai. But with Parshat Terumah, the tone shifts abruptly. We move from epic narrative to technical blueprints. We read of gold, silver, copper, and dyed wool.
The Rabbi posited that this shift represents the primary examination of the Jew. It is easy to believe in God when the sea splits. It is much harder to find Him in the mundane act of fundraising and construction. Citing the masters of Chassidus, the Rabbi explained that Parshat Terumah is a “heavenly trade fair.” It is the moment we are asked to transmute our physical assets—our very life force and wealth—into a dwelling place for the Divine.
The Mystery of Purim and the Broken Tablets
To understand the spiritual mechanics of this season, the Rabbi wove a complex tapestry connecting the upcoming holiday of Purim with the tragedies of Jewish history. He cited a perplexing passage from the Talmud (Megillah) regarding Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi (Rebbi). The Talmud recounts that Rebbi planted a sapling on Purim and bathed in the marketplace of Tzippori on the 17th of Tammuz—a fast day mourning the breach of Jerusalem’s walls.
Why would the codifier of the Mishnah seemingly uproot the laws of mourning?
The answer, the Rabbi explained, lies in the power of Purim. The 17th of Tammuz is the day the Tablets of the Law were shattered—the day “forgetfulness of Torah” descended upon the world. Before the tablets broke, the connection to the Divine was visual and immediate; afterwards, it required laborious study and memory.
Rebbi understood that Purim possesses a light so intense it can retroactively repair the breakage of the Tablets. By engaging in joy and planting on Purim, Rebbi was tapping into a spiritual energy that nullifies the very concept of mourning and forgetfulness. He taught us that if a person plants the seeds of their year properly in Adar—with joy, intent, and generosity—they can override the decrees of sadness that usually plague the summer months.
Two Archetypes: The Scholar and The Builder
A central tension in the sermon was the role of the individual within the collective. The Rabbi analyzed a subtle redundancy in the opening verse of the portion: “Speak to the Children of Israel… and let them take for Me a portion.” Why speak to everyone if only some will give?
Here, the Rabbi offered a piercing sociological insight. The Jewish people have historically been divided into two camps: the spiritual elite (Issachar), whose vocation is Torah study, and the mercantile class (Zevulun), whose vocation is material support.
The tragedy of the human condition, the Rabbi noted, is envy. The scholar sits in the study hall but dreams of the merchant’s wealth; the merchant sits in his office but envies the scholar’s spiritual accolades.
The Torah’s command to “Speak to the Children of Israel” is a directive to define one’s identity. God tells Moses: Do not blur the lines. There are those whose job is to speak and learn, and there are those, the “generous of heart,” whose job is to take and give. The first time in history where these roles were strictly delineated was at the construction of the Mishkan.
The Rabbi’s message was one of radical self-acceptance. We must stop looking sideways at our neighbor’s spiritual or material portion. If your role is to build, build with holiness. If your role is to study, study with intensity. The sanctity of the Mishkan—and of the community—relies on the “donors” feeling no shame in their role, and the “scholars” feeling no arrogance in theirs.
The Head, The Heel, and The Tree of Knowledge
Perhaps the most striking segment of the lecture was an anthropological journey through the “Body of Adam.” The Rabbi explained that all souls are sparks derived from the first human, Adam HaRishon.
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The Patriarchs (Abraham, Isaac, Jacob) were souls from the Head. They were intellectuals, navigating the world through profound thought and consciousness.
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Our Generation, the generation immediately preceding the Messiah (Ikvei Meshicha), are souls from the Heel.
This distinction is not an insult, but a strategic directive. The sin of the Tree of Knowledge was a sin of the intellect. Adam and Eve rationalized a command of God. They thought too much. Therefore, the tikun (repair) for the “Heel Generation” is the opposite of the “Head.” We are not tasked with outsmarting the world. We are tasked with simple faith and action.
The heel cannot look backward; it can only move forward. The heel cannot turn its “face” around. While the head can pivot, the heel is locked in its direction. Our generation’s power lies in our stubborn refusal to over-intellectualize our faith. When we simply “do”—when we give charity, keep Shabbat, or pray despite not feeling like spiritual giants—we achieve a rectification that the Patriarchs could not.
The Reward is in the Struggle
The Rabbi concluded with a comforting and powerful psychological principle regarding reward and punishment. We often feel disheartened because our service of God feels heavy, laden with struggle and devoid of the ecstatic joy we imagine the righteous feel.
“Do not be fooled,” the Rabbi urged. The greatest reward is reserved not for the natural saint, but for the one who fights for every inch of ground.
In the first year of the Exodus, the Jews celebrated Purim (the miracle) with a “day of feasting and joy.” In the second year, after the golden calf and the struggles in the desert, they only exchanged gifts. The joy was gone. Yet, Mordechai established the law for all generations based on that second, harder year. Why? Because the service of God that is performed amidst difficulty, amidst the “dryness” of the soul, is the service that endures.
As we enter Adar, we are asked to be the “Generous of Heart.” Not because it is easy, but because we are the Heels of history—the final generation pushing forward through the mud, carrying the weight of the structure, and ultimately, bringing the redemption through our simple, stubborn determination to do good.
This shiur was dedicated to the elevation of the souls of the righteous women of our community, Ahuva bat Esther and Dalia bat Esther, may their memory be a blessing.
