Parshas Pekudei 5784
“Why wasn’t I invited to the wedding? I’ve davened one row behind them for years. Our kids have been in class together since nursery. We co-chaired the PTA event last spring. How could they be so cold and unfriendly? “
So you call an old friend and share your tale of woe. What a snub! Where’s their sense of community? Their basic middos?
And your friend reminds you, “Last month, I called you with almost the same issue. And remember what you told me? You don’t know anyone else’s finances, maybe they’re really on a budget, have limited invites. Maybe they’re just harried by all that has be done and just overlooked it.”
“That was different,” you say.
Was it really?
Parshas Pekudei provides a reckoning of all the money in and all the money out. After completing the construction of the Mishkan, the books are made public for all to see. Here’s what was donated, and here’s what was spent. Complete transparency. Well, almost.
As we begin moving down the list of precious metals collected for the capital campaign, we find an interesting distinction between the gold and silver that had been donated. A complete accounting is provided for the silver—both what was raised and also what it was used to construct. But there’s less transparency when it comes to the gold. We’re told how much was raised, but not what was then made from it.
Rav Yehonasan Eybeschitz explains that the distinction lies in where each asset came from. The campaign to raise the necessary silver was supported by the nation in its entirety; every single man donated a silver half-shekel to the cause. The gold on the other hand was sponsored only by the nedivei lev—the generous few who wanted to go above and beyond the call of duty.
Where the entire nation was concerned, surely there would be those who would demand a detailed account of how every last half-shekel would be spent. But among the most magnanimous, the self-selecting group of those who decided to donate gold out of their own generosity, there would be no such demand. The generosity of spirit that motivated them to donate in the first place would not permit the sort questioning and suspicion that would demand a public record of every penny spent.
Indeed, some people are more trusting, others more skeptical. But where were the skeptical folks when it came to the gold? Granted, they may not have donated to the cause personally, but why should that change the demand for transparency? If what’s at stake is fairness and honesty, why not insist on a full reckoning of all the gold spent with the same urgency as the silver, whether they had contributed or not?
Because much of what actually lies beneath the surface of alleged righteous indignation may actually be personal, vested interest. And that doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you a person. And people are complex. No individual, no matter how righteous, can provide testimony in a Bais Din for a case involving a family member is a litigant. No judge, no matter how holy, may adjudicate if he’s received special favor from one of the two litigants.
So what’s the path forward? Are we never permitted to call out unfairness or mistreatment simply because we may be personally involved? Are we necessarily wrong to make a demand that others behave with propriety if we would personally benefit from that changed behavior?
The story of the gold and silver donations to the Mishkan may help construct a worthwhile exercise to perform when we find ourselves in this situation. If I find myself insisting that the books be opened on the donations of silver for all to see, let me ask myself in all honesty: “Am I making the same demands for the gold donations? Why not?”
In other words, before I go off on the insensitivity of the baalei simcha for not inviting me, let me ask myself: Have I ever complained so adamantly before on behalf of someone else being snubbed? When my friend called me with the same complaint last month, was I as hot and bothered as I am now over the injustice of the whole thing, or did I see all the ways in which that behavior was actually excusable?
If a neighbor seems to invite everyone but me for a Shabbos meal, didn’t come to the shiur I hosted, or committed any other one of life’s regular offenses, how did I react relative to when something similar happened to someone else? Was I equally horrified by the affront they’d suffered, or was my response more measured when I wasn’t the one slighted?
When we find ourselves getting hot and bothered by others’ behavior, we can pause for a moment and consider what our response would have been if it happened to someone else instead. Would we be equally passionate and offended by the disrespect, dishonesty, or show of poor character? Or would we brush it off as being largely excusable and try to talk our offended friend off the ledge?
A moment of honest reflection can sometimes bring clarity and calm to a situation. “I’ve never made such a fuss over someone else’s gold. Why am I only doing so for my own silver?”