Wiz Acquisition, World Happiness Report and the Creative Spirit of Tabernacle building: Pekudei
- Dr Tanya White
- Mar 25
- 6 min read
Updated: Mar 26
Change is a frightening concept. We gravitate towards the familiar—the routine, the ordinary, the comforting rituals of our daily lives because change threatens the sense of stability we cling to, the assured place and space we inhabit. Charles Darwin once said, “It is not the strongest or the most intelligent who will survive, but those who can best manage change.” Our ability to adapt to shifting circumstances is what makes us stronger and more resilient. That has been the story of the Jewish people. Time and again, our survival has depended on our willingness—and capacity—to face change with courage, and to transform in response.
Change requires creativity. It presupposes the ability to imagine something beyond what currently exists—to see past the given and adapt accordingly. But what many fail to recognise is that the greatest change, and the most profound creativity, often emerge from within a framework of constraints.
Many contemporary thinkers view religion as archaic and outdated. They argue that it stunts creativity and stifles the individual’s capacity for growth and flourishing. I recently came across an article by Connor Wood, a young but burgeoning scholar of religion, who claims that religious life, by its very nature, suppresses creative thinking. The energy required to maintain ritual, conformity, and community, he suggests, leaves little space for radical imagination or original thought. Yes, he concedes, religion may offer emotional grounding and a sense of belonging—but he doubts its power to inspire bold innovation. “I’d love to be both emotionally stable and wildly creative,” he writes, “but we have to make sacrifices in one realm to advance in the other.”(Religion and Creativity: A Follow-Up, Patheos, 2013)
But I want to ask Mr Wood this: Do we really need to sacrifice one over the other? Is there no way to have both? I would boldly contend that we can actually have our cake and eat it and I’ll give you two reasons for my thinking:
The model of the Mishkan, as seen in this week’s parsha.
The story of the Jewish people and our survival.
Let’s begin with the Mishkan:
Connor’s dilemma—his longing to marry stability with creativity—is not a modern problem. It is the perennial human condition that is noted from man’s inception in the book of Genesis and plays out dramatically in this week’s parsha.
Parshat Vayakhel-Pekudei details the construction of the Mishkan. The people are afraid—the familiar has been shattered, and before them lies the wilderness, the unknown. Having been freed from physical bondage, they now search for a way to channel their unbridled freedom. The Golden Calf is born from this desire—a raw, impulsive expression of creativity without direction. In response, they are commanded to build the Mishkan—a sacred structure that gives shape, order, and purpose to that same creative impulse, WITHIN the boundaries of Divine command. No surprise then that in chapters 39 and 40 we are told 14 times ‘as the lord commanded’. The greatest religious act of human creativity is framed in the language of command.
In additions, the Mishkan narrative is deliberately framed by the laws of Shabbat:
Chapters 25–31 – Command to build the Mishkan
31:12–17 – Shabbat
Chapters 32–34 – The Golden Calf
35:1–3 – Shabbat
Chapters 35–40 – Construction of the Mishkan
This structure is no coincidence. The Talmud derives the 39 categories of melacha—creative work forbidden on Shabbat—from the labours used to build the Mishkan. Shabbat is not merely about rest, but about restraint. It is a spiritual counterbalance to human creativity. Unbounded creativity, as the episode of the Golden Calf reveals, can quickly spiral into chaos. The Mishkan, by contrast, channels that same impulse into sacred order.
But Shabbat is more than just a commentary on the importance of boundaries—it is also about connection. Connection to a transcendent system of law, to our people who unite in time every Friday night as they light Shabbat candles, and to the generations before and after us, all of whom sacrificed something to preserve this eternal palace in time.
When my grandfather refused to work on Shabbat in post-war London, even at the cost of a significant salary, or when Agam Berger meticulously tracked the days of the week while in captivity so she could honour Shabbat— they, along with millions throughout centuries of Jewish history, were not simply imposing arbitrary or outdated restrictions on themselves. They knew—perhaps not intellectually but intuitively—that Shabbat is their people’s portal of connection across the arc of time and space. On Shabbat, we enact the greatest act of creative imagination by envisioning a messianic reality before it arrives. By stepping away from the artificial boundaries imposed by societal hierarchies, industrial pressures, or technological culture, and instead entering into a Divine rhythm of time, we transcend the material limits of our world and touch eternity—within time itself.
Shabbat and the Tabernacle are connected through a focus on the creative gesture and its limitations. They both offer us a portal through which to access a dimension above the given, a dimension that connects us to our people and God. One in space, the other in time.
This is why Bezalel—whose name literally means “in the shadow of God”—was chosen to oversee the artistic design of the Mishkan. He is described as being filled with chochmah, tevunah, and da’at—wisdom, understanding, and knowledge. He is told to “think thoughts”—to imagine, to innovate, to create. And yet, he is also commanded: “They shall make all that I have commanded you.” How can he be a bold and visionary creator of change if he must remain subservient to divine instruction?
Because true creation means reshaping existing structures, imagining what does not yet exist. It requires not only creative action, but creative thought—an ability to move beyond the limitations and frameworks that life imposes. And yet, it also demands humility—the recognition that as human beings, we are limited and fallible.
Albert Camus, the existential philosopher, expresses this paradox beautifully in A Happy Death:
“Just as there is a moment when the artist must stop, when the sculpture must be left as it is, the painting untouched—just as a determination not to know serves the maker more than all the resources of clairvoyance—so there must be a minimum of ignorance to perfect a life of happiness. Those who lack such a thing must set about acquiring it: unintelligence must be earned.”
Bezalel possessed all the gifts of human wisdom, yet he understood that he stood in the shadow of God. The greatest wisdom lies in knowing that we do not know. In this model, creativity is not an expression of ego, but an act of service. It is not about unrestrained autonomy, but about meaningful connection—to the Divine, to others, and to something greater than ourselves.
Religion is not the enemy of creativity—it is its framework. When harnessed wisely, faith doesn’t silence the artist; it sanctifies her. Our task is not to choose between chaos and order, autonomy and submission, creativity and tradition. It is to hold the tension, to walk the tightrope, and to build sanctuaries—within and without—where the human and Divine can meet. That is where true creativity is birthed.
And if this is not enough for your Mr Wood how about the story of the Jewish people?
We are not the strongest, nor the most powerful nor the cleverest but the secret of our longevity as a nation is in its creative capacity to change and reframe. To be creative. When Prophetic Judaism came to an end with the destruction of the Temple, Rabbinic Judaism was born. When the existence of Diaspora Jewry was threatened by modernity and the Holocaust, Zionism and the first modern Jewish state emerged. In every generation, our people's connection to a higher reality—and their belief in a covenant that transcends the immediacy of empirical existence—has fuelled the transformations needed to env and re-envision our collective destiny.
So, in response to Mr Woods desire to ‘be both emotionally stable and wildly creative’ I would suggest visiting Israel, where apparently, we are still in the top 10 of the ‘happiest’ countries in the world despite the worst year since 6 million of us perished. Why? Very simply because our emotional stability depends on our feelings of connection and meaning. And no one can deny that in Israel. We are also one of the most creative countries in the world. Just look at the latest acquisition of the start-up wiz by Google. An ancient narrative that continues ro ring true thousands of years on.
Lets tap into this new generation of Bezalel’s—rooted in wisdom, daring in vision, and grounded in humility—to carry us forward as we navigate the stormy, chaotic waters of our time.
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