Vayakhel-Pekudei: A “Kahal” At War

The great and ambitious project of building a house in which Hashem’s presence would dwell was about to begin. The instructions had already been delivered and carefully studied by Moshe and the craftsmen appointed for the task. The materials were already collected and prepared. To launch this sacred task, the entire nation was assembled. Our great step forward into history began with a moment of shared awareness and national gathering. That gathering—kahal in Hebrew—gives its name to the parashah that records this moment: Parashat Vayakhel.

This was not the first time our nation gathered as one. Months earlier we had stood together beneath a burning mountain, hearing the word of Hashem. Judaism alone makes the remarkable claim that an entire nation stood shoulder to shoulder listening to the revealed voice of Hashem. That day became known as the day of great assembly, in Hebrew Yom HaKahal.

This seminal gathering at Mount Sinai was later reenacted every seven years in Yerushalayim in the ceremony known as Hakhel. On the Sukkot holiday following the Shemitah cycle, the entire nation stood together in Yerushalayim listening to the Torah read aloud in a manner that echoed that moment at Sinai.

Yet, the original pattern of national gathering was first established in the desert itself. In the desert, twice within a single year, the nation gathered as one: first to receive the Torah and later to launch the construction of the Mishkan. The term “kahal,” thus became synonymous with national identity.

{The Kahal of Exile

But this national experience could not survive exile. When we were forced to leave Yerushalayim nearly two thousand years ago, we lost this defining feature of kahal. Scattered across the winds of history, we no longer experienced moments of national gathering. The unified voice that had once stood together at Mount Sinai and in Yerushalayim was replaced by smaller, scattered communities throughout the world.

Though the national kahal disappeared during galut, a different form of communal life gradually emerged that proved essential for preserving Jewish identity throughout our long exile. As we journeyed through distant lands, we did not dissolve into the surrounding nations. Instead, we established organized Jewish communities, often referred to as a kahal.

These communities oversaw religious, legal, social, and economic affairs, ensuring the continuity of Jewish life under foreign rule. The kahal maintained its own batei din so that Torah law and halacha remained the foundation of Jewish communal life. Kahals also managed communal taxation and raised funds to support Torah institutions and the needy. Finally, they served as the official representatives of the Jewish community before local authorities, negotiating protections and legal rights for the Jewish population.

Through these organized efforts, the kahal safeguarded Jewish distinctiveness, provided stability, and ensured the survival of Jewish life even under the most difficult conditions.

It was an extraordinary historical achievement. The original national identity of kahal was replaced by local kahal communities that developed self-sufficient systems to preserve the fabric of Jewish life.

Today, history has begun to shift once again. Having returned to our homeland and rebuilt a Jewish state, we have begun to recover the national model of kahal. Israelis are less defined by local congregations and synagogues than by a shared national experience. Many immigrants from Western countries sometimes lament the weaker structure of neighborhood communities. Yet, the deeper reality is that Israelis tend to experience their identity primarily as members of a nation rather than as members of distinct local congregations.

During wartime, our national identity becomes even more pronounced. When we defend our land against those who seek our destruction, we stand together as one people. In recent days Israelis have rushed to bomb shelters and remained confined to their homes without work or school. In these moments we feel a deeply national experience. Missiles have targeted the entire country. Even when aimed at a specific location, sirens sound across wide regions, since fragments of intercepted missiles can fall far from the original target.

Once again, large numbers of reserve soldiers have been called up to reinforce the defense of our borders. In this war, as in every war, our belonging to a single people is felt with unusual intensity.

There were numerous personal moments that echoed this broader national experience. On the Shabbat when the war first broke out, we spent much of the late morning and early afternoon in shelters. During that long stretch I found myself schmoozing with a group of visitors who had come for a reunion of the original class of the Hesder yeshiva in Maaleh Adumim. Later that day, I sat beside reserve soldiers who had just been called up to help protect the Gush Etzion area. They have been sleeping and eating at our yeshiva since the local army base lacks sufficient accommodations for them. In each of these encounters I was surrounded by strangers, yet for twenty minutes in a shelter we shared a common fate.

A few days later, the same experience repeated itself. Caught in a siren while traveling, I entered a shelter at an army checkpoint and spent ten minutes sharing conversation and Tehillim with people who happened to be on the same road when the siren sounded.

I also attended two curtailed weddings, one with fewer than fifty people, held in a backyard. I could not help thinking how similar this wedding must have been to those of earlier generations: a small group of relatives and neighbors gathered in the courtyard beside the synagogue.

Each of these moments highlighted how deeply we still feel ourselves as a single kahal—one people—in Israel generally, and especially during wartime.

For me, the most poignant moment of our national identity was something I watched on television. Fragments of a missile had struck and damaged a home in Bnei Brak. As I watched local residents and police forces working together to rescue those inside, my mind drifted back to the painful scenes just two weeks earlier when residents of Bnei Brak had violently clashed with police and soldiers. Without minimizing the severity of that episode, this scene of cooperation reminded me that despite our sharp and deeply held differences, we remain one people. We face the same dangers and ultimately stand together to recover from them.

There is one additional element of the construction of the Mishkan that has surfaced again during the early stages of this war. Women played an outsized role in the building of the Mishkan. They donated the gold and silver taken from their jewelry and were deeply involved in preparing the fabrics and curtains of the desert sanctuary. Their role was so consequential that the Torah describes them as an army. Their enthusiasm and devotion to this sacred task resembled the dedication of soldiers.

This war has also highlighted the central role that women soldiers play in defending this country. Many have been fully integrated into the Air Force. Even more have taken part in many supporting dimensions of this war—from logistical support for the Air Force to the thousands involved in gathering and processing intelligence. Our success in this war has relied heavily upon the strength of our Air Force and the depth of our intelligence capabilities. Women are central to both of these pillars of national defense.

Our country has enabled women to play an essential role in defending our people. They deserve great credit for their efforts, and we deserve credit for building a society that enables every part of our population to participate in this heroic moment of Jewish history. 

Rabbi Moshe Taragin is a rabbi at Yeshivat Har Etzion, was ordained by Yeshiva University and holds an MA in English literature. His books include To Be Holy but Human: Reflections Upon My Rebbe, HaRav Yehuda Amital. MTaraginBooks.com.