Becoming One Whole
A catastrophe has been playing out this week, unrelated to the coronavirus, as the electrical grid in Texas failed under the pressure of winter weather, leaving millions stranded without heat during an unusually fierce cold snap. While it may seem odd to compare the electrical grid with the Tabernacle built by the Israelites in the desert, there are too many similarities to ignore. Especially in a week where our Torah portion, Terumah, is all about connecting individual components together to build something large and integral to daily life in the Israelite camp.
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There’s a park across the street from my house, and the sun rises from that direction. This time of year, in the dead of winter, when there’s snow on the ground like there is right now, the morning sun casts a soft light. We’re far enough away from the solstice that the days are starting to grow longer. A few weeks ago I’d still be sitting in the dark as I’m writing this. The changes in the air feel hopeful. I know that spring is coming soon, and with it warmer weather, and the chance to be outside again together with friends, even if we’re still six feet apart.
Light is tricky. At the right angle, sunlight is magical, and at the wrong angle it’s blinding. In the right weather, clouds will light up pink and orange and gold as the sun rises and sets, and other times you won’t be able to see the sun at all. Even the hopeful sunrise I’m looking at today is disappearing, as the sun rises higher into the sky.
This week a blizzard hit the central United States, and Texas in particular struggled to handle the impact of snow and ice on its electrical grid, which left residents struggling to keep their lights on and their homes heated. One photo in particular went viral on Twitter, a backyard shot of Houston, lit up at night the way cities often are, even as the surrounding communities were left in the dark.
The photo sparked controversy for me in so many ways. On the one hand, how many of those lights are necessary at night, especially during a pandemic? Surely it’s sucking much needed energy away from the power grid?
On the other hand, the city’s leadership has invested in modern technology and maintenance, with the support of the city’s residents and the taxes they pay. Choosing to live in the suburbs means forgoing the benefits of living in a city, even if you normally work in town. Before the COVID-19 pandemic, cities were surging in the United States. The Boston skyline has been under construction the entire time I’ve lived here. Young people seeking jobs and opportunities moved to town every year in droves, cramming into overpriced apartments and hustling for a better life. The funny part is that many of us are coming from suburbia, that idyllic landscape that white communities migrated to in the 1950s and 60s–just far enough from the city to escape its negative influence, but not so far that you can’t pop into town for work, dinner, or a show.
We separated ourselves in the United States, which seems to be our pattern as a country, and still struggling to understand the impacts white suburban flight from 50 years ago are having on our country today. One of those being the reality that no matter how much we try to distance ourselves from each other, we’re still connected, because we live in the same society, and at the end of the day, we rely on the same systems. It doesn’t matter if you live in a modern city, an affluent suburb, a run-down slum, or in the country–most of us are drawing electricity from the infamous grid, and if the grid goes down, we all go down.
The electrical grid brings us together as a country in ways that few other systems seem to do anymore. We all rely on it. We all pay into it. We all trust it. If it fell apart we’d all panic, as history has shown and is showing. It’s an essential part of our lives.
This week’s Torah portion, Terumah, feels dull, but it’s all about the construction of the Tabernacle, the Israelite’s mobile sanctuary. In many ways, the Tabernacle was as essential to daily life in the Israelite camp as electricity is to our modern communities today.
The Tabernacle sits at the center of the Israelite’s encampment. It’s the place where G-d’s spirit rests, where sacred objects like the Ark of the Covenant are kept, and where the priests conduct sacrifices and offerings that are so integral to how the Israelites worship G-d and order their lives.
The architecture of the Tabernacle is such an intrinsic part of Jewish life that we still design modern synagogues according to its blueprints–with an closed ark that houses our most sacred object, The Torah; the Ner Tamid, often a true menorah, with seven branches, and an elevated area with a table, where the Torah is placed while being read.
The Torah describes the Tabernacle, and its individual pieces, in great detail this week, but there’s one part in particular that I’d like to focus on.
Exodus 26:1
As for the Tabernacle, make it of ten strips of cloth; make these of fine twisted linen, of blue, purple, and crimson yarns, with a design of cherubim worked into them.
The length of each cloth shall be twenty-eight cubits, and the width of each cloth shall be four cubits, all the cloths to have the same measurements.
Five of the cloths shall be joined to one another, and the other five cloths shall be joined to one another.
Make loops of blue wool on the edge of the outermost cloth of the one set; and do likewise on the edge of the outermost cloth of the other set: make fifty loops on the one cloth, and fifty loops on the edge of the end cloth of the other set, the loops to be opposite one another.
And make fifty gold clasps, and couple the cloths to one another with the clasps, so that the Tabernacle becomes one whole
Just like the electrical grid is comprised of countless individual wires, transformers, solar panels, windmills, and power plants, the individual hooks, loops, poles, and pieces of cloth described in this week’s portion come together to create a single, larger object–the Tabernacle. The individual items come from across the Israelite community, fashioned and donated so that every segment of the community was physically represented in the Tabernacle.
The comparison stops there, though, because unlike the Tabernacle, in the United States, the individual pieces of our grid don’t actually come together to create a singular, larger whole. In fact, the United States has three independently operated electrical grids–one for the eastern states, on for western states, and one for Texas which is the one that failed so horribly this week, leaving millions to face abnormally cold temperatures without heat.
The reasons we have three electrical grids are complicated, and I’m not going to go into it here. Texas in particular has embraced a deregulated energy market, and while the catastrophe playing out this week can’t be entirely blamed on any one cause, I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that this highly deregulated electrical grid failed when it was unexpectedly pushed to the limit.
The Israelites would never have lasted with three Tabernacles. If the community had disagreed, say on how sacrifices should be offered, and split into three parts, each with its own Tabernacle, the Israelites would never have made it out of the desert, would never have crossed into Canaan and would never have developed Judaism and Jewish life as we know it today, one where we don’t have a Tabernacle, and don’t offer sacrifices, but still feel connected in some way to those who did.
Electricity is still new. It’s only in the past 100 years that electrical grids have developed into the behemoths we know today. The systems we’ve built along the way change and probably should change, as technology improves and societies needs change, just as the Tabernacle gave way to the Temple which gave way to the synagogue.
It will take time, and be hard, it may have to consume our society as much as building the Tabernacle consumed the Israelites. But what we’re seeing this week in Texas is the cost of putting off that hard and necessary work for too long. May it be different next time.
Shabbat Shalom
