February 23, 2026|ו' אדר ה' אלפים תשפ"ו From Gold Medals to Golden Hearts: The Olympics and the Meaning of Terumah By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

The world just celebrated two weeks of Olympic Games. A story is told a number of years back at the Olympics, in a slalom skiing race, the skier must pass through about twenty “gates” as rapidly as possible. Israel had the fastest slalom skier in the world, and the country had great hopes for a gold medal. The day of the final came, and the crowd waited eagerly. The French champion sped down in 38 seconds, the Swiss in 38.7, the German in 37.8, and the Italian in 38.1. Then came the Israeli. The crowd waited… and waited… six minutes later, the skier finally crossed the finish line. “What happened to you?” screamed his trainer. The exhausted Israeli replied: “Who fixed a mezuzah to each gate?”

During these past two weeks of Olympic Games, there were stories that captured our attention – some heartbreaking, like Ilia Malinin’s fall from glory in figure skating or Lindsey Vonn breaking her leg in downhill skiing. But there were also remarkable triumphs, like the inspiring comeback of figure skater Alysa Liu.

And that raises an intriguing question: where do the Olympics fit within our Jewish values?

On one level, every few years we are reminded of God’s miraculous ways as we witness the extraordinary physical heights that human beings can achieve. It is both inspiring and humbling. Just as we are awed when we visit the Swiss Alps and behold God’s creation, we are similarly awed when we watch the great feats of these athletes. There is something elevating about seeing human potential stretched to its limits.

When I think about the Olympics, I see lessons that extend beyond sport – lessons that can enrich our spiritual lives. These athletes are using the abilities God gave them to excel, to be their best. That itself is a value: using the gifts God has entrusted to us. But they do more than that. They reach the Olympics through determination, persistence, drive, and discipline.

I have said on many occasions that there are two key ingredients to a successful religious life: discipline and a sense of humor. Discipline enables us to observe detailed halakhot, to study Torah consistently, and to engage in meaningful tefilla day in and day out. A sense of humor helps us navigate setbacks, to laugh at the frustrations of life, and to maintain a positive attitude when things do not go our way. If we are looking for role models of discipline, we need look no further than Olympic athletes. If they can lock in, push themselves, and remain singularly focused for years, then certainly we can bring a measure of that same amelut, or hard work, into our avodat Hashem. The amelut that Olympic athletes display in their training can serve as a model for our amelut in Torah and mitzvot.

But I think there is a fundamental difference between the Olympics and our spiritual lives. In both arenas, the goal is to strive for excellence – but for very different reasons.

Let me ask you which scenario seems more likely.

Scenario number one: A group of people move to a community. They begin davening together in a rented space. Eventually, they grow and decide they want to purchase land and build a shul. They launch a fundraising campaign in order to build the building. The fundraising is a means to an end.

Scenario number two: A group of people move to a community and begin davening together. At some point they say, “We want to instill in our families the value of giving tzedakah. Let’s start a fundraising campaign. What should we raise money for?” After discussion, they decide to build a shul.

I think scenario number one is far more likely than scenario number two. You want a building, so you fundraise to build a building. You don’t fundraise simply in order to teach people how to give.

But that is exactly what God seems to tell Moshe.

If I were writing the Torah’s blueprint for the Mishkan, I would have started with: “Daber el Bnei Yisrael v’asu li mikdash v’shachanti b’tocham” – Command the Jewish people to build a mishkan. Then I would have added: and here is how you will do it – collect gold, silver, copper, and other materials.

But that is not how the Torah presents it. First comes the command: “Daber el Bnei Yisrael v’yikchu li terumah”—speak to the Jewish people and they shall take for Me a donation. Gold, silver, copper, techelet, argaman, and so on. Only afterward does the Torah say, “V’asu li mikdash v’shachanti b’tocham”—make for Me a sanctuary.

Why is the command structured that way?

One straightforward way to understand what happened is this: we left Egypt, received the Torah, and now we need a building campaign. But the way the commands are recorded in the Torah – first the fundraising, and only then the instruction to build the mishkan – suggests that something much deeper may be taking place.

At Sinai, we were told that we are to become a “mamlechet kohanim v’goy kadosh” – a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. We said “naaseh v’nishma.” We embraced a vision of greatness. We wanted to live up to our potential.

Not so fast, says God.

First, mishpatim. Before you build a mishkan, you need to learn about civil law. You cannot trample on other people’s rights in the name of religion. To be holy means to be ethical in business, scrupulous in honesty, sensitive in interpersonal dealings. Before building a home for God, you must build a society of justice.

Second, you must understand that your spiritual life is not an Olympic competition.

Olympic athletes ask: How fast can I ski? How high can I jump? How many medals can I win? The better I perform, the higher I rise. Success brings recognition, endorsement deals, perhaps even your face on a cereal box. It is about maximizing personal achievement.

The Torah speaks a different language.

“V’yikchu li terumah.” Terumah comes from l’harim – to lift up. The Torah does not say v’yitnu – that they should give. It says v’yikchu – they should take. Because when we give for God, we are not only givers; we are also the beneficiaries. We are the ones who are lifted up.

The pasuk adds “li” – for Me. Rashi says: lishmi – for My Name. Not for ego. Not for honor. Not for recognition.