In 1945, an Italian musicologist found four bars of a sonata's bass line in the remnants of the fire bombed Dresden Music Library. He believed these notes were the work of the 17th century Venetian composer Thomas Albinoni, and spent the next twelve years reconstructing a larger piece from the charred manuscript fragment. The resulting composition, known as Albinoni's Adagio, bears little resemblance to most of Albinoni's work and is considered fraudulent by most scholars. But even those who doubt its authenticity have difficulty denying the Adagio's beauty.

Nearly half a century later, it's this contradiction that appeals to the cellist. That something could be almost erased from existence in the landscape of a wounded city, and then rebuilt until it is new and worthwhile, gives him hope. (From "The Cellist of Sarajevo" by Steven Galloway)

I knew I would love the book the moment it mentioned one of my favorite musical pieces, and I was correct. I was most moved by the powerful scenes in which the characters, when viewing an old favorite spot, wonder how Sarajevo will appear after the war, when rebuilt. They speculate whether the new Sarajevo will have the same character and special places it did before 1996.

I wonder the same thing about this week's Haftarah, in which Yoash repairs the neglected Temple in Jerusalem. Did people wonder if it would be as it was in its finest glory when Solomon reigned? Did they wonder if all the new technology, unavailable when the Temple was first built, would change its character? Would they feel the same sense of sanctity with energy efficient bulbs as they did when there were only oil lamps? Would computers change the atmosphere? Could a Cohen use the Offerings app on his iPhone if he forgot exactly how to perform the service? A rebuilt or remodeled home can never recapture the full character of the original. "I love the air conditioning, but I miss the natural coolness of the huge stones."

Mostly, I wonder if people expected some awesome manifestation of God to express His approval of their efforts as He did when they completed the Mishkan and the First Temple. Were they disappointed? Did they feel as failures when no great miracle appeared?

Yoash's greatness was his ability to convey his vision of a story unfolding; this was not the same great building it was long ago, it was a fresh building, expressing a new stage in our relationship with God. Ever since Adam was evicted from the home provided for him by God, we have been searching for ways to make a home for God. We build Tabernacles, Temples, and Houses of Worship. Many fall into the trap of trying to rebuild what once was, whether the Caliphate for some, or the European ghetto for others. Yoash insisted that we will never be able to recapture the past; only build on and with what we have, and allow our story to continue to unfold.

The Half - not Whole - Shekel we contribute is a reminder that our story is not, and never was, complete. No building was ever perfect. Story Unfolders and Half Shekel people are never imprisoned by nostalgia. Their eyes are always focused on the next page of the story. Their story. Our story. Unfolding, challenging, interesting, and unknowable, calling to us to discover new skills as we put our pen to the paper of life and write the next chapter.

This is the real meaning of "Zecher L'Mikdash," usually understood as to, "Remember the Temple," but, in fact, remembering that we are part of the unfolding story of the Mikdash, the attempt to build a House for God even better than that first home He prepared for us in Eden.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Simcha L. Weinberg
President 

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