A story in the Chasidic tradition tells of two men approaching each other one morning along the main road of a small eastern European town.

One was a wealthy merchant, the other a pauper.

As the two met, the poor man touched the shoulder of the businessperson, and in a gentle voice asked:

“Shalom Aleichem, my friend. Could you please spare me a bit of money. I am hungry this morning, and I have nothing to eat.”

The merchant reached into his pocket, pulled out a five-kopek note, placed it into the poor man’s hand and continued on his way.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the pauper, and both resumed their walk.

The next morning, at about the same time, the two men approached each other again. But on this occasion, rather than meet face to face, the merchant crossed the street, barely casting a glance, as the two passed on opposite sides of the road.

Having seen this, the pauper slumped his shoulders and sighed.

Moments later, he entered the rabbi’s office with an unusual complaint.

“I would like to charge the merchant with theft,” he said.

The rabbi was shocked.

“What on earth could the town’s richest person have stolen from you?” he inquired. “He is our community’s biggest donor.”

The pauper replied, “Yesterday we met on the street, as fellow Jews, and we participated in the mitzvah of tzedakah. I approached him, gladly accepted his help, and we continued on as equals.

“But this morning, as we passed, he refused to greet me as a human being. He avoided me as I was about to thank him again for his generosity.

“I charge him with robbing me of my dignity.”

Within a few hours, the two met in the rabbi’s office, and the rabbi shared an important lesson: Within Judaism, the word tzedakah—frequently translated as “charity”—is often misinterpreted.

More accurately, at the core of the term, tzedakah, rests the Hebrew word, tzedek—justice.

In this way—the rabbi taught—Judaism holds that by providing a donation or a contribution to a cause dear to us. Sometimes it is large and communal, at other times, small and personal—we possess the capacity to “rebalance” or “re-justice” the world.

And that there is an honored role for both parties within the mitzvah of tzedakah.

And that does not just happen by donating a large sum, but through the dignity we offer our fellow human beings—rich or poor—everyday.

The rich merchant realized the error of his ways, apologized, shook the hand of the pauper, and thereafter greeted him warmly whenever they would meet.

The issue of charity and our donations is a complex one. Sometimes we have more, and other times we have less. We have all been there.

The Torah acknowledges that there will always be rich and poor among us. But it has no tolerance for extreme hunger or homelessness.

Author Lynne Twist describes the complex relationship between ourselves, money and our values in her book, The Soul of Money. She suggests ways we can make our donations “relational” rather than “transactional.”

And this week’s Torah portion leads us along that path.

The parashah, titled Terumah, or “gifts,” begins as God asks Moses to, “Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved…And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”

What a profound request.

God does not demand that the Israelites build some great edifice with stained glass windows and high ceilings. Rather God asks the people—as one of my rabbinical teachers, Dr. Diane Sharon described it—for “an RV, so that God could travel with us right here on earth.”

And the Israelites responded.

Some donated gold, silver and copper. Others brought yarn, skins, bowls, ladles, jars, jugs, and tapestries.

Just as each of us possesses a unique spark of God, each brought to the tabernacle a distinct gift from the heart.

It needn’t have been something lavish or expensive—only meaningful to each Israelite—and therefore—to God.

We live in a world where we are besieged each day with requests for money.

Our hearts are pulled through television or social media ads for sick children, adults, or animals in need. It is so easy to switch the channel or “cross the street.”

But the idea of tzedakah—the idea of “justice giving” is central to Judaism.

And that includes not only the big causes, but also those small opportunities we encounter every day.

There is need in Israel. There are those who are food insecure or unhoused. There is need to fund research. And there are those who wander our streets mentally or physically ill or alone.

Indeed, each of us can make a difference as we combine our gifts, never closing our hands to those in need—online or on the street.

This week’s Torah portion reminds us of how lucky we are, and beckons us to reflect on that good fortune, as the Torah teaches, “according to what is in our hearts.”

Let us adopt the example from our ancient ancestors as they gave thanks to God for their freedom, for our sacred law and the blessing of community.

For it is not always the size of the mitzvah which matters, but rather the sense of justice behind it.

For when we donate from the heart, we bring God to this earth.

It is so easy, these days, to become cynical, or to focus on large issues, which we often cannot affect. But tzedek begins in small ways right here on earth. Big our small let us listen to our hearts as we put the spirit of tzedakah into practice.

As that Chassidic rabbi reminded the wealthy merchant on that day—God is found not only in the heavens.

God is found within the kindness, dignity and tzedek, with which we surround each other every day.

Shabbat shalom, v’kol tuv.

Rabbi Irwin Huberman