Weekly Torah Commentaries: Recent Episodes
UMJC - Union Of Messianic Jewish Congregations
Reflections on the weekly Torah portions from a diverse group of Messianic Jewish rabbis, scholars, and lay people. Our contributors bring fresh insights to familiar texts, drawing connections to events across the whole of Scripture (including the Gospels and Epistles), and suggesting practical applications of these insights to our postmodern lives.
When has the world not been trembling somewhere? Perhaps what Scripture is really telling us is that our so-called “last days” may stretch on for generations. The question is not when the end will come, but how we are meant to live in such a time.
We in Messianic circles hear this a lot. But take a moment to meditate on the astounding reality of this. Israel will no longer need to be afraid when God makes all things new and we dwell daily in his holy presence.
That we should self-regulate and voluntarily humble ourselves before the Lord becomes a sign of the work of the Torah in our hearts and minds.
We don’t count the seven weeks of the Omer to make sure we celebrate Shavuot on the correct date, since we already know it falls on Sivan 6 every year. Rather, we count the days to express our yearning to relive the encounter at Mount Sinai, when we received the Torah amidst an awesome display of God’s presence.
The land of Israel, along with the people of Israel, is the centerpiece of God's eternal program. The two go together inseparably. The land comes into its proper purpose when the people of Israel are its custodians.
The Omer is a reminder that there is enough when we put God first, when we encounter God in the now and trust the soon and then to him.
It is vital for our hearts to focus on redemption, salvation, and deliverance. But in order to maintain those spiritual graces in our life, we must fully drink from the Cup of Intimacy.
As believers in Messiah Yeshua we are part of the holy priesthood. That means we should walk in holiness because he is holy. But the Bible does not expressly define holiness—how should we interpret it?
We all prepare for the big moments in life. As children, we prepare for the first day of school, for vacation, for play dates. As we grow, we prepare for school, sports, tests, and graduation. We prepare for jobs, college, trade school, and adulthood in general. Our spiritual lives are a lot like that.
It’s never been more true: Yeshua has something we need, whether we are resisting him or have followed him a long distance over many years. Our hearts yearn to be spiritually renewed.
The culmination of the story we commemorate each Passover isn’t our departure from Egypt, but the encounter with the Eternal One fifty days later. To emphasize this, the Torah commands us to begin counting the Omer, or sheaf of firstfruits, during Passover.
The understanding Moses gained after first hearing and then responding to the call, Vayikra, can be experienced by any of us who decide to accept the invitation to draw near to God.
As the Tabernacle was anointed with the sacred oil, may we walk in the daily anointing of God’s Spirit by loving God and one another, by giving joyfully, and by reflecting the humility of Messiah in all that we do.
Though he saw a vision of the holy ark, Moshe was not called to build it. This parasha gives us insight into the artistic genius of Israel gifted by God for that purpose: Bezalel, and his equally creative partner in the work, Oholiab.
Like Moses, we all want God’s glory. We want to see Him in action. We can all look back at different times of our lives and see how God manifested His presence to us in defined ways. Can I say that I am truly addicted to God’s movement in my life? Yes!
The Torah in this week’s portion, Tetzaveh, describes the burning of aromatic spices, or K’toret, as an important and normative practice for the Kohanim in the Mishkan, the priests in the Tabernacle.
Israel was created to be the Mishkan of God, the place where He dwells among the nations. Every time we announce the Good News of Yeshua to our people, we are working toward the restoration of His Mishkan. But there is another way to join this divine task.
Slavery, as in this week’s parasha, is not simply old news. In fact, all of us are slaves. The Bible says it, and Bob Dylan sang it years ago: “It might be the Devil or it might be the Lord, but you gotta serve somebody.”
Much of the biblical text recounts pitfalls and bad relationships that serve as examples of what not to do. This week's portion gives us a welcome respite from that trend in showcasing the relationship between Moses and his father-in-law, Jethro.
This week’s parasha, Beshalach, is one of the most dramatic and inspiring portions in the Torah. It tells of Israel’s miraculous deliverance at the Red Sea — a moment when all seemed lost, and yet, through divine intervention, salvation came.
Let’s talk about renewal. There’s something powerful about starting fresh—about moving forward, not just physically, but spiritually. It’s about embracing change and becoming more of who we’re meant to be as Israel, the people of the God of Israel.
Moses knew the heart of Pharaoh and doubted the success of God’s plan (6:12), but God had commanded him to speak these words; God had put these words in his mouth: “Let my people go that they may serve me.”
How are you wired? What makes you tick? God creates and redeems us to be lights in the world, lights of different kinds. Some of us will be lights of creativity. Some, lights of justice and truth. Some of us are lights of compassionate action. Some are lights of supernatural power. Whatever the case, God wants us to be lights in the world.
This week, as we are reading Parashat Vayechi (“And he lived”), the United States is remembering President Jimmy Carter, who passed away on December 29. In Israel, the country mourns hostage Youssef al-Zidayne, whose body was discovered in a Gaza tunnel on January 8, along with evidence that his son Hamza was also dead.
When I was in 8th grade, the Monkees first appeared on television. They had recorded a hit song called “I’m a Believer.” The lyrics proclaim, “And then I saw her face; now I’m a believer!” This week, we see a similar change in the story of Joseph when his brothers saw his face.
Yeshua is the light that dispels the darkness, the one who brings peace and unity. During this season, as we commemorate the great miracles that God has brought, let’s remember in unity the light that he brings into our midst, and among our brethren.
With this week’s parasha the great saga of Genesis takes a decisive turn. The dramatic visitations of God that characterized the lives of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob come to an end. In the following story of Joseph and his brothers, we might be tempted to ask where God is amidst all that they have to go through.
Gratitude is a powerful antidote to the virus of gloom and anxiety that afflicts us today, and it shows up in a surprising way in this week’s Torah reading when Esau, of all people, models it for us.
The story of Leah is a profound narrative of unrequited love, longing, and ultimately, acceptance. Leah's journey, as reflected in the names she gives her children, offers a timeless lesson in embracing life's adversities and finding contentment within our circumstances.
The Lord responds to Rebekah’s question of “Why is this happening to me?” by showing her that she is seen, cared for, loved, and understood. It’s not a quick solution or a trite aphorism; it’s simply a move toward trust and learning.
In the three prayers that we have read these past two weeks, we see the heroes of the story, our forefathers and foremothers, invoke the character of God in their supplications before the Lord.
The sages see Abraham as a paragon of love and inclusion. He brought people from the surrounding societies in Haran and Canaan close to the one God through his example and his generosity.
Living in today’s world, we too face many unknowns. As people who profess a faith in the God of Abraham, trusting also in the Good News of Yeshua the Messiah, we to come face to face with challenges throughout our journeys.
In God’s pursuit of justice, some will be brought low, and others lifted up, but in the end, in the fulness of time, all of creation will be made whole once more.
Though we can’t turn back the hands of time, we can—and do—revisit time by rolling the Torah scroll back and recycling the stories noted therein. This we do this every year around this time: on Simchat Torah. And so we begin again . . .
What a tragic and challenging year! We might be very much tempted to say “good riddance” to the last year, 5784. Yet our tradition reminds us to welcome every New Year with a sense of hope and encouragement.
Everybody needs heroes, and heroism can be contagious. In these trying times, Yeshua’s sacrifice encourages us to courageously go forward to meet the challenges of life without a layer of self-protection.
With Rosh Hashanah we enter the Ten Days of Awe that will continue through Yom Kippur. But we live in a time when it’s hard to be awed . . . because awe is the response to the presence of a transcendent other, something or someone far greater than ourselves, greater than our understanding or our ability to perceive.
Why is it so hard to change? As we approach the season of teshuvah (turning, repentance) and the Ten Days of Repentance, this question is worth considering. Dramatic, intentional changes do happen, but they seem to be the exception rather than the rule.
When Israel enters the land, the Israelites are to declare their origins and identity. "He has brought us to this place and has given us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey; and now, behold, I have brought the firstfruits of the land which you, O Lord, have given me."
This week our spirits were pierced again with a time of national mourning as we commemorated the tragedy of 9/11. As we look out across the social landscape of America we wonder if God is chastising this nation or if we are in some stage of rebellion. Perhaps both at the same time.
At a time when the modern State of Israel is at war, when we are daily praying for hostages, and the world is in upheaval, we must be focused, attentive, and ready for what will come.
We must have spiritual vision and depth perception to see clearly. “Turn my eyes away from gazing at vanity but revive me in Your ways” (Psalm 119:37). Instead of asking “Do you see what I see?” Re’eh asks, “Do you see what He sees?”
It is as our Rabbi Yeshua taught by quoting from this parasha while suffering the hardship of a forty-day fast in the wilderness: “Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of Adonai.
Nothing breathes more life into a community than the sound of young children, laughing and playing. Even the sound of a baby’s cry, somewhere in the back of the room, can bring feelings of hope. Hope in the future, hope in the next generation, hope that there will be someone to teach.
Tisha b’Av keeps alive the memory of the whole Jewish story through the centuries, a story reflecting both the lament of exile and the hope of return.
We are people of the Book, a book made up of words. We are then, quite literally, a people of words. And when we “give our word” in the colloquial sense, we understand that God is watching and recording.
Pinchas was zealous, not jealous. He knew the Lord, and knew that strict adherence to his rules was the only correct way to live. He was zealous for the Lord, not jealous of the lifestyle of the pagan nations.
Recently at dinnertime, as the family sat around the table, the question came up, “Why do parents think more highly of their own children than others? Does that reflect bias?” And, the implication, “If so, is that bias . . . ok?”
The beauty of the red heifer was not in its life but in its death. It is more valuable in its death than it ever was in its life. In its death it changes forms. It does not cease its power, but it goes through a metamorphosis from the physical body to the ashes.
This week’s parasha, Korach, records a mutiny of sorts that becomes the archetype for rebellion in Judaism, and could also have become the standard for a really bad day, but for the intervention of Hashem.
In our parasha, Adonai gives the commandment and instruction for the tzitzit which were to be on the borders of the garment. They also were found on the hem of Yeshua’s garment in Luke 8:44, bringing healing to a woman who had been ill for 12 years.
Moses longed for the day in which we are living: “If only Adonai would make all the people prophets! If only Adonai would put the Spirit on all of them!” Let’s say Amen to that as we walk daily in the Spirit-infused Torah of the risen Messiah.
On exhibit in the Israel Museum in Jerusalem are artifacts from the excavation of a burial plot from the end of the First Temple period. Among the exhibit is a small thin silver plaque the size of a thumb. Inscribed on it in Hebrew is the Birkat Kohanim, the priestly blessing we still recite today.
One of the pitfalls common to leadership is the pride of self-reliance. While it is good for God’s people to be confident and self-assertive, it is just as critical that we remember that we need each other to fulfill the destiny of national salvation.
One moment I was preparing a lesson on living a life filled with the hope we have in Messiah and the promises of blessings that are ours. The next moment the messengers were delivering their news.
Have you ever wished that you could start over? That you could be, as in the words of Dylan’s immortal song, “forever young”—going back to your earliest years of life, able to erase all your mistakes, cancel all your debts, and undo all your sins?
It’s not so much a matter of contrast between conservation and contagion; we need both. The stability and separation of a healthy religious community provides a platform for influencing the surrounding culture.
Once we choose to live in the universe of power in actions, do we have the discipline to constantly push ourselves to raise the bar? Will we have what it takes to engage in regular self-reflection and contemplation, and live with the consistency that holiness requires?
Spiritual discipline through the repetitive action—the “walking” out—of the mitzvot builds within us emotional muscle memory. Given that we are largely driven by our emotions, any repetitive action binds itself to our personhood, our heart, our mind, and that same action builds within us an emotional response.
Telling our children and grandchildren a story rooted in ancient history, and equipping them to pass it on, amidst our culture of endless sound bites and news flashes can be challenging indeed. That’s why Passover in this current generation may be different from all other Passovers.
Along with other rabbis, Rabbi Sha’ul correlated reckless speech with an infectious skin disease that starts off as a small infection, grows if left unchecked, and eventually consumes and kills the body as it expands.
The kohanim, or priests, were in a sense the “doctors of the soul.” This is the role of a kohen, to restore the person to wholeness—to have the imagination to see beyond a person’s present brokenness, and to recognize his or her own power to heal.
If this is true for Israel as a whole, God’s priestly nation among the nations of the world, how much more for the family of Aaron, chosen to be the priestly family of the priestly people? The great tragedy in this week’s portion makes the danger of election all too evident.
Tzav is our reminder to continue to practice sacrificial worship in our lives today. How do we do this? Let’s take a moment to reflect on two questions. First, what is considered a sacrifice today? And second, where is the altar?
Each of us was given a name shortly after birth and, for most of us, we are still called by that name. When I hear my name, it commands my attention. It identifies me. It also means that the person who has called me knows my name.
Is there a lesson that can be gleaned by observing the relationship between the Flintstones and the Jetsons? I think there is, and I believe it to be profound.
God created a home for us in His creation of the universe. God has created a home for us through the life, death, and resurrection of His Messiah. May we create a home for Him in this world, by not only learning His precepts and understanding their application, but by embracing the very essence of His Holy Torah.
Moses is likened to a “friend”—specifically, a friend of God. Yeshua is on record promising “friendship” to believers who abide (John 15:14). Then, immediately afterwards, He reiterates the point, saying: “I have called you friends” (15:15). It’s hard to overstate the significance: the relationship with God that believers in Yeshua enjoy is akin to Moses’.
The breastplate bearing the names of the tribes of Israel, each in its place, reminds us also to embrace our God-given place and not to compare ourselves with the other servants; neither to seek a better position than theirs, nor to grovel in our lowliness. Instead, we’re to serve within the space God has prepared for us, and prepared us for.
The voice of God to Moses, and by extension to the assembly of Israel, came by way of an organized and intentional religious space. It was not random or haphazard. It was not spontaneous or unconstrained. God’s voice came within an organized space and time.
At the conclusion of last week’s parasha, Israel is given immortality with its designation as a “Kingdom of Priests and a Holy Nation” (Exod 19:6). Mishpatim, literally “ordinances,” on the other hand, is often thought of as a law book pronouncing mundane rules that deal with a plethora of subjects.
Moses on the mountain, Isaiah caught up into the throne room of God; these accounts fuel our imagination of God as high and lofty, untouchable, unapproachable. In contrast is a wonderful little line nestled within the opening verses of Parashat Yitro: “And Aaron came with all the elders of Israel to eat bread with Moses’ father-in-law before God.”
There comes a time when God’s people need to battle. At such times, while some prefer to remain spectators, and others to be support personnel behind the lines, some will engage in the thick of things, believing themselves called to give their all in a time of transition, opportunity, or threat.
It’s election season, but the search for trustworthy leaders in our day seems to always lead to disappointment for many of us, or even for most. This makes the story of the Exodus all the more remarkable. It is not hard to understand why Moses looms so large in Jewish history.
In the beginning, Adam walked in the garden with God, and they shared an intimacy of fellowship (Gen 3:8). The oneness represented is the heart of what we know as worship. This is why humans were created. To live life in praise to God: “the people I formed for myself, so they may declare my praise” (Isa 43:21).
This week we read of Moses’ first encounter with God at the burning bush. In this conversation on the mountain, Moses finds himself wrestling with the great battle of the saints: Faith vs fear. And his fear nearly won the day.
Our parasha begins, Vayechi Yaakov, “Jacob lived in the land of Egypt seventeen years.” The language of this opening line is somewhat unexpected. Why say that Jacob lived in the land of Egypt? In English translation it’s unremarkable, but there are other verbs that might have worked in Hebrew.
Hundreds marched behind Martin Luther King and beside him, Abraham Joshua Heschel, who famously wrote later, “Legs are not lips and walking is not kneeling. And yet our legs uttered songs. Even without words, our march was worship. I felt like our legs were praying.”
Joseph was a dreamer and interpreter of amazing dreams, full of meaning. He was in an Egyptian prison after a convoluted sequence of events triggered by a gift–the Technicolor Dream Coat (Gen 37:3)—the resulting jealousy of his brothers, and his own dreams of his brothers bowing to him.
As we commemorate Hanukkah this year, let’s focus on the shamash candle, the servant light that brings light to the rest of the menorah and sheds that light to the entire house. Let’s focus on Yeshua the quintessential servant, who through his sacrificial life brings light to the entire world.
Probably about once a month, I will think about this famous scene in “Fiddler on the Roof.” Tevye is observing a conversation between two men, arguing about whether we need to read the newspaper and be aware of outside events or not. He agrees with each one in turn by saying “You’re right.”
Our tribal history contains the classic elements of being chosen, having a special legacy, and being different from (and perhaps superior to) the Other. But in typical fashion for the Torah, the account of tribal origins points beyond the usual motifs to hint at hope and transformation to come.
The Jewish spirit is a productive spirit. It works for the future and believes against all hope that the desert can indeed bloom. The Jewish spirit believes that through the diligent application of hard work in the land where we sojourn, we will not just survive, but we will thrive.
This week’s parasha brings us the account of the very first land purchase in the Land of Promise. Seeking a place to bury his wife, Sarah, Abraham approaches a local landowner to purchase the cave of Machpelah, which was on his property.
The Bible may be the world’s most surprising book. Just when you thought you had God down, you will read something that causes even the dead to rise up and say, “What was that?”
The events of the last several weeks in Israel have left all of us with a plethora of unchecked emotions. Many of us are experiencing extreme anger, and a cloud of darkness seems to hover forebodingly. In this age, war might be inevitable. Few of us can change the trajectory of violence. But we can decide how we relate to the specter of war.
The people around us influence us, and it is nearly impossible to avoid that. In this week’s parasha, however, we see two examples of people fighting and winning the fight against the negative influences around them. The first example is Noach.
This week’s Torah portion, Genesis 1:1–6:8, is indispensable, as it sheds light on how to respond in an evil day. The guidance provided in Genesis is not glib or simplistic; it does not minimize the reality of evil in our world, or try to explain it away.
In “Julius Caesar,” William Shakespeare takes the liberty of putting these words in Mark Anthony’s mouth: “Friends, Romans, countrymen; lend me your ears.” In the drama called life, Judaism takes the liberty of representing the Creator pleading: “Friends and Hebrew countrymen lend me your year.”
With the arrival of the month of Tishrei, we enter the serious yet strangely joyous High Holy Day season. What starts with teshuvah/repentance at Rosh Hashana will be sealed on the judgment day of Yom Kippur. As if to give us all a divine break, we have five days from the close of Yom Kippur to the next major holiday: Sukkot.
It’s clear from the beginning of our parasha that Moses has a strong message to communicate. He begins by calling both Heaven and Earth as witnesses, and then goes on to say: “Remember the days of antiquity, understand the years across generations.”
Rosh Hashanah is Judaism’s Day of Judgment. Sound scary? Actually, it should be the most enjoyable day of your life. After all, it is your birthday. It’s everyone’s birthday! According to our tradition it is the world’s birthday!
Sos Asis – Hebrew for “rejoice greatly,” is the first phrase of this week’s haftarah and the title of the whole portion. We have endured, we have survived, we have overcome because of him, and now we are wrapped in his righteousness.
Who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going with my life? Is God with me or against me? I remember all too well the years when those pressing questions had no answer. And then the library workers at my university went on strike.
As we approach the midpoint of the Hebrew month of Elul, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur draw near, ushering in the Days of Awe. In about a month from now, as the sun sets, the reverberating melody and contemplative words of Kol Nidre will resonate through synagogues worldwide.
On October 27, 2018, Robert Bowers entered the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh shouting “All Jews must die!” He then proceeded to open fire. After the chaos had settled, eleven people had been murdered and six more critically wounded. It is the most violent antisemitic attack ever perpetrated on American soil.
Our parasha begins with Moses speaking to the people of Israel in the plains across the Jordan river, offering us what is clearly a choice. Note the opening word, Re’eh, “See.” We are not to offhandedly choose one way or another by default, but are to really see this choice, to deeply encounter it . . . even if we may not have previously recognized it as a choice.
Remembering and not forgetting is a major issue in life as it is in this week’s parasha. In our very first verses we read. “Because you are listening to these rules, keeping and obeying them, Adonai your God will keep with you the covenant and mercy that he swore to your ancestors.”
God wanted Moses to face the future. We might extrapolate that he expects us to face the future too. Our parasha teaches that facing the future requires two things: Remembering the past, and Listening to, obeying, our God.
Words are essential building blocks for all communication. They can be used for good as well as not-so-good. We use words every day to express our thoughts and feelings. Words are necessary to communicate our needs as well as to provide instruction on everything we need to learn for living. Spoken words, written words, sign language and even pictures are representative of words. I believe it is fair to say that words, or d’varim in Hebrew, are necessary to communicating and perhaps even to survival.
One of the more common critiques leveled against the Bible is that it does not fairly adjudicate in the battle of the sexes. When we remove the lens of 21st century modernity, however, we can see in this week’s reading several key Jewish principles that govern familial and authoritative relationships.
Seven things distinguish a fool and seven things distinguish a wise person. . . . If there is something the wise person has not heard, the wise person says, “I have never heard.” The wise person acknowledges what is true. The opposite of all these qualities is found in a fool. (Pirke Avot 5:9)
As I read the Scriptures, I’m struck by how much of it relates to my childhood in the 50s and 60s. The TV show “Father Knows Best” and the game of “Pin the Tail on the Donkey” come to mind. In this week’s double portion, however, it’s a tale that the donkey realizes first.
One can only wonder what it must have been like for Moses to be challenged with open mutiny by the very people he called friends. Did this betrayal take Moses by surprise?
The ten spies could only see the challenges, but the two faithful spies saw the promises of God fulfilled in the elaborate and large produce of the land.
One of the high points of our Shabbat morning service comes as we arise, open the ark to display the Torah scroll, and chant together, “Vay’hi binsoa ha-aron vayomer Moshe . . . And whenever the ark went forward, Moses would say: ‘Arise O Lord!’”
Everyone gets counted in Numbers. And everyone counts! Many people skip over this portion with long lists of names and details. But this detailed ancient history should fascinate us! Here, the world of our ancestors is miraculously preserved for us.
As we prepare for this year’s celebration of Shavuot, we are reminded again in this week’s reading of the affectionate nature of our God. He calls his chosen “li segulah,” “my treasured possession.” It’s a phrase reserved for the Lord’s relationship to his bride, Israel.
Lest we think that creating order in our inner lives is easy or unimportant, Pirkei Avot 4:1 tells us: “Who is mighty? One who subdues their [evil] inclination, as it is said: ‘One that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and one that rules their spirit than one that takes a city.’”
Our society is not a humble one. One only needs to briefly look at our entertainment, our advertisements, and our politics to know that this is so. In opposition to humility, humanity all too often celebrates pride. Contrary to the world, however, the Torah puts an exceedingly high value on humility.
When I was leading my first congregations, I often struggled to explain what it means to live by faith. People would want to know, “How do I get more faith?” And then I heard a simple phrase that I have since often repeated, especially to new believers: “Faith is trusting in God’s faithfulness.”
Many people skip over Leviticus, assuming these chapters are irrelevant to our lives. This week’s parasha proves such people to be mistaken. Taken seriously, even two verses in today’s parasha can transform our lives in service to God and mankind.
This week as we count the Omer, we are examining the middot (character traits) of Peace and Patience. The Apostolic Witness refers to these as “Fruit of the Spirit,” and I have found that the fruit of patience and peace are most evident when I allow myself to live in a place called calm.
Real joy arises out of real relationships. Aaron’s shame after the golden calf incident could only be resolved in relationship. He loved and trusted his brother. Moses’ words were probably reinforced by a comforting hand on his shoulder, a genuine smile, and a deep, reassuring gaze.
The account of our exodus from Egypt is a love story. When we retell it each year at the Passover Seder, it’s framed by four cups of wine that—the sages tell us—reflect God’s four-fold promise at the beginning of the story, ending with, “I will take you for me as a people, and I will be for you as a God.”
This weekend is Shabbat HaGadol, the final Shabbat before Pesach. In the midst of a frenzy of last-minute house cleaning, we gather this week to read the closing words of the prophet Malachi.
God does a lot of speaking in the Torah, both in visions and dreams and in an audible voice. He speaks so often that we might miss some revealing distinctions in how he speaks. And these distinctions have a lesson for us, as we seek to hear God amidst the noisy and chaotic days we’re living in.
God is a specific God. He loves details. He shares these details with his servants. His children hear his voice and they obey. This week’s parashah deals with many details of the building of the mishkan (tabernacle). It reminds me of building Legos as a kid.
The story of the Golden Calf is really the story of each of us. It is no accident that Aaron fashions the idol and Israel falls to it at the very moment God gives Israel the tablets of the covenant. In this respect it is the perfect fall.
This year, as I read Esther, I find myself asking the text what it has to say to us today. While it may be ancient, the problems it deals with are tragically current. What can Esther teach us about Jewish survival? How does its text point us toward the future?
This is a characteristic of the Almighty. Present everywhere, he yet deigns to make his Presence known in our time and space. Whereas we cannot reach, and certainly cannot comprehend, his exalted mind, his infinite space, his timeless space, he has chosen to enter ours.
We need hope today more than ever. But in what do we hope? Some think of our hope as going to “heaven" when we die. But this is not the biblical hope. The biblical hope, in short, is the future establishment of God’s Dwelling Place, God’s “tent,” on earth, on his holy mountain in Jerusalem.
Then that night, something crazy happened. The campsite was on a hill. My fellow campers and I had placed our tent on that hill, and we figured it was okay not to put our tent stakes in the ground because we were going to be inside it.
Healing is a deep and universal human need, and praying for the sick and afflicted has always been part of my ministry as a rabbi and teacher—never more so than in recent years, with the Covid pandemic and a good number of friends and colleagues beginning to decline in health and vitality.
On May 14, 1948, before signing Israel’s Declaration of Independence, David Ben Gurion looked back over 2000 years of our history and declared how the Jewish people had returned in a second exodus, “undaunted by difficulties, restrictions and dangers.”
The life of Moses can be seen as three distinct movements, forty years each. First Moses spends forty years thinking he is somebody. In the second act he discovers that he is nobody. But in the third forty years Moses discovers what Hashem can do with somebody who accepts he is nobody.
The Prophet Yogi Berra told us, “You can observe a lot by just watching.” Such sage advice! But it is true that we can learn a lot for our own lives by watching how our ancestors lived theirs.
God knows all things, but he has assigned to human beings, and therefore to us, a priestly responsibility. Even though our ancestors were groaning under heavy bondage, they still represented God and had the authority to call upon him to intervene.
Who among us hasn’t contemplated revenge? Who hasn’t caught themselves musing at length about toppling an enemy from their pedestal, wanting them to feel for a moment the same pain that they inflicted? When Yosef was hauled off to prison at the whim of Potiphar’s wife, who do you think he blamed?
Let’s make no mistake; the Maccabees did not fight for religious freedom, but to cleanse the land for the worship of the one true God of Israel. While they fought to end the Greek cultic practices imposed through the tyranny of Antiochus, they also fought to end the long-felt effects of assimilation.
When our Gentile friends or co-workers ask us “what’s Hanukkah about, anyway?” we tend to give them sugar-coated references to light, miracles, and funny games with spinning tops. But this is only half of the story.
A little old Jewish lady decides to make the long journey to speak with a holy man in India. When she arrives, his attendants turn her down—the guru is thronged by admirers—but she is so insistent that they finally let her in on one condition: she can only speak three words.
Genesis is irreplaceable, forming a sturdy foundation for all of Scripture and all of life. Its portraits of family dysfunctionality provide a master class in ineffective and effective conflict resolution.
Do you ever feel as if your life is a conflict between good and evil? Rebekah, Isaac’s wife, was pregnant with twins, but the twins struggled within her, causing her great distress. When she inquired of the Lord, he answered her, “There are two nations in your womb.”
I’m about to be a father for the first time. Our son will be born quite soon. This impending change brings a heavy feeling with it, though not a burdensome one. Lately, I’ve found myself looking at life in new ways.
The Almighty visits Abraham at the oaks of Mamre to show us how to care for the sick among us, those who are ill in body and soul, just as he provides the example of caring for the impoverished and vulnerable.
Often we struggle to believe in our minds, which are subject to so many diverse influences. The key is to stop thinking that our faith should defy gravity! Try letting your faith slide down into your feet! Just start walking, one foot after the other, in the direction you best discern God’s leading.
Parashat Noach seems increasingly sobering over the past few decades and especially this year. September and October seem to bring new catastrophic threats and concerns to the southeast portion of the USA and the Caribbean Islands.
The first book of the Bible, B’reisheet, lays a foundation for the rest of the Torah and the entire Bible. But beyond this literary function, we do well to recognize how this book lays a foundation for our lives as descendants of the first parents, as people born into and through families, as members of a holy people.
As if to reinforce Rosh Hashanah as the beginning of our new year, Simchat Torah concludes our reading of the Torah (Deut 33–34) by immediately launching us into reading the Torah from the beginning again. So, we begin again immediately . . . not at some indistinct time in the future, but now.
Shabbat Shuvah has passed for this year. All Israel has listened to the final note of the shofar at the Neilah, the Closing of the Gates at the last Yom Kippur service. Life continues.
During these Days of Awe, we have the opportunity to reach out to those we have offended, and even to those who have offended us, to offer an attitude of shalom that recognizes our differences while at the same time recognizing that spark of the Creator that is in each one of us.
In Moses’ final discourses, he makes it clear that entering the land God has chosen, by crossing over from Moab, is equated with entering into our covenant with God. We can’t fully grasp our purpose as a people unless we understand the decisive connection between God, the people of Israel and the Land of Israel.
As a well-worn saying goes, it’s the preacher’s job to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. They’re both challenging tasks, which is why Jewish tradition devotes, not just a day or two, but a whole season to affliction and comfort.
The commandments are for our benefit; in a sense, they are one aspect of God’s ḥesed toward us. The sages of the Talmud contend that this is a model for us: we imitate God by showing ḥesed to those around us, and even to the natural world.
I long for the day when “Messianic Jewish” is not a religious brand, but a description of the values of our community, values that reflect the presence of Messiah among us. This week’s parasha opens with a foundational text for creating this sort of community.
In our parasha this week, Re’eh, we are faced with a shot over the bow. While life and death will be set before Israel at length at the end of Deuteronomy, here the choice is presented earlier, and more succinctly.
A circumcised heart enables us to follow God in ways we might have previously not thought possible. Through it we can love God and love others, even the outsider, with everything we have.
This week, as I looked back to the opening words of the haftarah portion, did I truly understand what it means to find comfort in the presence of God? How does that prophetic word penetrate our world, fractured, conflicted, and now in constant turmoil?
The Exodus was historical and the Seder forces it to be experiential. Yeshua’s life was historical. Yet, when we follow him, it becomes experiential and transformational. Each generation is called to be the Joshua generation that enters the promises of God and showcases gratitude for God’s salvation by living out a life that reveals his character.
We live in a culture of addiction. Alcohol and drug addiction rates, already elevated before the COVID pandemic, continue to rise steeply. And if you include what we call “process addictions”—like gambling or compulsive shopping, screen time, or pornography use—nearly everyone is touched by addiction in one way or another.
“Human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.” The quote is haunting, the implications are troubling, but the meaning speaks to a sense of anxiety to which I think everyone can relate.
Our current world situation prompts us to cry, “how long, O Lord, how long?” The promised star out of Jacob has come, yet we still live with war, famine, pestilence, and death. As we walk through these tumultuous times, remember three points drawn from Balaam’s oracles.
“Christians worry about eternal judgment and whether they’ll go to heaven or hell when they leave this world. Jews are concerned about life in this world, and how to make it a better place while they’re here.”
Leadership can be brutal. Many may be initially intoxicated with the idea of leading others, but give it a few weeks, months, or years, and one will encounter challenges. One of the most difficult aspects of leadership is when a friend, partner, or associate comes against you, and you experience betrayal.
Moses sends out twelve men, a man from every tribe, “every one a leader among them,” to spy out the land. This action reveals the partnership between God and his people that marks all of our godly activities here on earth: We follow God’s word to do his work, yet we also have to prepare by developing intelligent plans. Herein lies our dilemma.
Finally, after so many months remaining in the shadow of Sinai, Moshe will at last be leading God’s people toward the promised land. But just as Israel’s story is about to unfold in new ways, this parasha provides some reflective insights for us to consider.
Is it possible to have a face-to-face conversation with God?
In Exodus 25:22, the Lord said that he would speak to Moses “from above the ark-cover, from between the two k’ruvim [or Cherubim] which are on the ark for the testimony.”
The book of Numbers begins with God telling Moses to take a census of the entire assembly of Israel. This census seems to appear out of nowhere. Which leads us to ask, what is the purpose of this census anyway?
Recently a friend of mine was helping her friend pack and get ready to move, and found this handwritten Post-it note on a bookcase: “If God is all we have, that is all we need.” She commented, “Hmmm . . . but we all have a lot more. Maybe we don’t need it all?!”
The land is an important biblical character in its own right. The first portion (tithe) always belongs to the Lord, whether of produce or animals. In Parashat Behar, God commands Israel to give the land a holy Sabbath rest every seven years.
It seems to me that God could use a good press secretary. You know, like C.J. on the classic TV show West Wing—the perfect prototype of the professional spin-doctors who protect and often augment the images of public figures.
A principle in Judaism known as pikuach nefesh roughly translates to “saving a life.” The principle holds that human life is of the highest value—so high a value, in fact, that the commands of Torah can and should be set aside if a life can be spared in the process.
Acharei Mot. What a way to start a parasha—with the words Acharei Mot: “After the death!” This phrase refers to the death of Aaron’s two sons, Nadab and Abihu, who had offered “strange fire” before the Lord.
The story told and celebrated on Passover and Easter is essentially one and the same story, viewed from two different angles. It’s the story of God’s redeeming power, bringing freedom to Israel, the nations, and all creation.
In a world that is coping with unrelenting plagues and an autocrat's callous war on helpless civilians, observing Passover has never seemed more relevant. We’ve rediscovered the value and fragility of our freedom.
A lot of ink has been spilled over the centuries about the evils of lashon hara. Nothing much has been said, however, on its corollary, lashon hatov, good speech. That’s what I would like us to focus on today.
The capacity for wonder is fast disappearing in our day. But wonder is holy: it reminds us there is something, or Someone, beyond ourselves. Wonder causes us to sense and seek God.
When I tell people I have never eaten a Chick-fil-A nugget because it is non-kosher chicken (I have had their fries, and they definitely live up to the hype), they are shocked. Personally, I keep kosher not just because I grew up that way but also because I know it is what God says to do.
Purim is definitely a good time for celebration. We should eat, drink, laugh, and enjoy the holiday fully. However, we should also appreciate the true story that we read in the Tanakh of the adventures of Esther and her adoptive father, Mordechai.
While the original Mishkan was built once and then completed, we can participate in its building and rebuilding every day: living lives of prayer, Shabbat, and mitzvot as people of humility, faith and character. Thus may we draw near to God that God may, in mercy, draw near to us.
I love maps because I like to know where I am in the big picture of things. Tracing where I’ve been, the trails I’ve taken, then locating my present position, is the only way I know to navigate the road ahead. This is a good life practice for individuals, as well as for communities.
Leaders like to count heads. The US government has conducted a census every ten years since 1790, and even the theocracy established in Israel ages earlier required a census. The Torah’s guidelines for this census are surprisingly relevant to creating healthy communities today.
Whenever I have something meaty to explain to someone, I always try to deliver what I call a sandwich, interspersing it with the bread of affirmation and compassion. Not everyone needs or appreciates a nice verbal sandwich, but for me, it’s like a verbal hug of affirmation and encouragement.
Messiah our High Priest doesn’t simply go instead of us as some might posit, but rather ahead of us as our advocate. Therefore, we can follow him into the throne room of grace, confident that we will receive grace and mercy in our time of need.
When Israel was building the Mishkan, God instructed them to bring him a donation as their hearts moved them. It comes from our hearts! We build a home for Hashem in our hearts through study, prayer, and good deeds.
I often find myself caught up with grand events, perhaps the world of politics or global conflict. Then I begin to wonder how God is going to respond to a growing crisis. Yet God is not just the God of big things. He is also the God of the details.
This past week, while rummaging through old family papers, I found a document that revealed some painful details about my mother’s family and their escape from Germany to Palestine in 1934. It is a deposition given by my late grandmother 65 years ago, detailing the family trauma under the Nazis for a German reparations commission.
The righteous are almost exactly like everyone else, except for one key difference. And this difference is what defines us. In the Bible, it is what separates the heroes from ordinary men and women.
Speaking of heroes—let’s talk about Moses.
Perhaps the most difficult time of day in my house is getting the kids out the door to school in the morning. A parent’s dream is to tell their kids, “Let’s go!” and to have everyone outside within a couple minutes without any major drama. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask, right?
Exodus is the Torah’s book of worship. It takes Israel from the scene of oppression in Egypt, to Mount Sinai where they become a kingdom of priests, to the building of the tabernacle in the wilderness, where the Lord will meet with his people in the midst of the camp.
Our parasha is like so many other times in the story of Israel. While people struggled with their issues of faith, and struggled through the difficulties and torments of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, there was yet something happening behind the scenes.
Through the literary structure, techniques, and conventions in Vayechi, we see how the end of a matter can be better than the beginning. Genesis, however, is not the end of the matter; it is just the beginning.
It has been said that blood is thicker than water. This proverbial wisdom would suggest that family ties, though frequently tried, are stronger than any other relational bonds. After all, no judge would allow the sibling of a defendant to sit on the jury empowered to impartially try him or her.
Who can you trust these days? As a rabbi and counselor I talk with people every day who’ve been let down, disappointed, or even betrayed by others. On the public level, trust is rapidly eroding everywhere. Who is credible in our age of distrust?
Just as we can look to Joseph’s story and his character for shadows of the Messiah to come, we have Messiah Yeshua to look to when it comes to repairing the impact and the legacy of sin. Ultimately, what lies at the heart of this whole discussion is rescue.
Few of us have ever been aware of encountering the malakhim—those divine servants and agents of God who surround his throne and do his bidding. But others, believers like Ya’akov (Jacob), seem to experience them everywhere.
We often speak of Yeshua as the “Perfect Isaac,” the one to whom Isaac and his sacrifice point forward. We also speak of Yeshua as the prophet greater than Moshe, as the Living Torah, and as the Perfect Passover Lamb. But I propose that we can also think of Yeshua as the Perfect Jacob.
We want to be the ones who start something new and fresh or see what was started reach its completion, for we see this as the source of our own significance. But isn’t it completely possible to simply be a vessel to carry someone or something else a step forward?
Yeshua initiated his students into this mission by taking on the role and dress of a servant (John 13). Therefore let us serve, not by looking for the grandiose or inspiring roles, not with an expectation that we know how the future will unfold, but by accomplishing what stands before us.
People are often shocked and a bit unsettled when they learn that there is a long Jewish tradition of arguing with God. It somehow seems disrespectful to challenge the Creator of the Universe; after all, who are we to argue?
Our ancestor Abraham was not particularly intent on playing it safe. When the situation called for it, he took great risks, and he reaped great rewards, as we see in this week’s parashah: “After these things the word of the Lord came to Abram in a vision: ‘Fear not, Abram, I am your shield; your reward shall be very great.’”
The Lord himself is our Ark, our vehicle, and our hope. Remember, he has power over the waters of chaos. His life-giving Ruach hovered over the waters in Creation; his Ruach blew back the waters so that Noah could leave the ark; and his Ruach split the waters so that Israel could go through the Red Sea.
Why does the inspired writer force us at the outset of the human journey to confront such a violent accounting of sibling rivalry? I believe that the answer lies between the lines of the terse narrative found in the fourth chapter of B’reisheet.
Shelter is a primal human need, along with food and clean water and air to breathe. But beyond our primitive need of shelter, we might find ourselves yearning for a deeper shelter, which our observance of Sukkot hints at.
My treasured memories of spending time in Jerusalem at Sukkot always bring to mind those inspiring commands from D’varim/Deuteronomy: “Rejoice at your festival. . . . Adonai your God will bless you . . . so you are to be full of joy.”
No, we are not isolated from the brokenness of the world. It is our brokenness. In the words of our tradition, “We are not so brazen-faced and stiff-necked as to say before you, we are righteous and have not sinned; rather, we and our ancestors have sinned.”
Let’s practice holiness, separated from the world, while from a position of strength we exist in the world, exhibiting the love of God to those who are hurting, being the hands and feet of God to those in need, and being the voice of hope and reason in a time that is rife with chaos and confusion.
At the great turning-point of Moses’ life—when God really needed to get his attention—he chose to speak to Moses from out of a thorn-bush of all places. Why not from the wide blue sky, or the starry heavens at night, out there in the wilderness? Or why not from the mountain top, or at least from some big, impressive tree? But a thorn-bush?
The seven weeks of consolation or comfort lead us out from summer’s heat and into the cool of autumn. They take us from the torment of Tisha B’Av to the joy and hope of Rosh Hashanah, a day that not only celebrates the New Year, but is also associated through Jewish tradition with God’s kingship ( malchiyot).
In a day of shifting loyalties and unstable commitments, the Lord’s declaration shines out like a beacon: “The mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed.” It’s an unshakable promise that empowers us to make and keep our promises to those around us and those we love.
In the darkest hours we must hold on to the light of promise. That which we choose to ignore maintains power over us. Yeshua’s suffering liberates us from the power of death, and his final words give us the authority together to live life with hope.
As Israel stood listening to Moshe at the edge of the Promised Land, they were still a people whose greatest patriarchs had been nomads buried in a distant cave bought from strangers. So it’s unlikely they could have imagined a future temple of soaring dimensions to the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.
Our entire parashah illustrates a valid point for us today: unless we remember the past, our present has no foundation. As our people have put it often, ma’aseh avot, siman l’banim, “what happened to our ancestors in the past is a lesson for us, their descendants.”
I’ve been dialoguing with a Jewish friend of mine who is reading through the Torah and asking me questions. Recently, he asked me something I’ve heard other folks ask as well, “What does it mean that the Jewish people are chosen? Isn’t that kind of self-centered?”
For the Jewish people, summer brings the anniversary of our greatest national trauma. On Tisha B’Av, we don't simply mourn the loss of a building—we grieve the pain of divine abandonment. As Lamentations (the megillah or scroll customarily read on Tisha B'Av) asks: “Eicha?” or “How?—how could all this happen?”
If you love someone, honor them, even at your own expense. Get in the habit of safeguarding others’ honor and reputation. The starting point for this is being in touch with your own infinite value; only one who is secure in their place, who has “reputation to give,” as it were, is able to guard others’ honor generously.
The concept of individualism tempered by participation in the collective whole has been challenged this past year, as the emphasis on individuals and their rights seems to have skyrocketed. The problem is that individualism apart from participation in the collective whole leads to chaos.
The words of Jeremiah the prophet draw our attention beyond our undeniable failures as a people to our equally undeniable foundation as a people chosen and loved by God. And it’s particularly striking that the Lord is speaking here specifically to Jerusalem.
Like a play within a play, the episode with Balaam confronts us with a truly paradoxical figure: a God-fearer who could prophetically proclaim the rise of Israel but dies merely a soothsayer, almost as a passing footnote.
Everyone knows that simply looking at something cannot cure a deadly snakebite. What healed the Israelites was the power of God, through their display of faith in looking at the serpent raised up by Moses. It’s a testament to God’s character that, despite the lack of faith shown by the Israelites again and again, once they repented, he gave them a means to display faith in him once more, and by it, be saved from certain death.
Ever heard the title Mutiny on the Bounty? On April 28, 1789, Lieutenant Fletcher Christian seized control of HMS Bounty, and set Captain William Bligh adrift in a small boat on the open sea. I mention it here, because we’re looking at one of the Hebrew Bible’s versions of a mutiny—in this case, against Moses not Bligh.
The fears, horrors, and insecurities of our childhoods do not disappear with time, as we might imagine, but rather remain buried deep in our psyche only to reemerge in more sophisticated expressions. Unless we slay, shrink, or unmask the monsters and giants of our past, they make a home next to our “child within.”
When walking by faith, we are not guaranteed the knowledge of the “whats and whys” of our walk. Like Israel, we may not know how long that walk might be or what its various stops or detours might be like. We can have our hopes or ideas, but in all things, we must trust in Hashem.
A man becomes suspicious that his wife has been cheating on him. He has no proof, only his feelings of jealousy. So, the husband publicly accuses his wife of adultery and brings her to the temple to perform a ritual to prove her guilt.
The Jewish people did not experience true liberation of mind, body, and soul until they came to Mt Sinai, heard the voice of God, and received the Torah. On Shavuot we celebrate not just being given some laws; we celebrate being given our freedom, our identity, and our soul.
When things threaten to drift out of control, we may sometimes need to paddle harder, or we may need to recognize this anxious moment as an opportunity to trust God more deeply.
How can we meet God’s standards? How are we to respond to a scriptural reality in which the penalty for transgressions is often a painful and gruesome death, and the result of impurity is exile? When we mess up, are we done? Are we finished? Is that what it means to follow God?
Being holy can be summed up in the command to love your neighbor and the alien (stranger, foreigner) as yourself. Being holy means being set apart, being distinct. It means having the courage to be different than the world around us.
It is incumbent that when one sees an afflicted person that he also sees him as a whole person. The kohanim or priests were in a sense the “doctors of the soul.” This is the role of a kohen, to restore the person to wholeness—to have the imagination to see beyond a person’s present brokenness, and to recognize his or her own power to heal.
The lesson for us and for our day is clear. A fantastic leader will be one who models obedience to God’s word, diligence in his service, and an orientation toward being a blessing to his people. A foolish leader will be impressed by his own station and will even seek to manipulate the presence of God for his own purposes and satisfaction.
For the uninitiated, one of the traditions of the Passover Seder is a special bag called a matzah tash that has three compartments, each with a piece of matzah in it. The tradition is to take the middle piece out and break it in half. Half of the matzah is placed back in the matzah tash, but the other half is wrapped in a linen napkin. This piece is called the Afikomen.
As we prepare for Passover this year, there’s lots to do—cleaning the leaven out of our houses; buying the right food; inviting family and guests to the Seder, whether in-person or on-screen; and preparing the feast. Amidst all these preparations, it’s vital to remember that we’ll be telling and hearing and even acting out a story, a story that defines who we are and what our lives are about.
Shalom, true peace, is not the absence of conflict, disagreement, or even pain; it is knowing that we do not face these challenges alone, and that the one who shares them with us adds his strength to our weakness, enabling us to endure—even if the challenges lead “through the valley of the shadow of death” (Psalm 23:4).
“I don’t believe in organized religion.” That’s a common response when we try to talk about faith with someone who’s unaffiliated. If I’m talking with someone about Messianic Judaism in particular, I might respond, “Don’t worry, we’re not that organized.”
God was greatly hurt and angered by our ancestors’ behavior with the golden calf, but he opted for reconciliation. As King of our precious covenant, he could have trashed it all after the incident of idolatry. But he didn’t. In fact, he continued to lead our people. And what does that show us? That God indeed is merciful and forgiving. His heart toward Israel is one of compassion.
Esther has been an inspiring figure in Judaism for centuries. Children dress as her on the festival of Purim and it’s even become traditional to name baby girls born near Purim Esther after the heroine of the story.
But compared to other figures in the Bible, is Esther really a good Jewish role model?
One of the most intriguing places my wife and I have experienced in Israel is David Ben Gurion’s home in Tel Aviv. The square brick building is not only plain outside; its first floor has sparse, basic furnishings with few touches of color. It almost disdains luxury. But then you reach the second floor and feel you’ve entered the great man’s inner sanctum, his desk, his papers. You sense his presence . . .
Though our contemporary society might have a passion for ethics, without an understanding of the social dimension of human life—that we are not simply individuals, but that our families, communities, and nation make up part of our core identities—we have lost a key ingredient for making ethics comprehensible.
I remember the first time I saw a smartphone. Naively, I thought I was looking at an instrument of peace and enlightenment. With the Internet in everyone’s pocket, I thought that having more and better information would inspire us all to make better choices and to treat one another better.
Clearly, I was mistaken. Why didn’t we improve? What were we missing?
Some years back in a closed study session, I was happy to study four verses from today’s parasha with my close friend, lecturer and author Ariel Berkowitz, and Eldon Clem, a scholar, rabbi, and world-class Aramaic expert. All three of us had been curious as to the meaning of four verses in our parasha.
How natural for all Jews to begin the Seder with the strange declaration, “This is the bread of poverty,” followed by the seemingly contrary, yet open, invitation for “all who are hungry to come and eat.” It is not the physical act of eating that draws us together; rather it is the great sense of solidarity and empathy that we each crave.
Fear makes for bad politics. Just ask the folks who lived through Pharaoh’s reign in the days of the Exodus. As our story opened in last week’s parasha, Pharaoh was stoking fears about a peaceful minority group thriving among the Egyptians: “Behold, the people of Israel are too many and too mighty for us. . . .”
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If you think about it, it’s almost obvious: patterns of behavior become harder to change over time. This implies that those first actions, even if small, have outsized importance to one’s character. Maybe when Moses first noticed the Egyptian taskmaster beating an Israelite slave, the future hung in the balance as he decided what to do . . . but the next time at the well, it was a little easier to make that decision.
Children don’t miss a beat. They observe things about us we don’t see in ourselves, in the process being imprinted with both the good and the bad. This is unavoidable. And yes, this can be troubling.
This week’s parasha reminds us all is not lost.
Justice in our tradition is not preoccupied with crime and punishment, but is focused on shalom, restoration, and wholeness, and finds its ultimate embodiment in Yeshua, who like Judah, was willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of restoration, regardless of whether it was fair.
Nachmanides says there are two types of miracles; Nes Nigleh, the obvious miracle, and Nes Nistar, the hidden miracle. Our job is to constantly seek the hidden miracles in life.
The Maccabees drew their name from a glorious acronym -- Mi Chamocha Ba’eilim Adonai (“Who is like you, O Lord among the Gods?”). May their choice to rise up and worship God, even in confining circumstances, serve as a template for us today.
Words have power for good and ill; words stick and their absence sticks too. The power of words gives us an opportunity to create good amidst the confusion, chaos, and anxiety of the days we’re living in.
Dear Leah,
It humbles me now to think of how I acted when we were young. I was desperate and childless, and children are the blessing of God and the hope of our inheritance. I pleaded with Jacob, our husband, for a child.
This week’s Torah portion presents a most difficult dilemma: Are there situations in life where it is acceptable to be dishonest and deceptive? Oy vey iz mir . . . Let’s dive into this parasha a bit and see what we can come up with.
This week’s portion, entitled Chayei Sarah, which literally means the life of Sarah, chronicles the matriarch’s death and burial, and her husband’s contemplative mourning. It begins, though, with a one-sentence retrospective of her life. “Sarah’s lifetime was one hundred years, twenty years, and seven years: the years of Sarah’s life.”
Our world is perhaps more divided today than it’s ever been. But when we encounter people we presume to be far from God, we might do well to remember the lessons of Abraham and Abimelech, and the wisdom of Paul among the Athenians. “Every way of a man is right in his own eyes, but the Lord weighs the heart.”
Jews, Christians, and Muslims as well call ourselves “children of Avraham.” And in the Christian and Messianic Jewish tradition, when we call ourselves children of Avraham, we usually focus on having the same kind of faith as Avraham. But do we have that kind of faith?
As I read this week’s parasha, I am reminded that our great problems in the world today are not new. They are the same ones as in ancient times, recycled into our current generation. Our parasha opens with a view of human life from over 4,000 years ago: “The earth was corrupt in its relation to God and was full of wanton violence.”
Every person is made in the image of God, and therefore to be treated with respect and dignity. This claim might sound obvious, or even a bit sentimental, but we need to hear it afresh amidst current views like these: “The human race is just a chemical scum on a moderate-size planet . . . just a ripple within the cosmic data flow.”
As if to reinforce Rosh Hashanah as the beginning of our new year, Simchat Torah concludes our reading of the Torah (Deut 33–34) by immediately launching us into reading the Torah from the beginning (B’reisheet) again. So, we begin again immediately, not at some indistinct time in the future, but right now.
It’s entirely possible to do good, without being good. I think of the quote from the controversial central character of “The Wolf of Wall Street,” Jordan Belfort: “See money doesn’t just buy you a better life, better food, better cars . . . it also makes you a better person.”
When I teach or counsel about forgiveness, this is a question I hear more than any other: How do I forgive myself? I’ve searched the Scriptures for verses on forgiving yourself and can’t find any. You can repent (with God’s help) and you can receive God’s forgiveness, but you can’t forgive yourself.
And realizing this fact can be liberating, an essential step in the right direction.
Now that my title got your attention, I’ll let you know this message isn’t about non-binary gender identity. Instead, it’s about looking beyond the usual binary reading of Isaac and Ishmael to bring out a dimension of the story that’s of special importance to us, particularly as we approach the Days of Awe.
The great Rabbi Nachman of Breslov put it this way: “The world is a narrow bridge and the important thing is to not be afraid.” Afraid of what? Afraid of falling off onto one side, or one extreme, or the other.
In August of 1967, The Young Rascals recorded their fourth Top Ten hit, How Can I Be Sure? The chorus echoes in our thoughts as we traverse the month of Elul in preparation for the Days of Awe. “How can I be sure, in a world that’s constantly changing? / How can I be sure, where I stand with you?”
This week’s parasha, Ki Tetse, begins, “When you go to war against your enemies.” The realities and assumptions of the ancient world are expressed in this statement from God by the mouth of Moses. Notice it says “when” and not “if.”
The Bible calls us to be perfectionists. Its understanding of perfectionism, however, is quite different from that of the world in which we live. In the Bible, a perfectionist is one who walks blamelessly or wholeheartedly before Hashem.
Idolatry is one thing that God would not tolerate, the quickest way to threaten the covenant relationship with him. Even the former places of Canaanite idolatry were to be destroyed. God did not want his beloved people to be tripped up and have their lives ruined by idolatry.
There is an interesting connection of our parasha with Jacob. Ekev (ayin-qof-vav) is also part of Jacob’s name. His name more accurately means “May he (God) be at your heels,” as in your “defending rear guard.”
Tisha B’Av is upon us—the ninth day of the month of Av, commemorating the destruction of the Holy Temple. While I don’t relish a day of pain and sadness, performing a good cleansing tshuvah (repentance) is always in order. Being honest, however, the prevailing emotion I experience on Tisha B’Av is indeed one of pain.
Many of us who are parents know that we have to repeat things a lot. This is summed up in the all-too-familiar question, “How many times have I told you that?!” It can become frustrating and make you feel like your children aren’t listening. Then there’s the follow up question, “How many times do I have to say this until you get it?!”
Life is a journey! Much like a train ride, life’s journey has stops along the way, but when the whistle blows, we move forward toward our destination. The Tanakh records many journeys. For example, Abraham journeyed to a land Adonai showed him, and B’nei Israel, the children of Israel, journeyed from Egypt to the land of promise.
When I volunteered to prepare a study on this week’s Torah portion, I was thinking about Pinchas’ zeal for the honor and holiness of Hashem, or maybe about the covenant of shalom that Hashem would establish with Pinchas and his descendants forever. As I sat down to begin writing, however, the Ruach took me in an entirely different direction.
In this week’s parasha we meet the pagan prophet Bil’am, hired by Balak, king of Moab, to come and curse Israel. But Bil’am warns Balak’s messengers who come to hire him that no matter how much they pay him, he can only say what Adonai puts in his mouth.
Korach and his allies can be cast as bad dudes who cause trouble—for whatever reason—and are dealt with. A careful reading of the story, however, leaves questions. And our tradition is all about careful readings—and questions!
A good report is not of any less value if our community rejects it, or if we suffer physical threats on account of it. Caleb and Joshua’s good report was based on long-term trusting.
When daring to speak or think of the God of all that is or ever could be, it pays to be radically humble, a capacity which is itself beyond our grasp. But let’s at least realize that this radical humility is a destination toward which we should point ourselves, like Abraham leaving the idolatry of his father’s ways and his comfortable homeland for a yet undiscovered country.
This week’s parasha contains one of only two prescribed blessings in all of Torah, the Birkat Kohanim.
Adonai bless you and keep you! Adonai make His face to shine on you and be gracious to you! Adonai turn His face toward you and grant you shalom! (Numbers 6:22–26 TLV)
In the wilderness God speaks. Torah is teaching us that it is in places of uncertainty, challenge, and temptation that we find God. The uncertainty we’re facing today can become the source of new understanding and nearness to God.
Our parasha starts off by explaining the year of the yovel, sometimes translated as Jubilee, but I like the way Everett Fox renders it: Homebringing. God’s realm is holy and good, and Shabbat, Yom Kippur, the Jubilee, the Tabernacle, the Messiah, these are all part of his plan for the holy realm to intercept the earth, as it was in Eden.
In the past most of “civilized” society dealt with others’ handicaps by turning a blind eye. At best, the disabled were treated with dismissive sympathies and self-congratulatory charity; at worst they were often blamed for their disabilities and pushed to the margins of society. Only recently has the conversation turned toward treating those with disabilities as fully enfranchised members of society.
There are few lines of Scripture more uncompromising than the opening verses of K’doshim: “You are to be holy as I the Lord your God am holy” (19:2). Is this truly possible? Most of us would probably settle for “faithful,” or perhaps, “devout.” But holy?
As we are all still shut in or locked down for an unknown amount of time, I cannot help but think about some of our ancestors who experienced a type of “shut-in” experience, and learn from their example.
It is not a pleasant example.
A change in circumstances necessarily brings with it a change in perception. This year I’ve found the story of God’s liberation of our people from bondage resonating more deeply and fully, now that my own freedom of movement has been temporarily removed. Even matzah has been difficult to come by this year—we’ve had to ration ours to make it last.
Sefirat ha-Omer, counting the Omer, is based on the Torah (Leviticus 23) and has always been part of Jewish life, but often neglected. In the UMJC family, we’ve made it part of our tradition for years now—and we can keep it going this year.
Passover is above all a story, an appeal to the imagination and to memory. We don’t just think and talk about Passover, but we picture and reenact and memorialize it. Ironically, one of the advantages of our current COVID shutdown is that he helps us imagine the “night of watching” in Egypt.
Yitzchak, already a young man, understood what was happening, even though he never heard the initial command: “Take now your son, your only son, the beloved one, Isaac, and go for yourself (Lech Lecha) to the land of Moriah, and offer up the gift that goes up there, on one of the mountains that I will show you” (Gen 22:2).
Many years ago, when I was a much younger man, I was earnestly seeking God’s will for my vocation. I agonized in prayer for weeks. I can remember praying about this as I was driving to my mother’s house one Sunday and God said to me, undeniably, “Do what you want!”
“God is merciful and forgiving” is the bottom line of our parasha, and probably of most Torah portions. In Exodus 33:14, we get a glimpse of the great mercy, forgiveness, and love that God had for his covenant people: “Then he (God) responded (to Moshe): “My face will go (on the journey to Israel with the people), and I will lead you!”
In Parashat Tetzaveh we get the first explicit mention of Aaron and his sons as priests of Israel. The first order of business seems to be their wardrobe: “Make sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and adornment” (28:3). As they say, “The ephod makes the man,” and Aaron’s family gets an entire chapter devoted to the rich attire that signifies its priestly role.
What happens when God shows up? The book of Exodus is a powerful series of answers to this question. This week’s parasha, Terumah, describes the various furnishings of the Tabernacle, prompting another tantalizing question: What happens when God moves in next door?
The story of our relationship with God is told through our lives, and our lives are the only book that some people will ever read about God. What kind of book do we want people to read from our lives—a law code or one that stems from and exhibits the same grace Hashem gave to Israel when he established a relationship with us?
Parashat Yitro can aid us in better understanding how people come to faith in the God of Israel and his Messiah. That process is surprising and we have much to learn.
When the Israelites left Egypt they did not have a choice about their route. They moved according to the Lord’s plan. We can learn much that is applicable to our own life journey from the opening verses of this week’s Torah portion.
It’s still mid-winter in most of the world, but our Torah readings this week and last remind us that Passover is not far off. This week’s reading includes the verses underlying the section in the Haggadah that opens, The Torah speaks of four sons—one wise, one wicked, one simple, and one who does not know how to ask.
During the Passover Seder we drink four cups of wine. This is a very old tradition dating back to the Mishnah, and our Sages over the centuries have given various reasons why there are four cups. But there is also a fifth cup, which we don’t drink.
Before Moshe could save the Jewish people, six women saved his skin. In the opening pages of Exodus, when Moshe finally gets to tell his own story, he takes special care to honor the women to whom he owes his very existence.
We all like a good story. Stories are an integral part of our lives. They are part of our culture, our family values, and our faith. Bible stories are known as narratives. We’ve all heard the term biblical narrative, or canonical narrative, or the patriarchal narratives. Why are these biblical stories called narratives?
One of the most difficult things to figure out when reading this portion is why Joseph behaved as he did. Some commentators think he was living by the “seat of his pants” and dealt with his brothers in a chaotic, emotional, perhaps even spiteful manner. I admit that as I’ve read through this portion every year, I have thought that Joseph was indeed shooting from the hip, acting impulsively without any thought or plan.
Last week we explored the idea of ourselves as the eighth candle of the Hanukkah menorah and Yeshua as the ninth; the one who lights us with his passion and power. He calls us to a life of dedication to Torah. This week we will continue with two more ways we can be Hanukkahs of Light.
A midrash says there was not just one Hanukkah but actually seven. I propose to you that there are in fact nine Hanukkahs, not seven. We are the eighth Hanukkah of light. All of us are called to dedicate ourselves to Hashem. The ninth Hanukkah of light is the Hanukkah of Messiah Yeshua.
In Parashat Vayishlach, we continue to follow the stories of the mothers and the fathers of Israel. Unfortunately, the women in this story are often abused by powerful men. The men sometimes seem to get away with their behavior in the short term, but the consequences of their actions are seen for generations.
Strolling through this week’s parasha, we see several episodes in Jacob’s life. First he is fleeing his home in fear of big brother Esau’s retaliation after Jacob and his mother Rebecca had secured the patriarchal blessing by trickery. Nevertheless, Hashem promises Jacob that everything will eventually be well for him.
This week’s parasha contains an important part of the story of Abraham and his family. But it is also a lesson in proper priorities and perspectives, especially when it comes to responding appropriately to Adonai. And yet, it’s a story that is usually misunderstood and as a result is inaccurately told. It’s the account of Jacob and Esau.
Sarah has brought Hagar, and Egyptian concubine, into Avraham’s bed. She becomes pregnant, and Sarah suddenly regrets this rash and dysfunctional choice. Sarah blames Avraham, and quarrels with him over this inconvenient woman. Avraham turns Hagar back over to Sarah, and Sarah afflicts Hagar, causing her to run away into the wilderness. She runs very far south, practically to the border of modern Egypt. An angel of the Lord meets her at a well, and instructs her to return to her abusive mistress, for God will make a great nation from the son in her womb – Ishmael.
Our Messiah warned us, “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Readers might think this implies that the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees is somehow defective or inferior, but Messiah Yeshua is probably saying the opposite.
Tired of creation descending into chaos, murder, and hatred? Does it seem like that flood didn’t quite clean out all the trash and you just can’t bring yourself to go through another one? Then try ISRAEL, a unique way of blessing the whole creation through one particular people group!
In this week’s parasha, God commands Noah to build an ark for his family and for all the land animals to avoid the coming destruction of the flood. Water in the Torah is often a symbol of the forces of chaos. The ark became Noah’s safe haven from the raging waters of chaos, storm, and sin.
We’ve entered a new year and a new round of Torah readings—a good time to recalibrate our lives. But what measure can we use to recalibrate? I can’t think of a better measure than the account of creation in the opening chapters of the Torah.
When I was a boy growing up in New York our family gatherings were like a scene out of the Barry Levinson movie Avalon. On Thanksgiving and Chanukah our get-togethers would involve not only our immediate family, but also an extended family of grandparents, aunts and uncles, great aunts and uncles, multiple generations of cousins, and friends.
Ha’azinu is a powerful, emotional poem; one that challenges all Israel for all time to respond as the nation did in the days of Moses, as it is written, “All that the Lord has spoken we will do, and we will be obedient” (Exod 24:7). Indeed, this is the purpose of parashat Ha’azinu: to teach us to be ready to turn to God as a nation at all times in our present and future.
Not long before my old friend Rube (Rabbi Richard Rubinstein) passed away, I had the privilege of visiting him at his home in Sacramento. He was already in bad shape from the cancer that eventually killed him, but his spirits were fine, so when he recommended a book, I paid attention. The title grabbed my attention too: This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared.
Hannah is a barren woman stuck in a deeply dysfunctional marriage. Her sister-wife, Pninah, has produced many sons and daughters, and never misses an opportunity to lord it over her. Her husband, Elkanah, thinks his own mercurial affections should provide sufficient comfort to his depressed and angry wife.
As a rabbi I’ve noticed over the years some resistance when we talk about one of the great themes of our current season—teshuva or repentance. Our tradition provides lengthy prayers of remorse and confession . . . and we have to overcome inner resistance to really put our hearts into this whole practice.
Our haftarah presents the people of Judah metaphorically as a woman who is shamed because she has never been in labor and is therefore without children, also shamed because she has been forsaken by her husband. Then, in the verses following, this woman’s status is reversed as she has many children and as her Maker, Adonai, becomes her husband.
The ever-present God is Immanuel, God-with-us, both in our exile and wanderings and in the holiest of times on Yom Kippur. As this day approaches we can prepare for it, along with all Israel, by making straight in the desert of our chaotic lives and divided hearts a highway for our God.
We’ve all heard the saying “Beauty is only skin deep”—the idea that someone’s external beauty is not as important as their inner beauty. This saying, with a little twist, reminds me of the haftarah for R’eh (Isaiah 54:11–55:5); instead of contrasting external beauty with internal beauty this passage reveals that both are to be found in rebuilt Jerusalem.
Two verses, Deuteronomy 10:12-13, are the centerpiece and crown of Parashat Ekev, a summary statement of what God required (and requires) of Israel. Moshe is summarizing the lessons of 40 years in the Sinai desert, and this is his tamsit, Hebrew for we’d call the “bottom line” lesson, of the experiences that the nation had just been through.
Nachamu, nachamu ami, amar Eloheichem …“Comfort, comfort, my people, says your God.” These five Hebrew words introduce perhaps the most eloquent portion of Scripture, the “Rhapsody of Zion Redeemed” (Isaiah 40–66), which speaks of restoration, redemption, comfort, and hope for Israel.
Jewish tradition tells us that whoever destroys a life is considered to have destroyed the whole world. In recent days, many worlds were shattered here in the United States. Gilroy, California; El Paso, Texas; Dayton, Ohio; Chicago, Illinois—there have been so many violent attacks in our country that it is nearly impossible to create a comprehensive list.
This week, in the second Haftarah of Rebuke, Jeremiah 2:4–28; 4:1–2, Hashem complains against his people in his own words. It’s not a legal indictment, but a cry of betrayal and bereavement over a lost relationship.
As we celebrate our fortieth anniversary, the Union is coming to the end of one generation and the beginning of a new one. Now is the moment we find out whether we continue to march boldly along the trails blazed by our pioneers or fade away into a mere footnote in the history books. In the face of such uncertainty, with the stakes as high as they are, how can we look forward with confidence?
In the 21st century, with all of our technological and scientific advances, humankind occasionally gets the erroneous idea that we can control our destinies, that our own advancements allow us to fulfill the command of Hashem to rule over all of creation (Gen 1:28). Yet with all of our advancements, we cannot bring about even something as simple as the morning dew.
Our haftarah takes place during a 200-year time of adjustment for the twelve tribes in the Land of Israel. It was a time of chaos, and too often a time of turning from the Torah to Canaanite practices. Jephthah or Yiftach is one of the “Judges” at this time in history, but he strikes the reader as a real outcast from his society.
Transitions! We all face them; they are inevitable and challenging, and cause anxiety, fear, and a whole slew of emotions that influence the way we act. All of this is compounded when we disagree with the decision that engendered the transition.
Three weeks have now passed on the Jewish calendar since the triumphant highs of receiving the Torah—and later the Ruach—on Shavuot. Beginning three weeks from now, we will experience the most tragic lows of the Jewish calendar—three weeks of mourning that culminate in the fast of Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the month Av.
This week’s parasha introduces a theme that will characterize much of the remaining narrative of Bamidbar (Numbers). Chapters 11–25 contain a series of refusals on the part of Israel to accept authority. In chapter 12 even Miriam challenges Moses’ authority.
It’s more popular than ever these days to take a shot at debunking the Bible. Among the sophomoric tactics employed is dismissing the Bible as a collection of fairy tales and legends, which usually indicates that the critic either hasn’t read the Bible with any care or doesn’t know that much about fairy tales and legends.
We’re in the final days leading to Shavuot, zeman matan Toratenu—the season of the giving of our Torah—which is also the season of the outpouring of the Ruach seven weeks after the resurrection of Messiah Yeshua.
It is not the expectation of the coming Messiah that separated Yeshua-believers from traditional Judaism, it is our fervent claim and belief that it was and is Yeshua who satisfies the messianic prophecies and expectations, even if his full manifestation is delayed for a season.
The Passover Seder comprises two halves, roughly divided by the festive meal itself. The first part commemorates the redemption from Egypt as we retell the story of the departure from Egypt, starting with “Avadim hayinu , we were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt.” The second half concludes with the famous line, “Next year in Jerusalem!” our declaration of hope for the final redemption.
“On the tenth day of this month [Nissan] each man is to take a lamb for the household, a lamb for each home” (Exodus 12:3). This lamb is set aside in anticipation of the Pesach sacrifice to be offered four days later. Although this mitzvah was given for a specific time in the life of Israel, the tradition continues today in the observance of Shabbat Hagadol, the Shabbat before Pesach.
Time is the most elusive yet dominant concept in the human experience. We struggle to understand it and we struggle to control it, yet our endless awareness and fear of time lurks behind all our endeavors. So, we invent devices to measure time. We guard our time, we gift our time, and ultimately, we often waste our time. But eventually we all run out of time. Then we memorialize the time that was.
The longest I’ve been away from my wife since we were married is a couple of days. This year for a weekend in February she went away with two other married women. I missed her, for sure. I got regular updates of their exploits, and that was enjoyable. But you can’t hug a picture on your phone. I mean, you can, but it’s not the same.
It brings joy to my heart when I see little children dressed up in their Purim costumes on our streets here in Israel. I loved it when my children donned their costumes, paraded on the town’s sidewalks with their elementary school class, and had tons of fun at their class parties. But then I am faced with my growing uneasiness during this holiday.
Ilhan Omar, congresswoman from Minnesota, has maintained her high exposure in the news stream for weeks by repeatedly “using anti-Semitic clichés in her criticisms of the American-Israeli relationship.” The cliché that seems to have gotten the most attention is Omar’s recent insinuation of dual loyalty: “I want to talk about the political influence in this country that says it is okay to push for allegiance to a foreign country.”
This week’s haftarah is a glorious one. What had begun with Moses in the desert now finds its culmination with Solomon in Jerusalem. The people were once nomads in a desert on their way to the land of promise. Now they stand before their established king in their allotted land to dedicate a secure, fixed, and beautiful house to the living God.
This Shabbat is Shabbat Shekalim, corresponding to the season in our calendar when the half-shekel tax was assessed in ancient Israel. Our haftarah portion, 2 Kings 11:17–12:17, is a short history lesson, but one that carries a challenge throughout the generations.
This week’s haftarah from 1 Kings 18 is best known for Elijah’s victory over the priests of Ba’al at Mount Carmel, which led to a massive return of the people of Israel (the northern kingdom) to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Often overlooked in this well-known passage is the reception Elijah received on his way to Carmel and during the interactions that occurred there.
In Exodus 19:6 God says to Israel, “You shall be for me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” So in reality we are all priests. The kohanim are just the priests to the priests. But Israel as a whole are priests to the nations of the world.
“I will dwell among the children of Israel and will not forsake my people Israel” (1 Kings 6:12). These words to Solomon refer to the promise Hashem gave to David, that one of David’s descendants would build a house for Hashem’s name and that he would build a permanent dynasty for David (2 Sam 7). Ultimately, these words were fulfilled in Yeshua, the King and Messiah of Israel.
In the Torah portion this week we have what seems to be a whole long list of laws. This listing of rules appears to us modern readers to support the stereotype (a negative one) of the Old Testament, and therefore to be skipped over to get to the “narrative” (the story). However, if this list is skipped over, then the modern reader will miss out on several rules that still seem important today.
With the arrival at Sinai, Israel begins to forge in earnest its national identity. Only in covenantal relationship with the God of their forefathers, the God to whom the entire world belongs, does the shared experience of bondage and liberation begin to take on meaning. Here at Sinai the full transition is made from servitude to Pharaoh to the service of God and his creation.
The Book of Judges reads like an action movie or a comic book, replete with heroes and villains, vivid battle scenes, quirky protagonists, and gory death scenes. In the 4th chapter of Judges, we learn that Gal Gadot is not the original Jewish Wonder Woman. Instead, the honor goes to Deborah, who precedes her by several thousand years.
Like a pot of cool water that is gradually heated until the proverbial lobster is cooked without fully realizing what is happening, so can some cultural trends in the Messianic movement “cook” our unique calling as Jews so that we lose track of who we have been created to be, and what we have been called to value and preserve.
Moses spends the first forty years thinking he is somebody. He has fallen by providence into the royal court of Pharaoh and is raised as a prince of Egypt while his people, the Jewish people unknown to him, suffer. In the second act he discovers that he is nobody. But it is in the third forty years of Moses’ life that he discovers what Hashem can do with somebody who accepts he is nobody.
Most of the Christian world is celebrating the birth of the Messiah this week, and in the synagogue we are reading the early chapters of Exodus, which recount the birth of another deliverer, Moses. Scholars have long noted similarities between the two birth accounts, especially in the version of Messiah’s birth preserved by Matthew.
In Genesis 47–50 we see Jacob’s individual, personalized blessings for each of his sons. In the haftarah we see another deathbed scene: Instead of dealing out blessings and good wishes for the future of all his sons, David talks only to Solomon, and advises him how to deal with potential enemies. We might be forgiven if we see David’s final advice to Solomon as akin to a scene in a novel about the Mob.
“Our bones are dried up and our hope has perished. We are completely cut off” (Ezekiel 37:11).
God answers this cry of the Jewish people in a vision of hope and restoration that illustrates what he will do to transform and restore Israel. This vision promises to reunite, give life, and place Israel in their land again.
Like most Jewish children, I loved Hanukkah when I was growing up. It was one of my favorite times of the year. I couldn’t wait for my Dad to get home from work so that we could light the candles, play the dreidel, eat the latkes, and most importantly get the presents! Now that I am an adult with small children of my own, the joy of Hanukkah has been rekindled for me . . .
Next week begins Hanukkah, the festival of lights and dedication. I’m sure Amos the prophet would have rejoiced at the cleansing of the Temple, the rejection of Antiochus as deity to be worshiped, and the return toward Torah in those days.
Who Obadiah was and when he lived is a topic of debate. There were many Obadiahs in the time of the Tanakh. But it is clear to whom Obadiah is prophesying. The content is rough, the tone is strong, the vision is ominous. Obadiah is a sad book because in it we see just how far brothers can stray from each another and how their respective families can evolve into violent enemies even when one side is at its complete lowest.
Jacob faced obstacles throughout his life. He had a father who favored his older brother; the one who came to hate him and wanted to kill him. He had to deal with a deceptive and treacherous father-in-law for twenty years. He was tricked into marrying a woman whom he did not love. While not always an exemplar of ethical behavior himself, Jacob’s life can teach us about facing obstacles, of which we have many.
We’ve just come through a grueling, costly, and often bitter electoral process. We’ve chosen our leaders, or men and women that we hope will be leaders, and this week’s haftarah provides a reminder of what leaders are chosen for. It begins with a stark contrast between two ancient leaders, Esau and Jacob: “I loved Jacob and Esau I hated” (Mal 1:2–3).
The decision to oppose Adonijah’s claim to kingship was a courageous act with serious implications. Have you ever been in a situation like that? Did you ever have to make a choice as to which person or cause you would back, knowing that the consequences could include loss of employment, problems for your family, loss of reputation, persecution, maybe even loss of life?
Historian Doris Kearns Goodwin writes that our greatest presidents all experienced reversals that “at first impeded, then deepened, and finally and decisively molded their leadership.” Abraham is our first great leader and this observation applies to him. But it also applies to all those called to serve the God of Israel, whether recognized as leaders or not, like the Shunamite woman in this week’s haftarah portion.
These are anxious times. People feel insecure regarding their safety, their finances, and the social structures they have come to depend on. Partisan politics have divided neighborhoods, communities, and even families. Wars, rumors of wars, and natural disasters proliferate, and social media casts blame and aspersions on everyone. At times like this it is easy to ask, “Where is God?” and “Why is he so silent?”
Is the God of the Old Testament an angry God, as is sometimes claimed?
Isaiah 54:9 links Hashem’s oath concerning the waters of Noah to his affirmation that he would not be angry with the children of Israel:
This is like the days of Noah to me: as I swore that the waters of Noah should no more go over the earth, so I have sworn that I will not be angry with you and will not rebuke you.
When I first became a follower of Jesus I wanted to share the story of my amazing transformation with everyone. But, of course, Jesus was a big barrier for most people, especially Jewish people—even after we started saying Yeshua instead of Jesus. In recent years, though, it seems like the barrier has shifted, and now it’s God himself. For lots of people, before they can even consider Yeshua, they have to accept the idea that there might actually be a God who makes a difference.
I love this time of year! We see the changing of the seasons from summer to fall, as though there has been a cool breeze coming through, in our attitudes and overall well-being. Sukkot ushers in a wonderful feeling of joy and thanksgiving. Those of us who live in America might look at Sukkot as a precursor to the Thanksgiving holiday.
The haftarah for Parashat Ha’azinu, 2 Samuel 22:1–51, is David’s great hymn of thanksgiving, which also appears almost word-for-word in Psalm 18. Furthermore, the hymn parallels both the Song of the Sea in Exodus 15, read during Pesach, and Hannah’s prayer in 1 Samuel 1:1–2:10, read on Rosh Hashanah. What is so amazing about David’s song that it would be made into a psalm and be included three times in the liturgical calendar? To answer this question, let’s look at two terms in the hymn—tzur (rock) and tamim (blameless, innocent, perfect).
The Bible is hardly a children’s book. It deals with human frailty and the hard and often harsh reality of human interaction. Perhaps, though, given the most popular viewing and reading choices in popular culture, it would be a better PR strategy to advertise the more scandalous narratives in Scripture! The haftarah for this week in the book of Hosea has one of the steamiest back-stories in the entire biblical canon. It is also, though, a story of faithfulness, patience, love, and relational restoration.
Living here in Israel, sometimes my heart is made heavy by the attitudes and spiritual life that are displayed here. Sometimes it is hard for me to see beyond the strife, beyond society’s ills, and beyond the emptiness that is evident in so many people’s lives. And so I wonder what will become of my people, who yearn to be like the Western world.
We live in a time of darkness. We live in a time when people do as they please, when they search for answers in every place imaginable, that is, every place besides God’s throne, when they are governed by the dictates of their hearts, when they have no idea where they are going. This is a time when people call evil good and good evil, light darkness and darkness light, bitter sweet and sweet bitter. And the good news is, it’s only going to get darker.
We’re in the midst of the weekly passages from Isaiah known as the Haftarot of Comfort or Consolation, and this week’s installment opens with a paradox:
“Sing, O barren one, who did not bear; break forth into singing and cry aloud, you who have not been in labor! For the children of the desolate one will be more than the children of her who is married,” says the Lord.
But how can a barren woman come to rejoice?
This week’s reading, Isaiah 51:12 through 52:12, continues the unbroken flow of Hashem’s encouragement through the prophet Isaiah that began four weeks ago with Shabbat Nachamu, (Isaiah 40:1–26). This week’s passage opens with the repeated emphasis by the Lord that it is he that comforts Israel. “I, I am the One who comforts you. Who are you that you should fear man?” (Isa 51:12).
This week’s haftarah portion contains a kind of riddle, which the prophet inserted perhaps to invite us, his future talmidim, into the text. Chapter 55 of Isaiah opens with:
All you who are thirsty, come to the water!
You without money, come, buy, and eat!
In the Torah’s narrative, we are at a critical juncture. Moses is teaching the new generation, those who would soon enter to live in the Land of Israel, and his words are recorded in the book of Deuteronomy. It will be important to the tribes as they make aliyah to always remember that they are a people bound to God by covenant. Some 600 years after Moses’ death, Isaiah was sharing his message for the Kingdom of Judah and the same truth was relevant.
For three weeks leading up to Tisha B’Av we read Haftarot of Affliction, passages by the prophets that describe the judgment to come upon Jerusalem. Then for seven weeks after Tisha B’Av we read Haftarot of Consolation or Comfort, beginning with the opening words of this week’s Haftarah, “‘Comfort, comfort My people,’ says your God” (Isa 40:1).
This week is Shabbat Chazon, the Sabbath of Vision. It is called this because the haftarah reading on the Shabbat preceding Tisha B’Av is always from Isaiah 1, which begins “The vision [chazon] of Isaiah son of Amoz . . .”
We are in the midst of the Three Weeks leading up to Tisha B’av (July 21–22 this year). The Ninth of Av is a day of fasting on which we commemorate the destruction of the two Temples and many other calamities that have befallen our people over the centuries.
At my current age my heart has already beat two billion times. For many of us, we find ourselves thinking about our weight, exercise, and not only what we eat, but also what’s eating us. This last point deals with our spiritual heart, which has also throbbed millions of times, with thoughts, affections, and choices. In our hearts we determine how we will speak, behave, and respond to circumstances.
Even if our Diaspora presence has been unappreciated throughout history (and it’s no exaggeration to say this), God still used our presence to shine his reality to the host nations: Jacob shall be among the nations, in the midst of the many peoples, like dew from the Lord (5:6a). Wherever Jacob’s descendants went, God went as well. Perhaps this is what Micah is telling us.
The haftarah for Chukat contains one of the most perplexing stories in the Bible, the tale of Jephthah, the judge who vowed to sacrifice the first thing that exited his house upon his safe return from war against the Ammonites.
This week’s haftarah passage is very dramatic: A leader challenges the people of Israel, explains why their choice of leaders in the future will be wrong and will change everything, and finally says farewell to national political office. It could be Moses; it could be Joshua; it could be Ezra; it could even be Gideon; but it is actually Samuel.
We all are grateful to have second chances.
Twenty-two years ago I was hit from behind by a truck at 100 kilometers an hour; my car was crushed. Yet I was not cut even once, nor did I have a piece of glass on me. I was not even bruised. I knew I had been given a second chance at life.
Our haftarah records a second chance for the people of Israel.
This week’s haftarah reading concludes with one of the most familiar and beloved verses in Scripture: “Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the Lord of hosts” (Zech 4:7b). It’s such a rousing conclusion that we might overlook the rest of Zechariah’s vision. But there’s much more in this vision, which we need to see afresh today.
I certainly do not want to retell the story of Samson in detail. You know it. You’ve heard it before. It is almost impossible to have lived in Western society without having encountered this story, even if it comes to us with diverse embellishments. What differs is how we perceive and think of the person of Samson, and how this biblical star informs our own biblical understandings.
Forever young, forever young, May you stay forever young. (Bob Dylan, Planet Waves)
Have you ever wished that you could start over? That you could be “forever young”—going back to your earliest years of life to erase all your mistakes, cancel all your debts, undo all your sins? This may sound like wishful thinking, but it was a reality in the Torah legislation of the Jubilee.
Growing up as a teenager on the Mississippi gulf coast, I could not wait to finish high school and spread my wings and fly. I was operating under the youthful understanding of freedom as being free of restraints. It did not take me long, however, to discover the error of my thoughts. You see, my choice for expressing that freedom was to join the US Marine Corps.
In Amos 9:7, God is telling Israel that he is concerned for all peoples, not just them. Therefore Israel should not assume that she will go unpunished for her sins. Amos points out that chosenness is not just a gift, but a gift that bears responsibility.
After David was crowned king in Hebron, he conquered Jerusalem and defeated the Philistines. Our haftarah picks up just following these events, when King David decides to bring the Ark of the Covenant up to Jerusalem from the home of Abinadav, where it had remained since being returned to the Land of Israel by the Philistines in the time of Samuel. Thus, our haftarah begins with the Ark at rest in the home of Abinadav and ends with the promise of its future home in the Temple.
We are a community excited about Messianic prophecy. It fortifies our faith in our claims about Yeshua, and we look to texts like this week’s haftarah reading to equip us for propagating and defending our faith. All of this is good.
But it would also be good for us to realize that we who are intimately joined to him through repentance, faith, and immersion in his Spirit, are also meant to bear his image.
One of the most compelling verses in the Prophets comes in this week’s haftarah reading: "Since I, ADONAI, have not changed, so you sons of Jacob have not been annihilated” (Mal 3:6).
This verse certainly had great meaning in its peshat (plain sense) to Malachi’s hearers in the 5th century BCE. Yet I cannot help but think that it reveals a general principle that has held true for our Jewish people throughout our entire history.
This week culminates in Shabbat HaChodesh, the New Moon of the first month (March 16–17), which means Passover comes only two weeks later, at the full moon. Now, New Moon might sound like an esoteric topic in our high-tech urban world, but we’ll see that it’s actually most relevant—not just to the simple agricultural life of our ancestors, but to our lives as well.
God is a specific God. He loves details. He shares these details with his servants. His children hear his voice and they obey. This week’s parashah deals with many details of the building of the mishkan (tabernacle). It reminds me of building Legos as a kid.
In Parashat Ki Tisa the Israelites are in the desert waiting for Moses to come down from the mountain. Until this point the narrative has moved rapidly: the enslavement of Israel, the calling of Moses, the drama of the plagues, the events of the first Pesach, the Exodus itself, the splitting of the Sea of Reeds, and traveling through the desert to Mt. Horeb. Suddenly, the fast-paced and miraculous events have stopped. Israel waits.
A good friend writes, “Clothing is a prominent theme throughout the Bible.” Clothing is significant throughout Scripture, from the clothes God designed for Adam and Chavah in the Garden (Gen 3:21), to the wedding gown of the bride for her marriage to the Lamb (Rev 19:8). At times it provides covering against the elements, and at other times it serves as a symbol of rank or status.
God is the God of order and we see the divine recipe in Leviticus 24:7–8: “Also, you are to take fine flour, and bake twelve cakes of it, with two tenths of an ephah in each cake. Then you are to set them in two rows, six in a row, on the pure gold table before Adonai. Set pure frankincense on each row, as a memorial portion for the bread, an offering by fire to Adonai.”
Let’s start with a sore subject: losing things. Wallets. Car keys. Expensive smart phones. IPads. Computers even. And sometimes we lose something to which we feel especially attached. We look everywhere and come to the grim realization that the object is gone. What happens then? Anger. Sadness. Self-reproach. Our loss is more than financial.
But all is not dark.
Our parasha contains that momentous occasion when our people received the Torah at Mount Sinai. Due to the centrality of this pivotal moment in Jewish history, the rabbis have scrutinized, pondered, and debated every minute detail. One of their questions was, “How did they know that it was God speaking to them?”
Imitatio Dei, the imitation of God, is an idea with a long history in both the Jewish and Christian worlds (it’s a Latin phrase after all), and with surprising relevance today. From a Jewish perspective Imitatio Dei sounds like real chutzpah—which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“Bo knows.” About 20 years ago, Bo Jackson was a superstar athlete who played both baseball and football, and played them well. Nike picked him up and marketed his talent and prestige with the slogan that he knew what was going on. And so, this parasha, Bo, knows what’s going on.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet.
Shakespeare’s famous soliloquy has Juliet asking why Romeo has to be called by that name, by that family. But what’s in a name, indeed?
This week’s parasha, Shemot (“names”), is the beginning of the story of Israel’s redemption from Egypt. People who are named in the beginning of Exodus have something to teach us—those who are not named, like Pharaoh, have no enduring legacy.
The news stream today is filled with stories of abuse and betrayal, and we might wonder whether deeds like this can ever be forgiven. And even if they are, can the perpetrators ever be trusted again? The tale of Joseph and his brothers answers such questions.
The long narrative of Joseph and his brothers is truly a story of “everything turns out okay in the end,” but more importantly it is a story of change, teshuvah (repentance), and forgiveness.
Along with his sons, Mattathias and the faithful followers fled to the hills to continue the revolt and many gathered around them. Importantly, Mattathias ruled that the Maccabean army could take up arms on the Sabbath to repulse the king’s army.
Have you ever wondered what it's like to celebrate Hanukkah in the southern hemisphere? According to Congregational leader Matheus Zandona Guimares (of Har Tzion Messianic Synagogue in Belo Horizonte, Brazil), it's a hot, humid, and rainy affair.
Facing a seemingly hopeless situation, the Maccabees did not succumb to defeatism or "overwhelm," nor did they compromise on their key principles. They followed the path that their ethical convictions dictated, regardless of the enormity of the task.
Hanukkah is an example of miracles, both obvious and hidden. In the story of Hanukkah, God works behind the scenes through Mattathias and his sons, but then we have the open and obvious miracle of the oil.
Every year we seem to have the same argument about the right way to load and light the candles in the menorah. "It's right to left!" "No, I swear I remember that it's left to right!" We usually count on Google to solve our debate. In the spirit of getting it right, here are four steps to lighting your menorah, beginning tomorrow night.
What went haywire in the family of our ancestors that caused so much tension and so many devastating situations? The possibilities are many. The Torah is brutally honest in its recollection of events, and our emotions will be stoked as we read the portions over the next few weeks. I know that my emotions come alive as I read these chapters.
This week’s parasha illumines much for us as to who exactly Jacob/Israel was. It is important for us to know this because if we say we are the people of Israel, who exactly are we? A son emulates his father. Let us see whom we are emulating.
It’s a paradox: To find community, I have to find my individual self. Or turn that around: As I find myself in God, I find that I’m part of something much bigger than myself.
Esau shows a lack of concern and disrespect for the birthright and the future it portends – “Esau ate drank, rose up, left, and spurned the birthright” (Gen 25:34). But we can still feel badly for Esau, for life without a blessing is but an imitation of life.
A new Barna survey on Jewish millennials commissioned by Jews for Jesus has attracted lots of attention, including stories in the Jerusalem Post and JTA. I can’t go into the details here, but one finding was the importance that millennials place on social connection and community. A deeper question is what makes a community work? A survey can’t really address this question, but this week’s parasha does.
The stories of Genesis speak to us today because they trace the primal journey of identity formation. Identity tested through this journey becomes character.
Hashem said to Avram, “Lekh L’kha — You go out of your country and your relatives and your father’s household to the land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12:1)
With this call, Avraham burst into history with surprising suddenness.
What are we doing here on earth? What is our main purpose in life? Who are we? Genesis develops these themes in the first few pages, gives us our origin story, and helps frame our sense of identity and calling.
When I was growing up, my father would often tell us children that if God had formed Adam from the dust, then we have a whole new generation being formed under our beds. We make it a point to remove dust from our homes and yet God took what was worthless and unwanted and made the most wonderful thing in creation, Man.
Our society is constantly looking for new gadgets to improve our existence. The incredible advance of technology impresses many. Yet, when a hurricane or Las Vegas tragedy hits, the world is suddenly shocked back into reality. For all our advances we are still so far from Paradise. How appropriate that we meditate on the lessons of Kohelet while we dwell in our simple sukkah.
Sukkot gives us the opportunity to step back and find shelter for our souls, to fill ourselves up from the inside out and reconnect to the highest visions that we have for ourselves. Here are six kinds of shelter we can find when we sit in our sukkahs:
Sukkot begins tonight! You've built and decorated a lovely sukkah, but perhaps you're wondering what to do next. Here's a quick guide on how to begin your celebration of the most fragrant and hopsitable Jewish holiday of them all
Immediately after Yom Kippur is the time to build your Sukkah, in preparation for Sukkot, which begins this year on Wednesday, October 4 at sundown. This gives you only two more days to build, but don’t worry—a kosher sukkah is supposed to be makeshift and flimsy ...
This is what we must go through during the Ten Days to get to the sukkah. We must let the liturgy and the Torah readings break us open. It is a time when we look deep inside ourselves and ask God to reveal any hidden sins in our lives. How have we hardened our hearts towards God or others? We allow the “storm winds” to batter us because we know that it will strengthen us and bring us new life and new growth.
Yom Kippur has a solemnity that is strong. The entire Jewish world halts for 25 hours or more, and is engaged in either our prayers and readings in synagogue, or for the more secular, staying at home and ceasing regular activity. Everyone abstains from eating. Only when the shofar sounds to seal Israel’s prayers for the day, does the heavy solemnity lift itself off and away.
If you look in Torah you will not see the name for this holiday as Rosh Hashanah. It is called Yom Teruah, or the day of the blasting of the shofar. This is altogether appropriate since the blowing of the shofar, many times over, is the liturgical highlight of the holiday.
" I am now one hundred and twenty years old; I can no longer be active. (Deuteronomy 31:1)"
With that surprising announcement, Moses begins his final address to the children of Israel. ...
The Torah often reads like an epic saga on a par with the Greek myths of Hercules, Perseus or Achilles. The Scriptures are filled with the exploits of larger than life heroes like the courageous Noah, the faithful Abraham, the valiant Joseph.
Our Torah portion this week is full of principles guiding how the people of Israel are to interact with each other in daily, civil life.
Shof’tim has dozens of passages of instruction: Don’t worship idols, how courts and kings should behave, the Prophet like Moses, etc. One particular section, Dt. 20:1–9, does not seem that memorable on the surface. It discusses some of the instructions for waging war against the various Canaanite city-states that the Israelites must oust from their Promised Land. Remember, these people are only one generation away from centuries of slavery in Egypt.
I’ve never really connected with Deuteronomy. I am not sure why. Perhaps it is because so much of it is a repetition of the Law which we’ve already read previously, and so I’ve glossed over it.
However, when revisiting this portion I felt the words leap off the page. I felt a sense of passion ...
In this week’s parasha, Moshe is summarizing the things for Israel to remember before he dies and a new leader takes his place, before Aaron dies and a new leader takes his place, and before the people enter Land of Israel.
At the opening of this week’s parasha, the Israelite people are standing ready to enter the Promised Land as Moses reminds them of their covenant with God on Mount Sinai. Following the repetition of the Ten Commandments, Moses says:
These words Hashem spoke to your entire congregation on the mountain, from the midst of the fire, the cloud, and the thick cloud – a great voice, never to be repeated...
This week’s Torah portion is D’varim, as we start the book of Deuteronomy. This week also falls in what is called the “Nine Days,” a period of deep reflection and introspection preceding the commemoration of Tisha b’Av on the 9th day of the month of Av (August 1 this year).
Those whom I love, I rebuke and discipline. Therefore, be zealous and repent. Revelation 3:19, TLV
Words of reproof are difficult to hear, and often unwelcome, but they’re essential to a life of knowing and serving the God of Israel. And so the cycle of the Jewish year makes sure that there are times when we can’t avoid such words.
During my nearly thirty years as a Bible College and seminary professor I got asked a lot of questions. When a young ministry candidate in a Pentateuch class once asked me how he could launch his ministry, my answer was very simple and very direct.
The Talmud (Avodah Zarah 4a–b) discusses our Sages’ belief that God gets angry only once a day. The discussion revolves around the scene of God’s anger at the Golden Calf incident. Moses tries to appease God, and God tells him to wait until his anger passes.
In this week’s haftarah we read about Yiftach, or Jephthah as he is known in English. He lived during the time of the Judges, an undisciplined time when everyone did what was right in his own eyes. Samuel, the last of the Judges, would anoint Israel’s first king, Saul. But Jephthah lived before Saul’s day.
Ever heard the title Mutiny on the Bounty? On April 28, 1789, Lieutenant Fletcher Christian seized control of HMS Bounty, and set Captain William Bligh adrift in a small boat on the open sea. I mention it here, because we’re looking at one of the Hebrew Bible’s versions of a mutiny—in this case, against Moses not Bligh.
Clothes make the man, or so it is said, but the Torah turns this principle around. Clothing cannot make us something we’re not, but it can remind us what we’re supposed to be.
The word “deplorable” was bantered about in recent political discourse, was it not?
The word comes to us by way of Latin and French employments, and harks to something or someone that invokes shock, fear or disgust. By contrast, the word “adorable,” harks to someone or something being extremely charming or appealing.
B’Midbar, the fourth book of the Torah, is so named since it begins “Vay’daber Adonai el-Mosheh b’midbar Sinai (And the LORD spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai).” Midrash Rabbah B’Midbar asks, “Why does Adonai give the Torah in the Wilderness?” It goes on to explain that Torah is given in fire, water, and wilderness.
Our parasha this week opens with God speaking to Moses from Mount Sinai. A midrash speaks of three mountains, Tabor, Carmel, and Sinai, vying to be the one from which God would reveal the Torah. God chooses Sinai because it is the lowliest of the three and he wanted to teach Israel humility.
For decades, Western society has been making concerted efforts to be more accepting and inclusive of those who have physical and mental disabilities. This means that accommodations must be made for impediments that have historically restricted people from living fully integrated into the greater society. In the past most of “civilized” society dealt with others’ handicaps by turning a blind eye.
Leviticus is an amazing work, a book that is called “Torat HaKohanim” in many circles, that is, the book of instructions for the priests, and is written in beautiful chiastic form. Wedged into its contents is this week’s double portion.
All of Creation is in need of redemption, as Scripture says: “. . . which God created to do.” (Sefat Emet)
Years ago, Pink Floyd’s irreverent song “Another Brick in the Wall” caught my attention. Lines like, “We don’t need no education. We don’t need no thought control. No dark sarcasm in the classroom,” followed by the commanding, “Teachers, leave them kids alone!” caught my attention. As a thirty-year college classroom teacher, it gets my attention even now.
Have you ever heard the phrase “on fire for the Lord”? The metaphor of fire has long been equated with passion, and in my mind this is a Christian saying, not a Jewish one.
It’s one of the 100 most-performed songs of the 20th century, the second best single of all time according to Guinness, and number three in Rolling Stone magazine’s list of “The 500 Greatest Songs of All Time.” And here’s what it says:
Imagine there’s no heaven / It’s easy if you try...
"People love to talk but hate to listen. Listening is not merely not talking, though even that is beyond most of our powers; it means taking a vigorous, human interest in what is being told us. You can listen like a blank wall or like a splendid auditorium where every sound comes back fuller and richer." (Alice Duer Miller)
Purim—the festival of Esther—is the most light-hearted of the Jewish holidays. Perhaps that’s what leads the sages of the Talmud to ask, “Where is there an allusion to Esther in the Torah?” (Chullin 139b). They answer with a reference to Deuteronomy 31:18, where God warns Israel of exile to come: V’anochi haster asteer panai, “And I will hide, yes hide my face.” Asteer – “hide” – sounds like Esther.
Once a year the Queen of England addresses parliament. She enters through a special door, only to be used by the reigning monarch, which leads directly into the House of Lords. She sits on her throne, turns to her steward and says “Fetch the rabble.” The steward then marches down the long corridor separating the House of Lords from the House of Commons.
The Mishkan was the place where the congregation of Israel met with God during their wilderness wanderings. It was a place they built, which God inhabited, and where they could meet with him and honor him.
This week’s parasha may contain one of the most jarring chapters in all of literature. If you were reading the Bible in order up to this point, you would have been looking at the story of God’s relationship with humankind and especially with the Jewish people.
In the Broadway classic “Fiddler on the Roof” the main character, Tevye, ironically entreats God, “I know, I know. We are your chosen people. But, once in a while, can’t you choose someone else?” In his frustration, Tevye echoes 4000 years of Jewish experience. It would appear that being God’s Chosen People is not always all it is cracked up to be. Tevye’s little shtetl is continuously assailedby political violence, poverty and the unrelenting demands of modernity. But in the midst of all this, perhaps the greatest challenge to the village of Anatevka is maintaining their traditions in a world that demands conformity.
In this week’s Torah portion, we read what happened after the deliverance of Israel from Egyptian bondage.
Of course, we know that right after Pharaoh allowed the Israelites to leave Egypt, he regretted his decision and went after them, pushing their backs up against the Yam Suf or Sea of Reeds. You might say they were between the devil and the deep blue sea. Yet, through a major miracle, orchestrated by Almighty God, through his prophet Moses, the Israelites were able to get across the sea on dry land and Pharaoh’s armies were drowned.
In the protracted struggle between God and Pharaoh, it’s clear that the Lord is taking this thing personally: “Let my son go that he may serve me. If you refuse to let him go, behold, I will kill your firstborn son” (Ex. 4:23). These aren’t the words of some distant Supreme Being; they’re the words of our Father, who might be in heaven, but who can tangle with the bad guys on earth.
In this week’s parasha, Va’era, Moses returns to God, discouraged after a disastrous start to his campaign to deliver the Jewish people from slavery. Moses actually has the temerity to rebuke God for failing to impress Pharaoh. He tells God that not only has he brought evil on his people, but he has completely failed to deliver on his promises at all!
This week’s parasha is the beginning of the story of Israel’s redemption. When we finished the book of Bereisheet (Genesis), Jacob and his descendants were in Egypt. They were cared for by the royal family, and prospered in a time of economic woes. The book of Sh’mot (Exodus) describes a new situation, and our parasha opens with this description of a long period of darkness for the people of Israel
Every week at shul we bless the sons in our community with this blessing, as Jacob instructed us to do. (We also bless the daughters, of course, that they would be like Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah.) It’s always an encouragement to look from the bima and see fathers and mothers blessing their children. But why do we do this, aside from following the instruction that Jacob gives us? And why Ephraim and Manasseh?
In this week’s parasha, following a long and eventful separation from his family, Joseph is finally reunited with his brothers after a famine forces them to travel to Egypt in search of provisions. However, in a case of dramatic irony, Joseph’s brothers are completely unaware of how momentous this meeting is, since they fail to recognize Joseph, now an Egyptian viceroy, as their own long lost sibling.
In our parasha this week Hashem brings all of the animals before Adam and has him give them names (Gen. 2:19-20). We are taught to identify and categorize things. We say “This is a tree,” “That is a table,” “This is a dog.” Children do this as they learn to understand the world around them. When my daughter, Hannah, was little she saw a goat and said “Dog.” At her age everything with four legs was a dog.
It’s entirely possible to do good, without being good. I think of the quote from the controversial central character of “The Wolf of Wall Street,” Jordan Belfort: “See money doesn’t just buy you a better life, better food, better cars . . . it also makes you a better person.”
The real sukkah isn’t an escape hatch. The Torah calls Sukkot Hag ha-Asif, the Festival of Ingathering or Harvest (Ex. 34:22). Surrounded by the abundant harvest of the Promised Land, we’re to remember what God has done to bring us here: “I made the people of Israel live in sukkot ...”