Build and Rebuild

Shabbat Chazon and Tisha B’Av

Rabbi Dr. Joshua Brumbach, Congregation Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

In addition to beginning a new book of the Torah (Deuteronomy), this week marks a special Shabbat, Shabbat Chazon, which gets its name from the opening word of the haftarah read just before Tisha B’Av: “The vision (chazon) of Isaiah the son of Amotz, which he saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem . . .” (Isaiah 1:1).

Shabbat Chazon is the final warning of what is about to befall Jerusalem and the Jewish people because of our sins against Hashem.

Tisha B’Av begins this coming Saturday night, and marks one of the most tragic days on the Jewish calendar. Numerous atrocities have befallen the Jewish people on this date (or just around it) throughout the last 3,000 years, the pinnacles being the destruction of both the first and second Temples. 

Tisha B’Av is a timely reminder that although Jewish history is full of tragedy, it will not end that way. As our special haftarah promises, ultimately there will be redemption for Israel (see Isaiah 1:16-17). The cycle of Jewish time embodies this idea that redemption is birthed out of tragedy.

Although Shabbat Chazon contains a final warning, and Saturday night marks our mourning of the tragic events associated with Tisha B’av, next week is another special Shabbat, called Shabbat Nachamu (the Shabbat of Comfort). 

From the Shabbat following Tisha B’Av until Rosh Hashanah there is a seven-week period of hope and consolation. As Professor Rachel Adelman of Hebrew College points out, there are seven special haftarah readings from Isaiah between Tisha B’Av and Rosh HaShanah, which trace a movement from mourning to comfort, and from desolation to joy, over the course of these seven weeks. According to a midrash cited in Machzor Vitri, these haftarot “all speak of comfort . . . in the way that one comforts (a mourner) slowly by stages.”  

Therefore, beginning with Isaiah’s words in next week’s haftarah, “Comfort, Comfort, my people,” over the next seven weeks we move from the tragedy of Tisha B’av to Rosh HaShanah, with all its imagery of the coronation of God as our King. 

This idea of Tragedy to Redemption is so firmly built into the fabric of Jewish consciousness that there is even a tradition cited in the Jerusalem Talmud and in Midrash that Messiah will be born on Tisha B’Av. For out of tragedy, redemption will sprout forth! 

According to Rabbi David Wolpe, “The Talmud declares [Tisha B’Av as] also the day of the Messiah’s birth. Before God inflicts the wound, the rabbis teach, God sends the salve, the healing.” 

As a Messianic Jewish community, we might not believe that Tisha B’Av is the literal date of Messiah’s birth, but we are able to resonate with the understanding that out of tragedy redemption sprouts forth. Yeshua’s teachings also reflect this idea. Twice Yeshua refers to the forthcoming destruction of the second temple, in Matthew 24:1–3 and John 2:19–22:

Matthew 24:1–3 (CJB) As Yeshua left the Temple and was going away, his talmidim came and called his attention to its buildings. But he answered them, “You see all these? Yes! I tell you, they will be totally destroyed – not a single stone will be left standing!” When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives, the talmidim came to him privately. “Tell us,” they said, “when will these things happen? 

In the passage from John 2, Yeshua again references the destruction of the Temple, but this time he applies the imagery of the Temple’s destruction to himself.

 John 2:19–22 (CJB) Yeshua answered them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up again.” The Judeans said, “It took 46 years to build this Temple, and you’re going to raise it in three days?” 21 But the “temple” he had spoken of was his body. Therefore, when he was raised from the dead, his talmidim remembered that he had said this, and they trusted in the Tanakh and in what Yeshua had said.

 According to the great medieval Torah commentator, Abravanel:

When the Torah speaks about the Temple, it is not only describing a sacred building in which worship takes place but it also has in mind the body of each human being. That is to say, each human being is a sacred sanctuary.

 And isn’t this exactly what Paul wrote in 1 Corinthians?

Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?  If any person destroys the temple of God, God will destroy him, for the temple of God is holy, and that is what you are. (1 Cor 3:16–17, NASB 1995 )

And again in 1 Corinthians 6:19–20:

Or do you not know that your body is a temple for the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?  For you have been bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body (NASB 1995).

 By applying this imagery of the Temple to our bodies, the New Testament and Jewish tradition are making a powerful statement. Our bodies can either be a center for what is holy or an object that can be destroyed because of our life choices.

Our rabbis teach that the reason the Temple was destroyed was because of Sinat Chinam – Baseless Hatred. And what is the cause of this kind of hatred? It is really a form of stubbornness . . . an inability to see others as B’tzelem Elohim, created in the image of God.

This inability to see the value in others, especially minorities or others on the periphery of society, has long been a path to dehumanization. When you no longer see each other as human, it then becomes possible to justify all kinds of treatment toward each other. And as Jews, we know of this kind of dehumanization all too well.

Therefore, if, according to our tradition, the Temple was destroyed due to sinat chinam, baseless hatred, it was because the people (and especially the leadership) of the time were taking advantage of, and misrepresenting, that which was supposed to be holy. And in the same way, we have to account for the way we use our own vessels to glorify God today.

In Exodus 25:8, God commanded us to build him a Sanctuary so that he could dwell among us. God was not just talking about the Mishkan, the physical Tabernacle. God was also providing a spiritual principle, that wherever we make a place for God’s presence to dwell, he will fill it. And that includes ourselves! This includes the ability to see the holiness in others as well.

The Kotzker Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, once raised a surprising question to a number of his chassidim who happened to be with him. He asked: “Where is the presence of God?” His chassidim laughed: “What a thing to ask! Isn’t the whole world full of God’s glory!” But then the Kotzker Rebbe answered: “God dwells wherever we let God in.”

On Tisha B’Av we mourn along with our people the many losses associated with this day. As a Messianic Jewish community, we mourn because these tragedies are ours. And yet, as a Messianic Jewish community, we also recognize a tension because ultimately, out of these ashes we will also gain a glimpse of something greater, the redemption that still waits to be fully attained and realized.

Since the Temple’s destruction we have been in exile, both physically and spiritually. However, we are also experiencing a powerful shift as we are now living in a day and age when we are witnessing God regathering his people, returning us to our Land, and revealing to us our beloved Messiah.

God is indeed strengthening us and giving us a renewed purpose. The Hebrew word chazon means “vision.” As Proverbs 29:18 states: “Where there is no vision, the people perish; but those who keep Torah are happy” (CJB).

We are called to be a people, spiritually and prophetically, who are able to see redemption arise out of the ashes of tragedy. We are those who must have a vision when the rest of the world is lost and without hope. And we must be those who not only understand that all of us are temples for God’s presence to dwell within, but are also able to see that same holiness within others.

During these days leading up to Tisha B’Av, we need to observe this period of mourning over the many calamities of our past, but we must also remember that we are always able to build and rebuild. With a clear vision we are able to build something beautiful for God’s presence to dwell within.

Cut into Covenant: The Passion and Promise of Messianic Judaism

Our Weekly Torah commentary this week is the text of the Shabbat morning sermon from last week’s UMJC conference, delivered by Rabbi Paul L. Saal of Shuvah Yisrael, West Hartford, CT. The audio version is an abridgement of the full message. 

There are always two unseen guests at every bris — neither of whom ever gets an invitation, and both of whom probably wouldn’t RSVP even if we sent one. But their presence is felt nonetheless.

One is Elijah — the beloved and expected one. The chair we set aside for him isn’t just a quaint tradition. It’s a bold reminder that covenant is never just about the past. It’s about the promise of a future.

The other guest? He’s not quite so cuddly.

His name is Pinchas — and he doesn’t get a chair. He gets a spear. And frankly, if he showed up unannounced at your next family simcha, most of us would probably call security.

And yet... every bris includes the passage from this week’s parasha, where God makes a covenant of peace with Pinchas:

Pinchas son of Elazar, the son of Aharon the priest, turned back My wrath from upon the Children of Israel when he zealously avenged Me among them . . . therefore I grant him My covenant of peace. — Numbers 25:11–13

What an odd text to recite at a baby’s circumcision. Couldn’t we go with something lighter? Maybe something about Abraham holding baby Isaac, with soft lighting and a harp in the background?

But no — it’s Pinchas. Zealot. Avenger. Spear-wielding priest. The Torah doesn’t shy away from the tension, and neither should we.

 Why Pinchas? Why Here? Why Now?

We first met Pinchas at the end of Parashat Balak (Num 25:7–8). The nation of Israel, under divine protection, could not be cursed by Balaam — no matter how much Balak paid him. So, as we learn in this week’s parasha, Matot-Masei, Balaam, ever the strategist, proposed a more covert and devastating tactic: corrupt them from within (Num 31:16). According to Moreh Nevuchim (1:36) and Sanhedrin 106a, since he could not curse Israel, Balaam advised Balak to strike at their moral center — specifically, to target their sexual integrity, knowing that sexual morality is one of the foundations of Jewish holiness. He counseled that if the people could be seduced into transgression, their divine protection would collapse from the inside.

So Balak sent the women of Moab to entice the general population, and the daughters of Midian were reserved for a more insidious purpose: to undermine Israel’s leadership, to entangle those closest to the heart of the covenant.

And it worked.

Zimri, a leader in Israel — a prince of the tribe of Simeon — publicly flaunts this rebellion by bringing Cozbi, a Midianite princess, into the heart of the camp and cohabiting with her in full view (Num 25:14–15). This was not merely an indiscretion. It was a calculated act of defiance. A challenge to Moses, to Torah, to the moral foundations of the people, and to the God who had set them apart.

Enter Pinchas.

Without invitation. Without instruction. Without delay. He rises, spear in hand, and impales them both — ending the plague and halting Israel’s descent into chaos.

Outrageous? Over the top? Shocking? Overly dramatic? Illegal?

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And — according to halakhic tradition — yes.

And yet... God responds with affirmation.

We are left to wrestle with this.

The rabbinic tradition is clear that Pinchas’ action was extraordinary and not legally sanctioned: ein morin kein — we do not teach this as precedent. This is not normative behavior. This is not the model. It is a lightning-strike exception.

And yet the Torah blesses him. God makes with him a covenant of peace.

This is not an endorsement of violence. It is a recognition of something deeper: the power of holy passion.

Other Moments of Severe Response

Pinchas is not alone in the biblical narrative when it comes to divine responses that overwhelm us. There are other moments that challenge our sensibilities:

• Jephthah makes a rash vow and ends up sacrificing his own daughter (Judges 11)

• Uzzah reaches out instinctively to steady the Ark — and is struck down (2 Samuel 6)

• Ananias and Sapphira lie about their offering and fall dead before the apostles (Acts 5)

• Abraham is called to sacrifice Isaac — a test so harrowing it has reverberated through centuries of sacred memory (Genesis 22)

Each of these stories makes us uncomfortable. They disturb our modern notions of grace, process, and proportionality. But they all force the same recognition: covenant is sacred. Holiness is dangerous. God's presence, though full of love, is not to be trivialized.

The Torah is not subtle in moments like these. It tells us: there are things worth trembling for.

Bris: A Moment of Vulnerability and Vision

Dare I say that if there’s ever a moment when widespread biblical illiteracy might offer unexpected comfort, it is during a bris — when nervous parents are about to watch their child undergo minor surgery without what would today be considered adequate anesthetic.

As a father of four daughters and no sons, I’ve been quite content to stand at the back of the room during these rituals. The mohel will often try to lighten the moment — with soothing words, gentle humor, sometimes a bit of misdirection. And all of that is entirely appropriate.

But still — why this passage? Why bring up a religious zealot with a sharp object at precisely this moment?

Because, while our first concern is naturally for the child’s safety, the real focus of the brit milah is not medical — it is covenantal.

This act marks entry into something ancient, sacred, and communal. It is not merely a ritual of identity. It is a claim of destiny — on the life of this child, by the people of Israel and by the God of Israel. And that claim must be preserved with the same seriousness and passion that Pinchas embodied.

What Are We Willing to Risk?

The passion of Pinchas reminds us that sacred identity is not maintained by accident. It must be guarded. It must be lived. And at times — it must be defended.

It is somewhat axiomatic in our age that when moral norms are quietly abandoned, the foundations of a people begin to crack. Few things so easily erode a covenantal community as unaddressed transgressions involving sex and money. Entire movements have collapsed under the weight of what they failed to confront.

But our generation fears zeal — often for good reason. We have seen what religious extremism can do. We have seen zeal without knowledge, fire without wisdom, and certainty without compassion.

But what about the opposite danger?

What about apathy? What about silence? What about the slow, dignified slide into irrelevance — because nothing is worth fighting for, and nothing is worth guarding?

Today, we are not losing Jews to violence or exile. We are losing them to forgetfulness. To assimilation. To absence.

We are losing Jews not to persecution — but to indifference.

Pinchas reminds us that covenant requires commitment. That peoplehood requires passion. 

Pinchas and Elijah: Zeal and Hope

Pinchas and Elijah are spiritually linked — so much so that both midrashic and mystical sources suggest that Pinchas became Elijah. This idea appears in Bamidbar Rabbah and is expanded in the Zohar, where their connection is seen spiritually, or even mystically, as the same soul continuing across generations. Both figures are marked by passionate commitment, a willingness to stand alone, and an unflinching zeal for God’s holiness.

Yet over time, there is a transformation — from spear to whisper, from fire to stillness. And this matters deeply.

We remember the story of Elijah on Mount Horeb, hiding in a cave, desperate for God’s reassurance. There is wind — tearing at the mountains. Then an earthquake. Then fire. But God is not in any of those. Finally, there is kol d’mamah dakah — a still, small voice. And only then does Elijah wrap his face in his cloak.

The message is clear: the Lord can break mountains and shake the earth, but His truest presence is often discerned in the quiet and the gentle. Elijah responds not to the dramatic, but to the intimate — the voice that speaks not to the ears, but to the soul.

It is rarely the brazen or vociferous that exemplify godly action, but rather the quiet, the spiritual, the unassuming. The Spirit of God is the voice to our innermost being — a presence that melts the heart rather than hardening it. Sternness hardens; love alone melts. Miracles may ring like a great bell through the fabric of nature, but the Spirit is God’s personal whisper to the soul.

This same spirit — the passion of Pinchas, matured through Elijah — continued through the generations. Yochanan the Immerser came “in the spirit and power of Elijah,” calling Israel to repentance and preparing the way for Messiah. In every age, this spirit reemerges — bold, refining, and prophetic — reminding us that covenant is not only inherited, but must be reawakened.

This does not mean there are no moments that call for bold and deliberate action — Pinchas shows us there are. But most often, true heroism is as quiet and unassuming as the small, still voice that inspires it. 

And this is our calling: to live in that sacred tension — between courage and compassion, between fire and whisper. Between the boldness to act and the humility to listen.

Ruth the Moabitess: A Holy Contrast

It is important to remember that not every outsider in this story was a threat. While Moabite women were part of the moral sabotage Balaam proposed, one Moabite woman later became the very symbol of covenantal love and belonging.

Her name was Ruth.

Where Cozbi was a Midianite woman sent to destroy, Ruth was a Moabite woman who chose to build.

Where others tempted Israel away from holiness, Ruth embraced Israel’s God and Torah freely and permanently. Her declaration to Naomi — “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God” — was not just a conversion. It was an entry into peoplehood.

And that matters deeply.

Judaism is more than an ethnicity and more than a religion. It is a peoplehood — a civilization forged in suffering, sustained by memory, shaped by Torah, and carried forward by covenant.

Ruth did not just adopt a creed. She took on a people. She chose the sacred burden of identity — and through her came the Davidic line, and ultimately, Messiah.

A Vision for Messianic Judaism

Messianic Judaism cannot be a spiritual costume — a kind of Hebrew-flavored Christianity. Nor can it simply be “Judaism plus Jesus.” It must be something deeper, more authentic.

A true return. A rebuilding of the house of Israel with Yeshua at the center — not as an in  truder, but as the Cornerstone.

We dream of a community where Jewish life is not a performance but a way of being. Where we wear tzitzit not to prove a point, but to remember the mitzvot. Where our children grow up saying the Shema with conviction and singing Modeh Ani with joy. Where Yeshua is not only our personal savior but the Redeemer of All Israel.

This is the meaning behind Ruth’s words: “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.” It is not just about belief, but about belonging — about becoming part of a people with a sacred story and an eternal calling.

This kind of faith takes more than belief. It takes passion. It takes people willing to be like Pinchas — not violent, but unafraid. Not reckless, but courageous. People who love this faith enough to live it fully, and pass it on.

Conclusion: Carrying the Fire

And so, we return to the bris.

The child is brought into the covenant.

Elijah is seated.

Pinchas hovers, silently.

And we must ask: What kind of faith are we passing on?

Will this child see a community that burns with passion for holiness? That protects what is sacred? That knows who they are?

Will we be the generation that guards the covenant — not with fear, but with love?

May we be that people.

May we carry the fire of Pinchas and the stillness of Elijah.

May we walk in the courage of Ruth and the conviction of Moses.

May we build a Messianic Judaism that is bold, mature, rooted, and real.

And may the One who is coming — the Son of David, the pierced Redeemer — find us faithful, passionate, and ready.

The Women Who Spoke What is Right

Parashat Pinchas, Numbers 25:10—30:1

Daniel Nessim, Kehilat Tsion, Vancouver, BC

Our parasha begins this week with a blessing on Pinchas for his heroic action to preserve Israel’s moral and spiritual character. In the following chapter, the children of Israel are numbered, clan by clan, specifically counting those of fighting age. After that the inheritances of the tribes, clans, and families of Israel are listed. Now we can see why it is the warriors who are counted. Israel is going to war in order to inherit its Land. As Rashi noted, and as is plain in the text, these warriors were counted “after their fathers’ tribes . . . and not after their mothers.”

So what about the women then? Actually, they are far from absent.

Right after the census and just before Moses was instructed to go up into Mount Abarim (today called Mount Nebo in Jordan) to view the Land before dying and being gathered to his people, the women feature prominently (Num 27:1–11).

Moses, the great teacher of the Law, was presented with one final and consequential decision to make in his lifetime. A crucial decision concerning inheritance law had to be made. How would Moses decide? But it was not Moses who decided the Law. Midrash Rabbah 21.12 comments, “The Holy One, blessed be He, said to [Moses]: ‘did you not say, “The cause that is too hard for you ye shall bring unto me”? The law with which you are unacquainted is decided by the women!’” The law was thus decided by Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah, the five daughters of Zelophehad. They were probably quite young, as there is no statement that they were married.

Their father Zelophehad was one of the generation who had died in the wilderness, but his daughters wanted to preserve their father’s heritage, their family’s heritage, in the Promised Land as it was divided up and assigned to the people.

It is tempting to look at the ancient biblical text through modern eyes. Doing so can obscure our understanding of the author’s intent. For example, some might view the story of Zelophehad’s daughters against modern concepts of Patriarchy. Britannica online describes Patriarchy as an “hypothetical social system in which the father or a male elder has absolute authority over the family group; by extension, one or more men (as in a council) exert absolute authority over the community as a whole.” Is that the view of Torah, which exalts the Patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and typically names families, clans, and tribes by their patriarchs?

Naturally, it is dangerous to take modern concepts and apply them directly to ancient cultures and texts. On the other hand, we can’t pretend that we don’t live in the world we live in now, and that this doesn’t affect the questions we have when we come to the Torah. So setting aside our contemporary questions about patriarchy as well as family and community structure, what does Moses tell us in our parashah? What does this parashah tell us about family and community structure in Moses’ day?

While women are not mentioned as much as men in our parashah, or in Scripture as a whole, there is no doubt that they have as much agency and initiative as anyone. Sometimes this can be negative. When Pinchas slew an Israelite man and a Midianite woman, both are named (Num 25:14). She was Cozbi the daughter of Zur, who was head of the people of a father’s house in Midian. Both she and Zimri who died with her are treated as significant persons, members of households, or clans, known by a patriarch. The significance of the patriarch and the significance of the individual are both upheld. The two were equal in their transgression, and equal in the judgment they received. Both of them are described (interestingly) as descended from a “prince.”

A number of times in the subsequent counting of the warriors of Israel, women are included. Were they also warriors? Within the tribe of Manasseh (Num 26:33), Zelophehad’s daughters Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah are first mentioned. Were they also fighters? They do seem to have been counted. The same applies to the daughter of Asher, whose name was Serah (Num 26:46). Among the Levites, Amram’s wife is named as Jochebed (Num 26:59). The counting is by families. Families with sons and daughters. Whereas the transgressors Cozbi and Zimri were described as the offspring of princes, among the children of Israel they were all families.

To be in a home led by a “prince” smacks of that authoritarian system where male figures hold absolute sway. Moses portrays his people, the children of Israel, quite differently, and perhaps we should look at ourselves and our communities in the same way. Families, especially multi-generational families as Moses listed them, are collaborative communities where each individual participates according to relational rules, not on the basis of authoritarian impositions.

Societies and family structures based purely on authority contrast with those among the people of the Promise. Take for example the descendants of Esau and Jacob. Esau’s descendants (who were outside of the Promise) were generally described as chiefs (Gen 36). Jacob’s descendants were described as sons (Gen 35:22–26). Esau’s descendants were those of a hunter. Jacob’s descendants were those of an ish tam, one who was perfect, or complete, with integrity (Gen 25:26).

In Parashat Pinchas, Moses upholds the dignity of every child of Israel, man or woman. The modern idea of “patriarchy” would have been foreign to him. There were people whose families were dominated by authority figures, whether they were called princes or chiefs, but in Parashat Pinchas, Moses saw families, and families are where every member is valued.

This is why the daughters of Zelophehad are mentioned with such respect. Midrash Rabbah 21.12 attributes to them the role of judges of the law, even in Moses’ presence, for as the Lord said, they “speak what is right” (Num 27:6). That is quite startling! Before Moses himself, the women judge rightly and the Lord puts his seal of approval on their interpretation of the Law.

These women were not only descendants of Israel, but also descendants of the righteous Joseph, we are told (Num 27:1). The midrash in the passage already mentioned describes them as “wise and righteous.” Perhaps this is more typical of women than men, the midrash intimates, as it points out that when the Lord said of Israel “they shall surely die in the wilderness,” our parshah seems to indicate that this only applied to the men. It was the men who all died, not the women, according to the midrash. We are told (Num 26:65) “there was not left a man of them.” Were the women more righteous? On this day, they were certainly the wise ones, and to this day they remind us to pay heed to the way the Almighty views us – men and women alike, the children of Israel.

“Have this attitude in yourselves, which also was in Messiah Yeshua.” Rav Shaul wrote this in his letter to the Philippians (Phil 2:5). His counsel stands today as well as it did then.

Which Name of God Will You Make Known?

Parashat Balak, Numbers 22:2–25:9

Rabbi Isaac Roussel, Congregation Zera Avraham, Ann Arbor, MI

Bereisheet Rabbah, commenting on Genesis 28:11, refers to God as HaMakom—“The Place”—not merely a location, but the sacred space where heaven touches earth, where we encounter the Holy, and more than that, where we dwell with him.

In this week’s parasha, when Bil‘am exclaims, “How goodly are your tents, O Ya’akov,” he beholds more than the neat rows of Israel’s encampment. He sees a mystery unfolding before him—the quiet radiance of the Divine Presence, Shekhinah, nestled within the tents of ordinary life. In that moment, Bil‘am’s understanding of God transforms. Hashem is no longer just a transcendent Redeemer who shatters the chains of slavery, but the indwelling God who abides in the everyday, sanctifying it from within. One might even say that Bil‘am intuits a new Name of God: “The Tent of Jacob”—a God who is not only above us, but with us, and even among us. And in a twist of irony and grace, it is this name that he makes known in a blessing instead of a curse, the blessing that opens our morning prayers in the Siddur: ‘How goodly are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel” (Num 24:5, Koren Siddur).

When Moshe stood before the burning bush, he was overwhelmed by awe and uncertainty. The voice from the flames declared: “I am the God of your forefathers, the God of Avraham, the God of Yitzhak, and the God of Ya’akov.” And then, this voice—the voice of Hashem—said something astonishing: “I have seen the plight of my people, and I am sending you.”

In that sacred moment, Moshe asked a curious question: “What if they ask me your name? What shall I say to them?”

Was Moshe ignorant of God’s name? Surely, he had heard of Elohim, El Elyon, El Shaddai. So why ask?

Ibn Ezra suggests Moshe wasn’t simply asking out of ignorance, but with a strategic pastoral concern—he wanted to know which divine name would truly resonate with the Israelites, convincing them that the God of their forefathers was still present and powerful enough to redeem them.

Ramban (Nachmanides) goes further—he says that El Shaddai would have been sufficient. But God offered something else. Something deeper. He replied, “Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh”—I Am That I Am.” But like Bil‘am’s perception, Exodus Rabbah interprets this as “I have been with you in this exile, and I will be with you in all future exiles.”

It is this name—YHVH—that God ultimately gives Moshe. A name not just of identity, but of relationship and mystery. A name that speaks of covenant, of journeying together through time.

God was saying: I am the God you will come to know—not just in theory, but through experience, through history, through walking together.

As a people, we perceive God in the collective: not just an “I-Thou” but a “We-Thou.” The God of our ancestors is not merely a personal deity; he is the God revealed through covenant and community. Yet, at the same time, each of us experiences God uniquely.

That’s why Scripture speaks not just of “The God of Israel,” but names the ancestors separately: “the God of Avraham, Yitzhak, and Ya’akov.” Each encountered God differently.

Avraham met him as Adonai Yireh at Mount Moriah, when God provided a ram in place of Isaac, revealing himself as the One who sees and provides (Gen 22:14). In that moment, Avraham not only encountered divine provision but also the depth of God’s faithfulness to his promises. It was a revelation born of obedience, fear, and profound trust.

Yitzhak encountered God during a season of conflict and uncertainty. After facing repeated disputes over wells, he named the final one Rehovot, saying, “Now the Lord has made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land” (Gen 26:22). That night, God appeared and reaffirmed the covenant, and Yitzhak built an altar and called upon the name of the Lord. For Yitzhak, God was the One who brings peace after striving, the God who honors quiet faithfulness.

Ya’akov, after wrestling with the divine through the night, emerged limping but transformed. He named the place Peniel, saying, “I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved” (Gen 32:30).

This continues on throughout the Torah and into the Besorah. Moshe raised a banner and named him Adonai Nissi after defeating Amalek. Gideon called him Adonai Shalom. David sang of Adonai Ro’i, the Shepherd. Hosea spoke of God as Ish—a husband. Shimon Kefa called Yeshua the Messiah, the Son of the Living God. Mary Magdalene called him Rabboni, her beloved Teacher. Thomas declared, “My Lord and my God” after touching his wounds. Rav Shaul proclaimed him as the power and wisdom of God, revealed on the road to Damascus.

In the Besorah, Yeshua prays for his talmidim:

Righteous Father, the world has not known you, but I have known you, and these people have known that you sent me. I made your name known to them, and I will continue to make it known; so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I myself may be united with them. (John 17:25-26 CJB, emphasis added)

As I read that passage 30 years ago, the words leapt off the page. God whispered to my heart: “These verses are yours.”

That was my calling: to come to know God, and to make him known to others.

And, I am convinced, this is not just mine. It is our shared calling.

We are invited to seek him, to discover the Bush who quietly burns in our lives. We have to turn aside and look, as Moshe did. That means living lives of attentiveness, pursuing him through prayer, through study, through openness.

And just as Yeshua says, “I have made your name known,” we must ask: What name?

What name has God made known to you?

Sometimes the revelation of God’s name is inseparable from the revelation of our own. Avram becomes Avraham, the father of many nations; Sarai becomes Sarah, a mother of kings. Ya’akov becomes Yisrael after wrestling with God, forever marked by struggle and blessing. Shimon is renamed Kefa—the Rock upon which a community would be built. These moments are not just renamings; they are unveilings of true identity, given in the presence of the Holy One.

Each of us may carry a different name for God in our hearts—a name shaped by the path we’ve walked, the pain we’ve endured, and the grace we’ve received. For me, that name is captured in my Hebrew name, Yitzhak-Rephaiah. Rephaiah means “God has healed,” and Yitzhak means “laughter.” These are not just linguistic meanings—they are mile markers on my spiritual road. I began as someone weighed down with angst and inner wounds, but Hashem has gently rewritten my story: from a soul clenched in anguish to one able to laugh again, healed and held in divine love.

We live in a world that has not known Hashem. But we have. And now, we are called to make his name known.

So I ask you:

• Have you discovered your name for God?

• Have you discovered a new name for yourself as you have encountered the Living God?

• Have you shared that name with others?

May we turn aside to seek the quietly burning bush. May we come to know the Name that speaks to us. May we make that Name known in love. And in doing so, may we be united with Messiah Yeshua, with our brothers and sisters, and with our Beloved Father.

Bitter Water and Sweet Surrender

Parashat Chukat, Numbers 19:1–22:1

Rabbi Paul L. Saal, Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, West Hartford, CT

Parashat Chukat is one of the most enigmatic portions in the entire Torah. It seems to flow with contradiction: it begins with a mysterious ordinance, introduces a miraculous yet perplexing deliverance, and ends in what feels like a strange and tragic justice. Midrash teaches us that hidden within these paradoxes are holy lessons, if we’re willing to live with the mystery.

One way to remember the surreal themes of this portion is with a simple mnemonic: Three Children of Amram, Two Strange Cows, and a Rock with a Perpetual Stream.

Let’s begin with the two strange cows. Chukat opens with the decree of the Red Heifer—parah adumah—called not just a law of Torah, but the decree of the Torah. Why such a strange ritual? A completely red, unblemished cow, never yoked, is burned and its ashes used to purify those who have come in contact with the dead. But in a twist that reflects the whole spiritual tension of this parasha, those who prepare the waters of purification become impure themselves.

It makes no sense. And perhaps that’s the point.

The Sages tell us that this is the ultimate chok—a decree from God that defies rationality. Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, when questioned by a Roman official about this rite, offered a quasi-scientific response about removing unclean spirits. But when his own disciples questioned him, he admitted the truth: “The dead do not defile, and the ashes do not purify. It is a decree of the King of Kings. We are not to question.”

Still, the sages tried to interpret. One tradition connects the Red Heifer to the Golden Calf. Just as a mother cleans up after her child, so the red heifer atones for the sin of the golden calf. And why a female animal? Precisely because she represents care, nurture, and sacrificial purity—responding to an earlier failure with a new redemptive act.

This is not the only paradox in the portion. The Talmud in tractate Niddah reflects that just as Torah forbids blood as food, yet a mother’s blood becomes milk to nourish her child, so too the process of purification is not always clean. Sometimes, holiness requires us to step into the mess. Sometimes, like the priests who prepare the ashes, we must become defiled in order to bring healing to others.

That brings us to the three children of Amram: Moses, Aaron, and Miriam.

Numbers 20 begins with Miriam’s death and ends with the fateful moment when Moses and Aaron strike the rock at Meribah—an act that costs them entry into the Promised Land (Num 20:12). These three siblings are called parnassim tovim, good and faithful leaders. Yet their lives reflect the paradox of the Red Heifer: they endure personal loss, sacrifice, and even divine rebuke, not for their own sin alone, but also to serve as atonement for the people.

The Midrash teaches that Yocheved, their mother, outlives them all. Since her children were the spiritual parents of Israel, it’s as if she becomes the matriarch to 600,000 souls who enter the land. There’s something deeply moving in this image—of lives lived not for personal fulfillment but for national redemption.

Then we come to the rock with the perpetual stream.

The aggadic tradition tells us that in Miriam’s merit, a miraculous rock followed the Israelites, gushing fresh water throughout their journey in the wilderness. It wasn’t just a miracle—it was a companion. A symbol of divine grace, unearned and ever-present. This rock, touched by Miriam’s faith and the echo of the Nile where she placed her baby brother, flowed with twelve streams—one for each tribe. Trees and flowers grew along its banks. Wherever Israel went, it followed.

When Miriam died, the water stopped. And in their thirst, the people complained bitterly. God told Moses to speak to the rock—but instead, Moses struck it. Twice. The sages say that only a drop came out at first. And when Moses struck again, it gushed blood. The people cried, “God is no longer with us!” Even the rock cried out, “Why have you struck me?” God wept too, saying, “You were meant to speak gently and lead with compassion. You were meant to teach faith, not provoke doubt.”

And then God healed the rock and commanded it to bring forth water again. The blood on the desert sand turned into roses, and the water reflected their color.

The Apostle Paul, Rav Shaul, seems to echo this tradition when he writes: “They all drank from the same spiritual drink, for they drank from the spiritual rock that accompanied them—and that rock was Messiah” (1 Corinthians 10:4).

Just as water flowed from the rock, Paul sees in Messiah the ultimate paradox: the stone rejected becomes the source of life. God brings purification through a suffering servant, blessing through blood, resurrection through surrender.

This portion, with all its riddles, asks us to trust that God’s ways are not always meant to be deciphered. Like Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, we may give a polite answer to the world—but among ourselves, we embrace the mystery.

And yet, we are not passive. We act. We serve. We do mitzvot, even when we don’t understand them fully. Because through them, we draw near. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel put it best: “Perhaps the essential message of Judaism is that in doing the finite, we may perceive the infinite.”

It is in these strange, often small acts—kindness, service, observance, forgiveness—that we encounter the divine. We don’t have to solve the mystery to stand in awe of it. We just have to live faithfully within it.

So let us not seek only to understand. Let us also do. Let us speak to the rock rather than strike it. Let us draw sweetness from the bitter, water from stone, and light from ashes.

And may the Rock of our salvation, the One who follows us even when we forget him, continue to lead us with mystery, mercy, and grace.

Rebellion and Its Cure

Parashat Korach , Numbers 16:1-18:32

James Burling, US Navy Chaplain, Kehilat Ariel, San Diego

I'm honored to bring light through the word this week as global tensions continue to rise, particularly in Israel and the Middle East. As a chaplain in the US Navy, it's my duty to orient our warfighters toward God, despite the disorienting conditions that we face.   

This week's Torah portion opens with the Korach rebellion.

Now Korah, son of Izhar son of Kohath son of Levi, and sons of Reuben—Dathan and Abiram, sons of Eliab, and On son of Peleth—rose up against Moses and took 250 men from Bnei-Yisrael, men of renown who had been appointed to the council. They assembled against Moses and Aaron. They said to them, “You’ve gone too far! All the community is holy—all of them—and Adonai is with them! Then why do you exalt yourselves above the assembly of Adonai?” (Numbers 16:1-3)

Korach is of the priestly lineage along with Aaron, the high priest; both are Levites, sons of Levi. Korach along with some other chieftains, particularly from the tribe of Reuben, seek to confront and remove Moses from his position. This rebellious entourage of men seek to thrust themselves into positions for the sake of power, fame, and influence. From the beginning of creation, starting with Adam and Eve’s rebellion in the garden, rebellion has not yielded any positive outcomes, and this event is no exception.

It might seem rather hypocritical for an American to speak out against rebellion. After all, my nation's founding was predicated on rebellion against our British rulers. American colonists considered this justified because of undue taxation and seized the opportunity for independence. The preamble of the United States Constitution declares that such rebellion was necessary to create a more perfect union. In comparison, the Korach account shows us God's affirmation of His elect prophet Moses and disallows this rebellious action of Korach. 

A question that we should ask is this: did Korach and his rebel leaders seek or warrant a "More perfect union" with God than they already had? The early exchanges in Numbers 16 between Moses and Korach show us that the Levites, including Korach, were given a significant ministerial office as priestly laborers who regularly witnessed the interaction with the Glory of the Lord in the Tabernacle.  

We aren't told what Korach’s thoughts were that triggered his motivation for rebellion, but we can observe that he was discontented with God over what he was given. We aren't told if Korach prayed at all, but the text does indicate that he mounted accusers and accusations against Moses, so slander and gossip likely took place before the rebellious confrontation.  Note that Korach's discontentment is much like Cain's discontentment in the Genesis account in chapter 4 and how his rebellion played out.  

King David wrote in the opening of the 23rd Psalm “The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want.” Not wanting or "Lo echsar" roughly translates to not perceiving oneself as lacking or suffering a decrease. Korach found himself lacking favor from God much as Cain did, with each character trying to save face.  Whether Korach lusted after the priesthood initially, he simply felt discontented and wronged with where God had him. The pathology is that if we can rationalize that we have been wronged in any way, then we can justify nearly any retributive action as recourse. We usurp God and his order and exalt ourselves as judge and jury or lord of the situation. Whether personal or corporate, every rebellion in the history of the world has started this way. In our world, there is no lack of wrong being done but there is an extreme lack of justice and mercy.  

The narrative of early nomadic Israel in this week’s Torah portion offers us an opportunity to inspect our personal motives in any circumstance. Sin is a triunity of rebellion—against God, self, and others. Rebellion is a default human posture and attitude, and even more so, it’s our condition. We continually fall short in our deeds and thoughts.  The cure is to turn, perhaps face down first, make repentance, and reverently seek God's face for forgiveness in all directions. James explains in his writings this conception and evolution of sin:

But each one is tempted when he is dragged away and enticed by his own desire. Then when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and when sin is full grown, it brings forth death. (James 1:14-15)

Korach was caught up in his own desires. Sin clouds our world and personal perception. It arises from the Yetzer hara, the evil inclination that we all battle, and leads us to fall short, then making us enemies of God with the help of pride. Pride ensures separation from God after we have sinned.  We notice that when Moses was confronted and accused by Korah and his clan, Moses didn't hastily defend himself or his position; he didn't explain himself. Rather, “When Moses heard this, he fell on his face” (Num 16:4). This action is synonymous with worship, repentance, reverence, and sincerity.  

By prostrating himself, Moses is denying his own face (vanity and pride) to receive the favor of the Lord’s face. It's also worth noting that the Aaronic priestly blessing in Numbers 6:24-26 is regarding our orientation toward the Lord and his face shining upon us.

The Lord bless you and keep you;

the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you;

the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.

When we turn to the Lord and spend time with Him, our countenance changes. Exodus 34:29 shows us what happens to Moses’ face after interfacing with the Lord in receiving the Torah. “Moses did not know that the skin of his face was radiant, because God had spoken with him.”

The antidote to our fallen circumstance in any situation is disarming it through interfacing with God, just as Moses does in the Korach situation. Prayer must become our primary response. Unlike Korach, but like Moses, we must desire God more than any status, position, or outcome. Perhaps it's a shortfall, pun intended, that we prostrate ourselves only once a year, on Yom Kippur. We fall to the floor on behalf of our own intercession for atonement, but what about on behalf of others as Moses did for the Kohathites? Do we pray for our enemies and those that oppose us? Romans 5:10 is about this very intercession, by our permanent high priest. “For if, while we were yet enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of His Son, how much more, having been reconciled, shall we be saved by His life.”  

The Korach rebellion often reflects the voices that are in our minds in our own life circumstances. It reminds us that we cannot seize favor from God by force but through prayer, reverence, and humility towards Him. To receive favor from God requires gentle submission to him and his will, not by force, but by His spirit. The Avinu prayer that Yeshua gives us in Matthew 6:9-13 frames the ideal posture before God in dealing with our rebellion. It addresses the Father who is holy. The One who is set apart sets us apart. We must desire His Kingdom and not our own lordship or glory. We pray for His will and not our own to prevail. We ask for our sins to be forgiven as we forgive those who have offended us. We ask not to be led into testing, but if we must be tested, we pray to be delivered from the evil one. In Matthew 5:7 Yeshua commands us to be peacemakers: “blessed are the peacemakers for they will be called Bene Elohim, sons of God.”

As children of God, we are obligated not to make rebellion, but to turn from our rebellion and make peace in every circumstance. For Romans 12:18 tells us, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” May the Lord bless you in all your peacemaking endeavors. Shalom in Messiah Yeshua.

The Battle Belongs to the Lord

Jerusalem bomb shelter, June 15, 2025

Parashat Shelach L’cha, Numbers 8:1–12:16

Rabbi Paul L. Saal, Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, West Hartford, CT 

These are unsettling days. The headlines speak of endless violence in the Middle East, growing instability, and a troubling resurgence of antisemitism, not just on the fringes, but in the mainstream of public discourse and politics. It can feel like we are standing on the edge of something ominous. The words of the prophets echo in our minds: “In the end of days there will be wars and rumors of wars.”

But then again—when has that not been true? 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.

Today’s Torah portion, Shelach L’cha, along with its paired haftarah from Joshua, tells the story of two generations on the edge of the Promised Land. Each sends spies to assess the enemy and the terrain. Each is on the brink of a great battle. Each must decide whether to believe in their fears or in the faithfulness of God.

In Numbers 13, Moses sends twelve tribal leaders to scout the land. They all see the same geography, the same cities, the same adversaries. But ten of them return filled with dread: “We looked like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so we appeared to them” (13:33). Their vision of themselves was so small that even the promise of God could not lift them up.

Forty years later, in the haftarah, Joshua sends two spies into Jericho. They find themselves in a precarious situation, hiding on a rooftop, pursued by the king’s men. But something surprising happens—they hear from Rahab, the Canaanite innkeeper, that the hearts of the people are already melting in fear: “We know the Lord has given you this land” (Josh 2:9). The difference is striking. The first group saw defeat, the second saw victory. Not because the situation had changed—but because they were looking through the eyes of faith, not fear.

Proverbs 21:30–31 says it clearly:

There is no wisdom, no insight, no plan that can succeed against the Lord.
The horse is made ready for the day of battle, but victory rests with the Lord.

Yes, we prepare. We advocate, we defend, we mourn, and we organize. We show up with truth and courage. But we do not place our trust in horses or headlines. We place our trust in the God who sees the whole battlefield and whose purposes cannot be overturned. The battle belongs to Hashem.

That knowledge should give us confidence—but it also raises a question: If God is the author of the outcome, what role do our choices play? The answer lies not in knowing every twist of the story, but in trusting the One who writes it with us.

Proverbs 20:24 reminds us, “A man’s steps are directed by the Lord. How then can anyone understand his own way?”

Life, as we experience it, often feels confusing or random. We can’t always trace the path, let alone control it. That can lead to discouragement, especially when we look back and see missteps, lost time, or wrong turns.

John Quincy Adams once confessed:

My life has been spent in vain and idle aspirations, and in ceaseless rejected prayers that something beneficial to my own species should be the result of my existence.

That aching desire to have made a difference—to have mattered—is something we all feel. But how we deal with that sense of regret or failure is crucial. And literature gives us two vivid examples: Oedipus and Raskolnikov.

Oedipus, the tragic king of Thebes, tries to outrun a prophecy that he will kill his father and marry his mother. Despite his efforts, he fulfills it unknowingly. When the truth emerges, he is devastated. Though he had no malicious intent, he takes full responsibility and blinds himself. His story is one of over-responsibility—bearing guilt for what he could not have prevented. It is a despairing view that leaves no room for mercy or divine grace.

On the other hand, Raskolnikov, in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, murders an old woman under the delusion that he is acting for the greater good. He then spends the entire novel trying to rationalize and deny his guilt. His is a story of under-responsibility—blaming fate, philosophy, anything to avoid owning the truth. Only when he finally confesses and repents does he begin to heal.

Oedipus is crushed by guilt for what was not truly his fault. Raskolnikov avoids guilt for what clearly was. And most of us, in our own way, oscillate between these two extremes—either taking on too much shame or trying to escape it entirely.

But Torah offers another way. A better way. It teaches us that we are not helpless victims of fate, nor are we autonomous authors of the world. Instead, we are co-authors with Hashem, responsible for our part, but never alone in shaping the story.

As Proverbs 16:33 teaches: “The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord.”

Yes, we cast the lots—we make the choices, big and small—but God determines the outcome. That means we are never without agency, and never beyond redemption. God doesn’t erase our past, but he transforms it. He can turn even the broken chapters into a part of his greater redemptive arc.

Each of us is given the opportunity to write a story worth telling. That’s why we were born. And while we write it, we must remember that history itself is really His-story. When we acknowledge his authorship—when we trust that the battle is his, and yet take responsibility for our role—then we live with both humility and hope. We no longer fear our mistakes, nor deny them. We bring them before Hashem, and he sets us free to write something better with the time we have.

So yes, the world is frightening. The forces arrayed against the Jewish people and against truth and righteousness, can feel immense. But we are not grasshoppers in our own eyes—we are the beloved children of the God of Israel. We do not walk into this battle alone. We prepare the horse, but the victory belongs to the Lord.

Let us write the next chapter not in fear, but in faith. Let us believe that even now, Hashem is at work behind the scenes. And let us live with the confident knowledge that our stories—yours and mine—are still being written. And the best pages may yet lie ahead.

Ken yehi ratzon—may this be God’s will.

The Final Upgrade

Parashat Beha’alot’cha, Numbers 8:1–12:16

Haftarah: Zechariah 2:14–4:7

Rachel Wolf, Beth Messiah Congregation, Cincinnati

The historical record of Torah that has come down to us through untold ages is priceless! The Israelites slogged through—and Moses recorded—their messy walked-out demonstration of the eternal plan of God so that we can understand it. Nothing God commanded Moses was frivolous. All of it, if studied properly, can impart to us deeper knowledge of God.

This week’s Torah portion, Beha’a lot’cha means “when you raise” (the lamps for the tabernacle), and it emphasizes several crucial truths for our lives.

First, we see the ultimate purpose of all the fuss about the Mishkan (tabernacle).

In Numbers 7:1 “Moses had finished” the construction of the Sanctuary, the Mishkan. This was an enormous and lengthy task, using blueprints received directly from the Mountain of God. Then, in the last verse of last week’s portion, 7:89, we read:

When it was finished, Moses entered the Tent of Meeting and “heard the Voice speaking to him . . .”

This is the same Voice that spoke to Adam and Eve in the garden. The Voice that thundered from Sinai. It is the Voice that spoke to the Prophets of Israel. And the same Voice that spoke, “This is my beloved son with whom I am well pleased” (Matt 3:17). The Tabernacle, the Mishkan, is God’s self-described dwelling place that remains, even among the uncleanness of the people of Israel (Lev 16:16). Immanu-el, God with us. God’s ongoing plan, the plan he is continually upgrading, is that he will dwell amidst his people. Countless times God says to Israel: “So you shall be my people, and I will be your God.”

When Moses enters the Tent of Meeting/ Tent of Dwelling to speak with God, Moses hears the voice of the Lord from between the cherubim on the Kaporet, the gold lid placed on the Ark of the Covenant (Num 7:89). As we will see in chapter 11 below, God (with Moses) desires that, not only Moses, but all may hear his voice.

Second, we see that God has embedded deep meaning in Israel’s orderly rituals.

God himself elaborately delineates to Moses all of the jobs of the priests and Levites, and plans out where all of the tribes will camp around the Mishkan (Num 1:47-2:34). Israel is still encamped (since Exodus 19) in the Wilderness of Sinai. It is now the second month of the second year since they’ve come from Egypt (Num 1:1). Now God reminds Moses to keep the Passover celebration with all of Israel, for the first time as a memorial of the Exodus, one year before! (9:1-14).

In 10:14 the Israelites start out for the first time from Sinai, “at the command of the Lord; by the hand of Moses.” This departure from the camp is not modeled on the free-for-all buffet! It is, perhaps, modeled on a very strict catered affair in which tables are called one by one, and each one has a set place in line. But instead of the caterer’s microphone, God instructed Moses to make two silver trumpets that the priests would blow to signal the people.

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Try this at Home!

Maybe you’d enjoy making a diagram or diorama (complete with flags for each tribe) as I did, illustrating how the Israelites set out in God’s order. As you draw it out, it’s easy to see that one clear objective is to guard and protect the Mishkan and its holy objects. See Numbers 10:11-28.

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Third, we see that leading a bunch of rowdy people (called the congregation of Israel) is a burdensome job that cannot be done by one man.

Indeed, after the latest complaint of the people of Israel, Moses entreats God (11:15): “If you treat me like this, kill me right now!” Before that, Moses twice entreats Hovav, his father-in-law’s son, to stay with them to help (10:29). It appears that Hovav was well versed in wilderness camping. Moses, the city boy from the palaces of Egypt, needed him like the Lone Ranger needed Tonto!

God hears Moses’s plea, and instructs him to have the seventy elders gather at the Tent of Meeting. There, God comes down in the cloud, takes of the Spirit that was upon Moses, and places it on the seventy elders (11:25). Thus they are prepared to support and aid Moses.

Lastly, Chapter 12 makes it clear that, whoever you are, it is never a good thing to speak against a leader that God has anointed.

Aaron and Miriam speak against Moses and get called immediately to the Tent of Meeting. There Miriam becomes leprous, though God graciously heals her in a week.

Haftarah

The rabbis’ choice of Zechariah 2:14–4:7 for the prophetic reading emphasizes the first point above, namely, that God’s ultimate plan of plans is to scatter Israel’s enemies, and dwell eternally in the midst of Zion. Here we see that the Land is not only Israel’s inheritance, but, more primarily, God’s inheritance with Israel. The haftarah in Zechariah is a poetic and beautiful passage that rejoices in God’s eschatological choosing of Jerusalem.

“Sing and rejoice, O daughter of Zion! For behold, I am coming and I will dwell in your midst,” says the LORD. “Many nations shall be joined to the LORD in that day, and they shall become My people. And I will dwell in your midst. Then you will know that the LORD of hosts has sent Me to you. And the LORD will take possession of Judah as His inheritance in the Holy Land, and will again choose Jerusalem. Be silent, all flesh, before the LORD, for He is aroused from His holy habitation!” (Zech 2:10-13 NKJV [2:14-17 in Jewish translations])

Zechariah has a vision of God’s final upgrade, the fulfillment of God’s desire and plan to dwell in the midst of his people. We in Messianic circles hear this a lot. But take a moment to meditate on the astounding reality of this. This is the time of final redemption that we, along with Hashem, look forward to. Israel no longer will need to be afraid when God makes all things new and we dwell daily in his holy presence.

Naso: Make an Accounting

Parashat Naso, Numbers 4:21–7:89

Matt Absolon, Beth T'filah Congregation

And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “Speak to the people of Israel, When a man or woman commits any of the sins that people commit by breaking faith with the Lord, and that person realizes his guilt, he shall confess his sin that he has committed. And he shall make full restitution for his wrong, adding a fifth to it and giving it to him to whom he did the wrong. But if the man has no next of kin to whom restitution may be made for the wrong, the restitution for wrong shall go to the LORD for the priest, in addition to the ram of atonement with which atonement is made for him.” Numbers 5:5-8

In our reading, God outlines the process of atonement for one who voluntarily realizes his guilt, and furthermore, wishes to make amends towards restitution and to ease his afflicted conscience.

While the Hebrew is slightly ambiguous as to the method of conviction, that is voluntarily or through public coercion, both the Sages and English translators treat the passage as guilt through voluntary admission.

In his exegesis of this passage, thirteenth century Rabbi Hezekiah Ben Manoah, known colloquially as Chizkuni, states:

"A trespass against the Lord": The Torah teaches that . . . the Lord is the One Who considers Himself as having been sinned against. (Chizkuni, Numbers 5:6. Emphasis mine)

What Chizkuni is pointing the reader to can be understood through the doctrine of God’s omnipresence. That is to say, because God is everywhere at all times, and because he is our father, when we sin against our fellow man, by proxy we also sin against God. Yeshua draws on this same idea in Matt 25 when he tells us, “When you do it to the least of these, you do it unto me.” When we are kind to each other, we are showing kindness to the Lord; and when we harm each other, we harm the Lord.

Returning to our opening thoughts; the miracle of this passage is not in the reminder of God’s omnipresence (as wonderful as it is), but in the act of voluntary admission of sin. The miracle of voluntary conviction of guilt stands as one of the premiere goals of the Torah. 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. It’s a mysterious work that happens between us and the Lord. Why does one man become convicted of sin, whilst another remains heard-hearted; the timing of it all; the apparent randomness of conviction; it remains a mystery.

It’s important to note, that Yeshua himself was unable to convict a stubborn heart into repentance (Matt 23:37). With all the mystery around the process of conscience and guilt, one thing is for certain; those who feel guilty know that even if no one else saw it, God was watching.

Chizkuni follows on with some sage advice;

"And that soul shall be guilty, and confess": . . . this is a line that can be used universally for all such trespasses, that the first step in rehabilitation of the sinner must be his confession of having committed this trespass. (Chizkuni, Numbers 5:6)

The confession prescribed within the text has a very public face to it. The steps of restitution are condensed as follows; Realization of guilt, Confession of sin, Payment of the debt. Restitution of the trespass often takes the form of monetary value, much like legal damages in modern Tort Law.

Chizkuni concludes;

"And he is to add a fifth of it": (the value of the stolen property); if his confession is not the result of witnesses having accused him of his guilt, but it is simply an expression of his remorse, then he pays only this extra 25%, but if witnesses testified about the theft he is required to add a second 25% as a penalty. (Chizkuni, Numbers 5:7)

In his commentary on the following verse, Chizkuni outlines the contrast between the penalty levied upon voluntary remorse, as opposed to the penalty levied upon guilt by public witness. Chizkuni interprets this passage, in conjunction with the passage from Leviticus 5:16, to say that an added penalty would be meted out by the judges for the one who does not voluntarily admit guilt.

The challenge that we face in this passage is the paradox of humility. The pain of voluntary humility vs the pain of God humiliating us through witnesses and public accusations. Yeshua encourages us to voluntarily humble ourselves, and in return, we will be exalted. “For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted” (Luke 14:11 emphasis mine).

This process of self-reflection, self-conviction and self-humbling is at the epicenter of a healthy and functional psyche. The process of humility is an antibody to the slow fragmentation of our minds and eventually the total corruption of our spirits. This work, let’s call it “self-regulating-ethics,” begins with us as individuals, but it ends with us as the building blocks of a family, a community, and a culture. Solomon contrasts the integrity of the righteous with the fragmentation of the crooked: “The integrity of the upright guides them, but the crookedness of the treacherous destroys them” (Prov 11:3).

Eminent Harvard Professor of Business Clayton Christensen, best known for his theory of “Disruptive Innovation,” theorized the importance of self-regulating ethics in the stability of our free market economy, and ultimately, the western way of life. In a 2012 TED talk he explained the greatest challenge in bringing free market economies to cultures that do not have a religious substrate of self-regulating ethics. Prof Christensen explains:

…if you go back 150 or 200 years ago, almost everybody in America on the weekend went to a synagogue or a church and they were taught there by people who they respected that they should voluntarily follow all the rules, because even if the police did not catch them, God will catch them. . . . If you try to put free markets and democracy into a country that doesn’t have that foundation, all you get is chaos. . . .

So my first concern about our system is that if you don’t have an instinct, generally born from a religious tradition, amongst the CEOs to voluntarily follow the rules, capitalism just doesn’t work. There is no way that you can police honesty if it doesn’t come instinctively for you.

Prof Christensen puts his finger on the pulse in diagnosing the breakdown of trust and confidence in the 21st marketplace. But more than that, he inadvertently puts his finger on the pulse of the success of our Jewish communities. Our commitment to Torah includes by implication, our commitment to personal integrity, which results in voluntary humility and self-regulating ethics.

This week’s portion offers the penitent a way to find restitution for their transgressions. It encourages that mysterious work of the heart that leads us to a place of transparency before the Lord and results in outworking of self-regulating ethics and integrity. In the final analysis this voluntary humbling is among the essential elements of a healthy psyche, a successful home, and a cohesive community.

My prayer is that we would all have the courage to follow the words of our master, to humble ourselves, and let God do the exalting.

Good and upright is the Lord;

therefore he instructs sinners in the way.

He leads the humble in what is right,

and teaches the humble his way.

All the paths of the Lord are steadfast love and faithfulness,

for those who keep his covenant and his testimonies. (Psalm 25:8 – 10)

Wishing you all a hearty Shabbat Shalom!

The Divine Romance

Week Seven of Counting the Omer/Shavuot 5785

Russ Resnik, UMJC Rabbinic Counsel

When you enter the land that I am giving to you and you reap its harvest, you shall bring the first sheaf [omer] of your harvest to the priest. He shall elevate the sheaf before the Lord for acceptance in your behalf. . . . And from the day on which you bring the sheaf of elevation offering—the day after the sabbath—you shall count off seven weeks. They must be complete. (Lev 23:11, 15 NJPS)

For decades now the UMJC community has been following the custom Sefirat Ha-omer, or Counting the Omer, to trace the days from the offering of the first sheaf, or omer, in ancient Israel to the Festival of Weeks. We don’t count the seven weeks 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 unparalleled display of God’s awesome presence.

This encounter at Sinai is often compared in Jewish literature to a wedding ceremony, which is a creative expansion on the text of the Torah itself. The same analogy appears in Jeremiah 2:2. “Thus says the Lord: ‘I remember you, the kindness of your youth, the love of your betrothal, when you went after me in the wilderness, in a land not sown.’”

Likewise, Midrash Rabbah (a collection of early rabbinic commentaries) portrays the traditional four cups of wine at the Passover Seder as a reminder of the Lord’s four-fold promise of redemption for Israel in Exodus 6:6–7:

I am Adonai;

I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians,

I will rescue you from their bondage,

and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgments.

I will take you as my people, and I will be your God.

The phrase “I will take you as my people” here reflects the universal language of courtship.

The culmination of this divine romance comes at Mount Sinai, under the cover of fire and cloud, the chuppah, or wedding-canopy, of glory (Exod 19:16–18). The chuppah is an essential element of the Jewish wedding going back to Talmudic times, and it’s natural to read it back into the wedding at Sinai. The chuppah connection is strengthened by Isaiah’s vision of the day of the Lord, when the glory-cloud of Mount Sinai will be resettled over Mount Zion:

Then the Lord will create over the whole site of Mount Zion and over her assemblies a cloud by day, and smoke and the shining of a flaming fire by night; for over all the glory there will be a canopy (lit. a “chuppah,” Isa 4:5 ESV).

In the same way, another early midrash portrays the Ten Commandments given at Sinai as another essential element of a Jewish wedding, the “document of betrothal” or ketubah:

Documents of betrothal and marriage are written only with the consent of the two parties, and the bridegroom pays the fee. And this we learn from God from His betrothal of Israel at Sinai, as it is written, And the Lord said unto Moses: Go unto the people and betroth them to day and to-morrow (Ex. 19:10). And who wrote this document? Moses. (Midrash Rabbah, Deut. 81)

The word kiddushtem in Exodus 19:10 is usually translated “sanctify them” or “consecrate them,” but this midrash interprets it in the later, rabbinic sense as “betroth them.” In this picture, the tablets of the Ten Commandments are the ketubah, just as the glory-cloud over Sinai is the chuppah. Moses represents God, the bridegroom, in providing the ketubah. Like a marriage, Israel’s encounter with the Lord at Mount Sinai includes a ketubah, a contract of requirements and stipulations, but cannot be reduced to that; it is also an experience of intimate union that promises to endure no matter what comes.

God’s betrothal to Israel is not a marriage of convenience, as it is sometimes portrayed in Christian readings, but of heartfelt devotion. God doesn’t rescue Israel from Egypt to accomplish some task within his divine agenda, but as God tells them, “to take you as my people.” Likewise, the Ten Commandments and the rest of God’s Torah or “Instruction,” which follows in Exodus 20–23, can be seen as “Law,” as a list of rules and ordinances to make Israel fit to be a holy nation. But to understand Torah more fully we must always keep in mind the romance, the union of God and Israel under the glory-cloud at Sinai.

This divine encounter is what we celebrate each year at Shavuot, and this is what we look forward to each year as we count the Omer.

This year’s theme for Counting the Omer in the Union community has been “Renew Us in Your Spirit.” We of course have in mind the great outpouring of the Spirit on Shavuot after the resurrection and ascension of Messiah Yeshua (Acts 1–2). But we’re also thinking of the original Shavuot at Mount Sinai, the unparalleled encounter with God under the glory-cloud, a visible sign of God’s Spirit.

When we call on God to renew us in his Spirit, we’re not asking for a one-time, once-and-for-all divine encounter, just as a marriage is not ultimately about the one-time shebang of the wedding day, as glorious as that might be. Marriage is about the sustained and sustaining life-long relationship of man and woman, a relationship both intimate and fruitful in many ways.

The glory-cloud may not be visible today, but the reality of our union with God through Messiah Yeshua should be. This union becomes visible as we actively seek—and depend upon—the presence of the Spirit, the gift of Shavuot, in our everyday lives. And how do we do that? We could devote a few more teachings to that topic, but our experience of Counting the Omer provides a vital element: yearning or expectation. We can practice eagerness for Torah, the word of God, and eagerness for the presence of God reflected in counting the Omer, not only in the days leading up to Shavuot, but every day. We can actively expect the Spirit to show up in our lives in fresh ways and we can keep ourselves ready to respond.

The promise “I will take you as my people, and I will be your God” isn’t just flowery language or a vision of a far-off future. The presence of the Spirit, the gift of Shavuot, will make that promise real every day as we remain open and responsive to him.