More than the Oil

The True Meaning of Chanukah

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

Chanukah is usually told as the story of a jar of oil. A single day’s supply—pure, undefiled—somehow burned for eight days until new oil could be procured. That image has shaped two thousand years of celebration: menorahs in windows, songs around the candles, gifts, latkes, and sufganiyot fried in bubbling oil.

Yet the oil miracle, beautiful as it is, appears only in the Talmud—recorded centuries after the Maccabean revolt. If we look more closely at the earliest sources, something surprising emerges. Chanukah was once focused not on the menorah, but on the altar.

There is a hint to this in the song Maoz Tzur—Rock of Ages. The hymn begins with triumph, praising God as the Fortress who saves Israel. But the final line shifts our attention:

אָז אֶגְמֹר בְּשִׁיר מִזְמוֹר חֲנֻכַּת הַמִּזְבֵּחַ 

Az egmor b’shir mizmor, chanukat ha-mizbeach. “Then I shall complete with a song of praise the dedication of the altar.”

The altar. Not the menorah.

Even the Torah readings during Chanukah revolve around the dedication of the Mishkan, the Temple, and its altar by Moses and the tribal leaders. Our liturgy has been quietly reminding us every year that Chanukah is, at its core, about rededication—not of the lampstand—but of the place of sacrifice.

So how did the menorah become the center?

To answer that, we have to return to the original story.

Antiochus IV did not simply oppress the Jewish people—he attempted to eradicate Judaism itself. On the 15th of Kislev, he erected an idol in the Temple. On the 25th of Kislev, he defiled the altar with pagan sacrifices. 

The Maccabees were a family of Jewish priests and the leaders of the successful revolt against him. They were led by the priest Mattathias and his son, Judas Maccabeus (whose nickname means "The Hammer"), a brilliant military strategist..

When the Maccabees reclaimed the Temple, they intentionally waited until that same date—25 Kislev—to rededicate it, reversing Antiochus’s desecration.

The Book of Maccabees (1 Maccabees 4:47, 50, and 52-53) describes their work in detail:

They took uncut stones, according to the Torah, and built a new altar like the former one. . . . They lighted the lamps on the lampstand, and these illuminated the Temple. . . . They rose early on the twenty-fifth day of the ninth month… and offered sacrifice according to the law on the new altar.

This was an altar-centered festival. But why choose eight days?

In Jewish history, eight-day dedications are not new.

• Moses dedicated the Mishkan over eight days. (Leviticus 8:33, 35; 9:1)

• Solomon dedicated the First Temple over eight days—timed with Sukkot. (2 Chronicles 7:9-10)

• Sukkot itself is an eight-day festival, originally tied to the autumn harvest and later to Israel’s wilderness journey. (Leviticus 23:36)

The Maccabees had not been able to celebrate Sukkot during the war. Once victorious, they rededicated the Temple and celebrated a delayed Sukkot.

A letter preserved in 2 Maccabees 1:18 makes this explicit:

We shall be celebrating the purification of the Temple on the twenty-fifth of Kislev . . . that you too may celebrate the Feast of Booths and of the fire that appeared in the days of Nehemiah.

Which brings us to another thread in this tapestry.

2 Maccabees 1:19-23 relates that before the destruction of the First Temple, the priests hid the sacred altar fire in a stone cistern, hoping it might someday be restored. When the returnees from Babylon sought it in Nehemiah’s day, they found only an oily residue. Nehemiah poured it onto the sacrifice—and as the sun rose, the fire leapt to life. The continuity of God’s presence was reaffirmed. 

Chanukah’s original focus on the altar fits neatly into this long arc of memory: fire preserved, found, renewed.

So why did the focus shift to oil?

One theory is elegantly simple.

Temple sacrifices can occur only at the Temple. After the destruction of the Second Temple, Jews could no longer reenact the altar’s dedication. But a menorah can be lit anywhere—even in exile.

The rabbis gave the people a way to celebrate at home. The candles symbolized the altar’s fire. The miracle story of the oil emerged later, reframing the holiday around light rather than sacrifice, devotion rather than bloodshed, hope rather than revolt.

For us Messianic Jews, Chanukah has an added resonance. It falls near the season when our Christian neighbors remember the birth of Yeshua. As we light our candles, we can recall that Messiah Yeshua is the Light of the World, the Light of Torah (John 10).

Our menorahs, however, point not only to the Temple lampstand, but also to Nehemiah’s pouring the residual oil on the altar; to sacrifice, not just light. 

Since Chanukah originally centered on the altar, another connection emerges. Yeshua is not only Light—He is also the sacrifice upon the altar, the offering whose power overcame death itself.

Just as Antiochus sought to extinguish the Jewish people, the forces of evil sought to extinguish Yeshua’s mission. Both failed. Through the resurrection, God vindicated His Son just as He restored His Temple.

In the church that our congregation used to rent from, during the Christmas season they had a cross and a manger on either side of the stage. They were proclaiming a profound truth: His birth is bound to His sacrifice. His life is one continual dedication—a personal Chanukah.

When we kindle our menorahs this year, we join a vast story stretching across millennia:

• Moses’ dedication of the Mishkan.

• Solomon’s dedication of the First Temple.

• Nehemiah’s restoration of the sacred fire.

• The Maccabees’ rededication of the altar after Antiochus’s desecration.

• Generations of Jews carrying light into exile.

• And Messiah Yeshua, whose life and death embody the ultimate dedication to God’s will.

The light we kindle is not only about the oil that burned beyond its natural limit. It is about the fire that has never gone out—not in our history, not in our Scriptures, not in the heart of God.

As we light our menorahs, we rededicate ourselves as well.

We remember our calling to bring the light of Torah into the world.

We remember Yeshua as both Light and Sacrifice.

And we remember Rav Shaul’s call that we be “living sacrifices” (Romans 12:1) — our own lives becoming small altars upon which we offer ourselves to God.

May we ponder these things in this season.

May we give thanks to the One who continues to save us in myriad ways—especially through the great salvation wrought through His Son.

And may we rededicate ourselves to His Torah, becoming not only light-bearers, but living offerings, devoted to the One who renews the altar of our hearts.

When Brothers Are Reconciled

Parashat Vayishlach, Genesis 32:3-36:43 

Lieutenant Junior Grade Jacob Landers, UMJC-Endorsed U.S. Navy Chaplain Candidate 

Kehilat Ariel Messianic Synagogue, San Diego

VaYishlach, the name of this week’s parasha, means “and he sent” and refers to the messengers that Yaakov sends to his brother, Esav, informing him that he does not want war but peace with his brother.  

As a father of two young boys, one of the most heart-wrenching moments for me is when my boys hurt each other, start a fight, take from the other, or even just have anger towards each other. I see the very best of them and get to bear witness to their moments of pure genius, joy, and enthusiasm, and I want them to see that in each other at all times. Conversely, one of the most kvelling moments I get is to see them recognize how the other is hurt, set aside their pride, hug it out, and then watch them encourage each other or share toys; an unprompted “I’m sorry, buddy” brings a joyful tear to my eye. 

In this parasha, Esav had every right to be angry with his brother, Yaakov. Yaakov bought Esav’s birthright for a bowl of pottage, deceived his father into giving him his blessing, and then made off to another land with the help of his mother. By these actions, “supplanter” seems like a worthy meaning for Yaakov’s name! 

At the same time, Yaakov had every right to be upset; his older brother, who is supposed to teach him through his actions how to be a good and noble man instead sells off his birthright for a snack; a snack that Rabbeinu Bahya tell us was the mourning meal for their grandfather, Abraham, deepening the disrespect (Rabbeinu Bahya, Bereshis 25:29:1).  Yaakov makes a mourning meal for their parents. Esav returns from hunting and, instead of caring for their parents, “gladly” sells the gift that God had given to him, so that he “spurned his birthright” (Gen 25:34 JPS). The commentators even note that “Esau committed five different sins that very day” (Bava Batra 16). In a blossoming theme by this point, the younger brother becomes more blessed than the “rightful” son. 

When the messengers returned to Yaakov, they told him that Esav was, indeed, coming to meet him but with a retinue of 400! (Gen 32:7). The Scripture explicitly tells us that Yaakov was afraid or “greatly frightened” (Gen 32:8).  Esav, it seems, was on the warpath.  Yaakov then does something that I often forget to do when about to face something terrifying; he prays. He asks Hashem for deliverance and blesses him for all the kindness (or faithfulness-חֲסָדִים) he has shown him.  “With my staff alone I crossed this Jordan, and now I have become two camps” (Gen 32:11).  So, Yaakov divided his camp, selected gifts for his brother to “propitiate him” (Gen 32:21), and sent them across the river.  

The next thing that happens I have often wondered about. The text tells us that “Jacob was left alone. And a figure wrestled with him until the break of dawn” (Gen 32:25). As perplexing as it sounds, the only real fact we are presented with is that a figure or angel, seemingly out of nowhere, simply approaches Yaakov and immediately they wrestle! But not only do they wrestle, they wrestle all night until the sun begins to dawn! Where did the figure come from? Was he lying in wait? Why, exactly, did they wrestle? It sounds both utterly confusing and, frankly, utterly hilarious, that a figure appears out of nowhere and just body-slams Yaakov to the ground where they wrestle all night. But, once the dawn breaks, the figure “wrenched Yaakov’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him” (Gen 32:26) But Yaakov did not let go.  Yaakov did not stop wrestling with the figure until he blessed him. It is here that something wonderful happens. 

The figure blesses Yaakov by telling him, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have struggled with God and with man, and have prevailed” (Gen 32:29, NKJV). Yaakov’s name is changed to Israel, a name that all of us are now under—Jews being naturally born as sons and daughters of the sons of Israel, and non-Jews being grafted into the commonwealth of Israel; adopted into the family. Equally amazing is that when Israel asked the name of the figure, the figure told him, “you must not ask my name!” (Gen 32:30). 

Finally comes my favorite part of this story: “Esav ran to greet him. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept” (Gen 33:4).  At last, the brothers are united and Esav, who was on the warpath, kisses his brother and they weep together. The images in my mind of my own toddler sons, reconciling to kiss one another, brings tears to my eyes. But in this story, there are a few lessons. 

First: Struggling with God is a holy endeavor.  We ought to be struggling with God and to continue struggling until we are blessed! In fact, as members of the family of Israel, we, most of all, ought to be struggling with God (and not against him). It is through the struggles that we truly live out our heritage and our commonwealth. 

Second, it is only after prayer and struggling with God that Yaakov/Israel is able to reconcile with his brother—not by his own efforts, but by asking God to intervene in his kindness and faithfulness. 

Finally, there is a blessed hope that is introduced later in this parasha.

Yaakov gave the site, where God had spoken to him, the name of Bethel. They set out from Bethel; but when they were still some distance short of Ephrath, Rachel was in childbirth, and she had hard labor. When her labor was at its hardest, the midwife said to her, “Have no fear, for it is another boy for you.” But as she breathed her last—for she was dying—she named him Ben-oni; but his father called him Benjamin. Thus Rachel died. She was buried on the road to Ephrath—now Bethlehem. (Gen 35:15—19)

The son of Yaakov’s favor, Benjamin (who we will see again in an important way in the story of Yosef) is born even though his mother dies. She means to call him Ben-Oni, son of my suffering, but Israel calls him Benjamin, son of my right hand; as if to say that the youngest son will become like the first-born—the highest position of honor.  Also, it is no coincidence that he was born in Beit-Lechem (or Bethlehem), the house of bread.  All these are Messianic allusions. 

We know that Messiah—in the image of Yosef—must suffer, be dropped into a pit, unrecognized by his own people, but will ascend to the right hand of the king; this is why he is called “Mashiach ben Yosef.” But this is the hope delivered through Israel: that the son that once was the son of my suffering has become the son of the right hand and his name is “salvation,” Yeshua. Born a son of Israel in Beit-Lechem, he suffered, died, and was buried, but conquered death—the ultimate struggle—and ascended to the right hand of the King of kings so that we may all be reconciled to God! As Rachel was comforted by the midwife, so may we be comforted: “have no fear, for you also will have this son!” 

Each of us will struggle with God, but hang on in your wrestling—don’t let go until you realize the blessing! Be reconciled. If you wronged someone, seek forgiveness; if you were wronged, give forgiveness freely without prompting. Finally, Pray. Pray for your leaders, for your congregation, for each other, for yourself, and for Israel to see the son of suffering and instead call him the son of the highest honor. 

Finding Our Rosebud

Parashat Vayetze, Genesis 28:10 – 32:3

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

The movie Citizen Kane has been voted by many film academies and publications to be the greatest American movie of all time. Though the film’s cinematography was cutting edge in 1941, it is certainly not up to the technical capabilities of today’s films. Rather, it is the penetrating story that has kept this classic at the top of critics’ lists for more than half a century. Loosely based on the life of William Randolph Hearst, the film is ultimately a searing look into the human desire for love, acceptance, success, and peace.

Many are familiar with the famous final word of Citizen Kane: “Rosebud.” In the film, a reporter tries to decode Kane’s entire life through that mysterious word, only to conclude that no single key can explain a human being. But the audience eventually learns that Rosebud was simply the name of Kane’s childhood sled, an emblem of simpler days, a symbol of a time when he knew joy, safety, and belonging.

What makes that symbol powerful is not its sentimental value. It is what it represents: the longing for a spiritual home. A place, internal or external—where we feel rooted, held, and whole. A place we can return to in memory or in faith, especially when life becomes too complicated or burdensome.

This week’s parashah, Vayetze, centers on a figure who desperately needs such a grounding place: Jacob. Jacob is a schemer, a striver, a man who knows how to get what he wants—but always at a price. He outmaneuvers Esau for the birthright, deceives his father for the blessing, and then spends twenty years wrestling with the manipulations of his uncle Laban. His family becomes a source of tension, competition, and heartbreak. And yet Jacob keeps going. Despite the turmoil, he somehow has a center. Something he returns to—his own Rosebud.

That center is Hamakom, literally, “The Place.”

When Jacob flees his home, afraid of Esau and uncertain about his future, the Torah says not that Jacob arrived at a place, but that he encountered Hamakom—the place (Genesis 28:11). It is a complex word, pregnant with potential meaning. The rabbis note that Hamakom is one of the divine names: “the Omnipresent,” the One who is present everywhere yet also meets us somewhere specific, somewhere real and human (B’reishit Rabbah 68:9).

At Hamakom, Jacob dreams of a ladder connecting heaven and earth, with angels ascending and descending. God promises him protection, blessing, and return (28:13–15). Jacob wakes awestruck and declares this place to be “the house of God and the gate of heaven” (28:17). He sets up a pillar, makes a vow, and essentially marks it as the spiritual home he will carry with him.

Jacob’s life from this point forward is not easy. But he has Hamakom, an inner compass point he can return to. When he later says, “God has been with me”  (B’reishit 31:5, 35:3) it is probable he is remembering that moment, that place, the foundation that steadied him when everything else shifted.

The Fourth Gospel echoes this story in the encounter between Yeshua and Natan’el (Yochanan 1:43–51). When Yeshua says, “Behold, a true son of Israel in whom there is no deceit,” it recalls Jacob—Israel—whose life was defined by both guile and transformation. When Yeshua adds, “I saw you under the fig tree,” he is drawing on a rabbinic metaphor for studying Torah (e.g., Mishnah Avot 3:7). Many commentators suggest Natan’el had been studying the very story of Jacob at Hamakom. And when Yeshua declares that Natan’el will “see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man,” he identifies himself as Hamakom, he is the point of meeting between heaven and earth, the place where God becomes knowable.

For Jacob, Hamakom became the touchstone that guided him back home. For Natan’el, his encounter with Yeshua became his spiritual grounding. For Kane, Rosebud was the lost memory of a home he never learned to return to.

And for us?

As we approach Thanksgiving, a holiday centered on homecoming, gratitude, and the joy of remembering—we may find ourselves asking similar questions. What is our Hamakom? What is our Rosebud? Where is that literal or spiritual place where we felt truly ourselves, truly connected, truly embraced by something larger than our endless striving?

Thanksgiving invites us to return home, not only geographically, but spiritually. It calls us to give thanks for the moments in our lives when we have and will encounter blessings, connection, and purpose. It reminds us that we are not defined solely by what we accomplish, accumulate, or outmaneuver, but by the places and relationships that root us, shape us, and sustain us.

Jacob eventually returns to the land of his childhood, but more importantly, he returns to the God of Hamakom. He returns to gratitude. To blessing. To the memory of a place where heaven touched earth.

As we gather around tables, travel home, or simply pause to reflect this week, we have the chance to do the same. To remember the moments that formed us. To honor the people who nurtured us. To cherish the encounters, holy or humble, that became our spiritual anchors. And to give thanks for the places, seen and unseen, where the Holy One met us, steadied us, and guided us forward.

May each of us rediscover our Hamakom, our grounding place. May we approach this season not only with gratitude for what we have, but with renewed clarity about where we belong and what truly matters. And may that homecoming, like Jacob’s, strengthen us for the journey still ahead.

Esau Have I Loved

Parashat Toldot, Genesis 25:19-28:9

Rabbi David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

A father has twins, Ed and Jay; more different, they couldn’t be. Jay prefers the indoors, and has some character issues: lying, manipulating, and going five miles under in the left lane. Fun fact: as a baby he would grab Ed’s heel! Nevertheless, today Jay values things of real worth, and his mind is intentional and strategic. A shrewd dude. Ed, on the other hand, is a seat-of-your-pants, outdoorsy, on-the-fly kind of guy. Even as a baby, he was quite rough and hairy—an outdoor baby, if you will. The two brothers were always fighting, and eventually they moved far from each other. 

The father thinks: “Jay and Ed have I both loved.” Now, how can I show each son that? Here’s what I will do. To Jay, I will remind him and everyone else that I’m always his dad. I will put my name, my reputation, on him. If anyone calls Jay a liar, I will say, “That’s my son you’re talking about.” Eventually, his heart will melt at my consistency, and he will grow in character to treat others with kindness and truth. As for Ed, I will tell everyone that I am from his country. Even when I rise to defend Jay, I will be coming from Ed’s house. In that way, everyone will know that I am also his dad. And Ed’s heart will melt and his character will grow to value the greater things.  And some day their hearts will melt toward each other and there will be shalom between brothers. 

I have always felt that Jacob’s story is more about God than it is about Jacob. The choosing of Jacob has been justified by scholars over time: “Well, he wasn’t that bad.” But instead of defending a man with dubious motives, let’s look at it from the other side: What does it mean that God is the “God of Jacob”? (Isaiah 2:3, Psalm 20:2, etc.) Any father who links his name and reputation to his son (no matter what the son does) shows the love and commitment of the father. It is this commitment and covenantal faithfulness that is designed to undo the heart of Jacob and his descendants.  No matter what, the Father has forever linked his reputation, his name, to Jacob, the Jewish people.  

Now, on to Ed (Edom), also known as Esau. Esau settles in the land of Seir, associated with Mount Paran. If the father in my opening story represents God, then how can we say that God is “from” somewhere? Well, this surprising idea crops up throughout the Hebrew Bible. Some examples: 

Deut 33:2

[Moses] said, “Adonai came from Sinai and dawned on Bnei-Yisrael from Seir. He shone forth from Mount Paran, and He came from the holy myriads— blazing fire for them from His right hand.”

Hab 3:3

God comes from Teman,

and the Holy One from Mount Paran. 

His majesty covers the heavens,

and His praise fills the earth.

Teman was a city in Southern Edom, again the land of Esau.  This is from the song of Deborah: 

Judges 5:4 

Adonai, when You came out from Seir, when You marched from Edom’s field, the earth trembled, the heavens also dropped, yes, the clouds dropped water.

This passage explains that the Lord came from the east, from Edom, to deliver Israel.  Here’s another from Isaiah 63:1

“Who is this coming from Edom,

in crimsoned garments from Bozrah?

This One splendid in His apparel,

    pressing forward in His great might?”

“It is I who speak in righteousness,

    mighty to save.”

The hints are there in the text: the Lord, who rescues Israel (Jacob), comes “from” Edom. The Scriptures are showing the Lord’s commitment to rescue Jacob, but coming out of the land of Esau. It reminds the descendants of Jacob that God loves Edom, He is connected with Esau, and He is interested in linking Jacob and Esau back together. 

“Edom” is a stand-in for the nations, as Jacob is the father of the people of Israel.  Alef Daled Mem spells Edom, but it also spells Adam, humanity. “Jacob have I loved. And Esau, the nations, have I also loved.” God’s love is specific, tailored to each brother in a way that will eventually bring wholeness. This is also how God loves us—intentionally, specifically.  It is also how we love; for example, I don’t love every person on the planet in the same way that I love and choose my wife. 

The destiny of these two brothers is irrevocably linked.  We see this in the apex of Esau’s pain, from this week’s parasha. Jacob leaves the presence of Isaac, taking the blessing, and Esau comes in and finds that he’s too late: 

When Esau heard his father’s words, he shouted with an intensely bitter groan. Then he said to his father, “Bless me, me too, my father!” 

Then he said, “Your brother came deceitfully and took your blessing.”

He said, “Is this why he was named Jacob—since he’s tricked me twice already? My birthright he’s taken. Look! Now he’s taken my blessing!” Then he said, “Haven’t you saved a blessing for me?”

 Isaac answered and said to Esau, “Behold, I’ve made him master over you, and all your brothers I’ve given to him as servants. I’ve provided him with grain and new wine. What then can I do for you, my son?”

Esau said to his father, “Do you just have one blessing, my father? Bless me too, my father!” And Esau lifted up his voice and wept. (Gen 27:34-38)

Visualize Esau for a moment in this story. “Father, where is my blessing? Haven’t you saved a blessing for me, Father? Why is there only one good one left?” On the one hand, Isaac is limited. He doesn’t really have another blessing for Esau, at least one that Esau longs to hear.  On the other hand, Isaac does indeed have a blessing for Esau—now it’s just tied to Jacob:

Then Isaac his father said to him,

“Behold, away from the land’s fatness shall your dwelling be,

    away from the dew of the sky above.

By your sword shall you live,

and your brother shall you serve.

But when you tear yourself loose,

you will tear his yoke off your neck.” (Gen 27:39-40)

By dealing with this relationship, the most painful one, Esau will eventually find freedom and blessing.  This is also true for Jacob.  He must turn toward Esau whom he wronged—wrestle it out with him—in order to experience blessing. When Jacob does turn toward his brother years later, he remarks that seeing his face is like seeing the face of God (Gen 33:10). 

The relationship between these two is a foundational relationship in the Scriptures: Israel and the Nations in shalom, under one Shepherd, sharing in each other's destinies through humility and turning toward the other. This is what Romans 9-11, Ephesians 2, John 10 and 17, and perhaps the whole narrative are about.  

I am the Good Shepherd. I know My own and My own know Me, just as the Father knows Me and I know the Father. And I lay down My life for the sheep. I have other sheep that are not from this fold; those also I must lead, and they will listen to My voice. So there shall be one flock, one Shepherd. (John 10:14-16)

In Mark 3:8, Idumeans come to hear and draw near to Yeshua.  Idumeans are descendants of Edom; the gospel account is highlighting that Esau is now turning toward the One-Man Israel. 

So now, who is your Esau?  How can we internalize God’s love for them, turn toward them, and realize that our blessing is wrapped up in theirs?  Isaac is limited as a father, but Hashem has enough blessing and love for both brothers, and we are made in His image.  Why not say a blessing over your Esau right now? A turn toward Esau is a turn toward the face of God.

Sarah: An Example to Every Generation

Chayei Sarah, Genesis 23:1-25:18

 Mary Haller, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

Our parasha this week has impacted my soul in a way that no other portion has ever done. Each reading cycle I read through and process these words with the expectation of learning something new. This year the words of Chayei Sarah have resonated deeply within me in a way I am not sure I can describe.

Chayei Sarah touches my heart. It is a story of a woman’s life told in a way that reveals that Sarah was truly a normal human being and grew stronger and wiser over time. She eventually came to know, love, and trust God. The way her life changed over the years shows she invested herself in her life with Abraham and honored God by doing her best to honor Abraham. Living as she did also speaks to her trusting in what God was doing in, on, and through them as a couple.  

The parasha begins in Genesis 23 with the story of Sarah’s passing.  Abraham’s planning and purchasing of her burial place shows her value to him as well as to their community, to their legacy, and to God. Women were not typically honored in this way in our written scriptures.  

I can understand Sarah and relate to her as if I know her. There are times I think that if Sarah were alive today, we could have some great conversations regarding life, faith, and surrender. Perhaps we could discuss how consequences from poor decisions can be problematic. We might share how personal doubts and fears creep into the earthly journeys of women of every generation. I believe Sarah’s life in some way tells the story of every woman.  

Prior to this week’s portion we read about Sarah’s life struggles. Her life with Abraham didn’t appear to include a storybook-style romance or their equivalent of a luxury vacation. In Torah, Sarah was not considered property; she was a partner, a wife, although it appears Abraham treated Sarah as property, not once but twice. The first time in Genesis 12 during the famine in Egypt and again with King Abimelech in Gerar as recorded in Genesis 20. Both times Abraham was motivated by his own self-preservation. Thankfully, both times God intervened. As Paul reminds us, “Now we know that all things work together for good for those who love God, and are called according to His purpose” (Rom 8:28). 

They had no children in their early marriage. Time passed and still no children. When Abraham was about 75 (Genesis 12) and Sarah was about 65 God spoke to Abraham. God told Abraham to take his wife, his nephew Lot and some others along with a few things and leave his homeland for parts not yet known. God promised Abraham he would have many descendants.  

Sarah accompanied Abraham as a faithful wife and didn’t appear to protest when the suggestion of her being a sister not a wife was put into action. 

During her life time Sarah blossomed, going from a quiet woman to one who eventually spoke out and acted with strong conviction out of her own strength. This is evident when God spoke to Abraham saying “listen to her voice” when Sarah demanded that Abraham have Hagar and Ishmael leave their community (Gen 21:12). 

Many look and judge casting out Hagar and Ishmael as a harsh and unnecessary action. After all, it was Sarah’s idea for Abraham and Hagar to procreate. Well, as we now know, God knew Sarah’s heart. Sarah understood something deeper regarding the prophecy and where it would lead. Like Eve, Sarah was chosen to be Abraham’s helpmate.  

Imagine for a moment being told to hide your true identity because your husband is afraid he would be killed because your beauty. This request alone would challenge me to question the very God that had sent us on our trek. Then maybe this was part of what caused Sarah to grow closer to her God.  

After all, it definitely was the hardships and the challenges in my own life that caused me to cry out to God. My cries for wisdom, courage, and strength were met with mercy and grace. Perhaps it was the time with the Pharaoh and King Abimelech and how God protected Sarah during these times that helped her to know God and trust God.  

God honored His promise to Abraham and to Sarah in His time frame. The approximate 25-year wait for Sarah must have taken its toll on her entire life in ways we may never understand. The story reveals that Sarah was imperfect when she took matters into her own hands with Hagar. God still had His way for His people when the time was right, and when Sarah was ready Isaac was born. 

Sarah laughed because she knew having a child at 90 was unheard of, if not impossible.  That did not deter her God. The only way I understand it is our God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob understands His human creation with a love no human can truly grasp. God knew Sarah’s heart and He knew it was in alignment with His plan.  

The Lord tells us, “For I am Adonai, I do not change” (Mal 3:6). The same God that protected Sarah, drew Sarah close and healed her barrenness, and knew every fiber of her being has not changed. Today God wants His plan for all of us.  

Sarah is a woman well worth remembering, one who continues to be an example to each generation. Sarah’s story is a picture of what it takes to journey through life as an imperfect human. All the while we seek God, He knows us, He knows our value to His plan.  

Sarah had to seek and surrender. Sarah’s life is a picture to be treasured and an example to be learned from and should be seen as valuable to every generation of God-seeking women, and men as well.

 Scripture references are from the Tree of Life Version, TLV.

A Rock Feels No Joy

Parashat Vayera, Genesis 18:1 - 22:24
Rabbi Paul L. Saal, Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, Avon, CT

Paul Simon once sang,

I am a rock, I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.

In those few lines, he captured something hauntingly prophetic — the isolation of the modern soul.

We are surrounded by technology that promises connection, and yet we often find ourselves more alone than ever. The screens that light our faces have dimmed our hearts.

But this week’s Torah portion, Vayera, offers a radically different image of what it means to be human — not a rock, not an island, but a bayit patuach, an open home. It’s the picture of Avraham Avinu sitting at his tent door in the heat of the day, healing from his circumcision, yet running to greet three strangers.

Abraham sits beneath the oaks of Mamre, in the region of Hebron — sacred ground where heaven and earth seem to touch. He’s 99 years old, weary and sore, resting in the midday heat. Yet when three travelers appear, he runs to meet them, bows low, and says, “My Lord, if I have found favor in your sight, do not pass by your servant” (Gen 18:3).

The rabbis in Bereshit Rabbah 48:9 note that Abraham left the Shekhinah — the Divine Presence that had appeared to him — to greet these strangers. From this they teach: “Greater is hospitality to guests than receiving the Divine Presence.”

It’s an astonishing claim: welcoming others is itself a way of welcoming God.

Abraham doesn’t wait for them to approach. He anticipates the need. He rushes to prepare food and water; Sarah kneads and bakes cakes. Together, they embody the mitzvah of hakhnasat orchim, the sacred duty of hospitality.

Rashi, commenting on Genesis 18:1, explains that Abraham’s tent was open on all four sides so that travelers from every direction could enter freely. His home was literally and spiritually open to the world.

Faith, then, is not only what we believe — it’s also how we treat others. It’s not about what we hold, but for whom we hold space. Abraham and Sarah remind us that the door of the tent is the gateway to the soul.

If Abraham and Sarah could see our world today, I think they might weep. We’ve traded tents for walls, and neighbors for networks. We are more “connected” than any generation before, yet loneliness has become the epidemic of our age.

We “friend” but rarely befriend. We “follow” but seldom walk alongside. We “like” but struggle to love.

We have institutionalized compassion. We’ve delegated care to agencies, community to programs, and moral formation to schools or screens. But no algorithm can replace the warmth of a human heart.

Pirkei Avot 1:5 teaches:

Let your home be wide open and let the poor be members of your household.

That’s Torah’s way of saying: don’t outsource compassion — live it.

Abraham’s tent was not efficient, but it was holy. And holiness often looks inefficient to the modern eye.

The Haftarah for Vayera tells of another open home — that of the Shunammite woman (2 Kings 4:8–37). Scripture calls her a “great woman,” but her greatness lies not in wealth or power; it lies in discernment and generosity.

She perceives that Elisha, the prophet, is a man of God, and without being asked, she persuades her husband to build an upper room — furnished simply with a bed, a table, a chair, and a lamp. That small gesture of kindness becomes a dwelling place for divine blessing.

Ramban (Commentary on Genesis 18:1) notes that her hospitality mirrors Abraham’s: both are visited by divine messengers, both receive the promise of a son, and both experience miraculous renewal of life. In both homes, human kindness becomes the soil for divine encounter.

Later, when the Shunammite’s child dies, her faith refuses to yield to despair. She travels to Elisha, believing that the God who gives life can restore it. Through her faith and the prophet’s intercession, the boy lives again.

The Midrash Tanchuma (Vayera 4) teaches that the Shunammite’s table, bed, chair, and lamp symbolize Torah and light — the study of Torah, good deeds, prayer, and the illumination of the soul. By welcoming the prophet, she welcomed God’s word into her home. Her simple hospitality opened a channel for resurrection power. When we make room for others, God makes room for miracles.

Yeshua of Nazareth embodied this same spirit of hakhnasat orchim. He ate with tax collectors and sinners, invited fishermen to follow Him, and broke bread with Pharisees who opposed Him. He welcomed children to His arms and healed the lepers whom society shunned.

In Matthew 25:35, he says, “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”
Hospitality is not peripheral to the gospel — it is the gospel lived out.

And in Revelation 3:20, Yeshua stands at the door and knocks, saying, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.”

Every open home becomes a mikdash me’at,  a little sanctuary, a place where heaven touches earth.

The Zohar (I:102a) teaches, “when a person opens their home to guests, the Shekhinah dwells within.” Yeshua echoes this same truth: where love and hospitality abide, the presence of God is manifest.

True faith requires the risk of relationship. To love is to be vulnerable, but to refuse love is to be lifeless. Abraham ran toward relationship. The Shunammite woman built space for it. Yeshua offered his very life for it.

Let us, then, be people of open tents and open hearts — people who choose covenant over comfort, faith over fear, presence over protection. Let our homes be places where strangers become friends, and friends become family. Let us be known not for our walls, but for our doors.

Paul Simon’s rock never cries. But Abraham laughed, and so did Sarah. The Shunammite woman wept and rejoiced. And Yeshua, the image of the living God, wept and rejoiced with us.

A rock feels no pain, but a heart of flesh — that is where God chooses to dwell. As it is written in Ezekiel 36:26: “I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.”

May we live with hearts open to God and to one another.

May our tents be wide, our tables long, and our joy full.

Because an island never cries, but a family of faith, bound in love and hospitality, sings for joy.

Scripture citations are from the English Standard Version, ESV.

The People of Israel Are Alive and Well

Photo: Pinterest.com

Parashat Lech Lecha, Genesis 12–17

Matt Absolon, Beth Tfilah, Miramar, FL

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.” But Abram said, “O Lord God, what will you give me, for I continue childless, and the heir of my house is Eliezer of Damascus?” And Abram said, “Behold, you have given me no offspring, and a member of my household will be my heir.” (Genesis 15:1–3)

Over the past two years, many of us have joined in that defiant and enduring declaration of our people, Am Yisrael Chai!, the people of Israel live! Those words have rung out across synagogues, rallies, and quiet living rooms alike, a statement of life pitched against the chants of genocide towards the Jewish people. Perhaps more than ever before, they have carried personal weight for me, both in prayer and in public life.

This week’s Torah portion turns our attention to one of the deepest truths of Jewish life: the sacred value of life nascent in the next generation. 

Abraham, still called Abram, looks upon all he has, yet feels it hollow, for he has no child to carry his name. In his eyes, even divine reward seems empty without children to inherit it. For Abraham, the fulfillment of divine blessings lay not in possessions but in posterity.

This devotion to children, to the continuation of life, is not merely biological; it is spiritual. 

Over the past few decades, sociologists have charted a sharp decline in birth rates throughout the Western world, even as wealth and comfort have increased beyond anything our ancestors could have imagined. One might think that greater prosperity would lead to greater openness to raising children, but the opposite has proven true.

According to the CDC, the birth rate for women aged 20–24 in the United States has fallen by 47% since 2007, and it continues to decline unabated. The same pattern is found across Europe, Australia, and Canada. Everywhere in the Western world—except Israel.

In the one place where life is lived daily under threat, where rockets, wars, and uncertainty are part of the national daily experience, Israel stands unique among western nations in maintaining a sustainable, even vibrant, birth rate—3.06 children per woman (Israel Hayom, 6/5/25). In a land surrounded by danger the Israeli people still choose life.

What does that say to us? 

For one thing, the Jewish commitment to children, to family, and to life itself, is not the product of a biological preservation, or “dancing to our genes” as evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins would say. It is a value, an act of faith, a commitment to l’dor v’dor, from generation to generation. And when we recite those words, they must not refer merely to outreach or growth programs (as needed as these programs are), but to our own homes. 

As the Shema reminds us: “You shall teach them diligently to your children.” L’Dor v’dor starts in the home.

In some respects, it has never been easier to raise children than today. Maternal and infant mortality are at historic lows, education and information are within everyone’s reach, and food security is higher than at any time in history. Yet in other ways, it has never been harder. The costs of housing, healthcare, and higher education are soaring. And perhaps most concerning of all, we live in an age of spiritual fatigue, a time where many have lost confidence in family, community, and faith itself.

And yet Israel, once again, gives us a pathway to follow.

Sociologist Leo Davids, writing in The Jerusalem Post, observes: “In the Jewish tradition, it is a mitzvah to bear children, a duty based on the divine commandment in Genesis 1:28 and 9:7. . . . People in Israel have a positive attitude toward children, exhibiting more patience and warmth than in other countries.”

Abraham’s yearning for posterity echoes these sentiments. He longed to take part in that mitzvah, to bring forth life and to be a blessing to future generations. For much of his recorded life, Abraham held fast to God’s promise: 

Behold, my covenant is with you, and you shall be the father of a multitude of nations. (Gen 17:4)

Through faith, Abraham received the promise of becoming the father to Isaac, and 3,500 years later, he remains endeared to us as Avraham Avinu, our father Abraham.

My prayer is that we, too, in the Diaspora, might reflect that same spirit of our Israeli family, the same spirit of our father Abraham. That we would hold children in warm regard, see family as a divine calling, and nurture a personal vision for the future centered on life. 

We do well to meditate on the words of our Master, Yeshua:

Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven. (Matt 19:14)

Shabbat Shalom.

Biblical citations are from the English Standard Version (ESV).

Sources:

• CDC: Birth Rates for Women Aged 20–24, 2007–2023

• Leo Davids, Jerusalem Post
  
  

Pass the Baton!

Parashat Noach, Genesis 6:9–11:32

Jennifer C., Kol Mashiach Messianic Synagogue, Melbourne, FL

This week’s parasha, Noach, begins with the words: “These are the generations of Noah” (JPS, 1917). Noah’s genealogy, however, doesn’t follow these words; it is found in the previous parasha in Genesis 5. This phrase—these are the generations of Noah—which should end the genealogy in Genesis 5 is instead found at the beginning of Parashat Noach, continuing the thread that weaves the narrative of God’s plan for Israel through each parasha. 

Last week in his commentary, Rabbi Dr Joshua Brumbach spoke of beginnings. At the end of this week’s parasha we see another beginning. Quietly tucked into one of the last verses of Noach is the template for God’s plan of calling and leadership. It is also a reflection of the enduring concept in Judaism known as l’dor v’dor – from generation to generation.

We all know the story that has been handed down throughout thousands of years of Jewish history: 

Then Joshua said to all the people: “Thus says Adonai, God of Israel: ‘From ancient times your fathers—Terah, the father of Abraham and the father of Nahor—lived beyond the River and worshipped other gods. Then I took your father Abraham from beyond the River and led him through the entire land of Canaan and multiplied his offspring. (Josh 24:2-3 TLV)

Abraham was called out of a pagan land and left his family and his people to go to Canaan, the land that God gave to him and his descendants. But the end of Parashat Noach gives us a more detailed version of the story. Genesis 11:31 begins with these words: 

וַיִּקַּח תֶּרַח אֶת־אַבְרָם בְּנוֹ וְאֶת־לוֹט בֶּן־הָרָן בֶּן־בְּנוֹ וְאֵת שָׂרַי כַּלָּתוֹ אֵשֶׁת אַבְרָם בְּנוֹ

And Terah took Abram his son, and Lot the son of Haran, his son’s son, and Sarai his daughter-in-law, his son Abram’s wife . . . (JPS 1917, emphasis mine)

The opening two words, Vayikach Terach - וַיִּקַּח תֶּרַח —“And Terah took”—show us that it is Terah that begins the journey from Ur with Lot, Abram, and Sarai in tow. He is the one that gathers his family and leaves behind his country. The verse continues:

וַיֵּצְאוּ אִתָּם מֵאוּר כַּשְׂדִּים לָלֶכֶת אַרְצָה כְּנַעַן וַיָּבֹאוּ עַד־חָרָן וַיֵּשְׁבוּ שָׁם׃

and they went forth with them from Ur of the Chaldees, to go into the land of Canaan; and they came unto Haran, and dwelt there. (JPS 1917, emphasis mine)

In the second half of the verse, we see a shift. It is no longer just Terah. Now the verb, וַיֵּצְאוּ vayeitsu, “and they went forth” is in the plural form. The commentaries say that this shift from the singular verb “[he] took” in the beginning of the verse to the plural “they went forth” is indicative of the action of Terah and Abram together. This verb transition leads us into next week’s parasha where the action of the story is solely focused on Abram. What this single verse reveals in the Hebrew is a passing of the baton from Terah to Abram. 

In a relay race, the shot goes off and the race begins with one person running with the baton. As the first runner prepares to pass the baton to the next runner, both run alongside each other, for however long, gripping the baton together. The handoff occurs and the previous runner slows their pace while the runner with the baton now picks up speed with the next runner in view. The race continues from runner to runner, but every pass of the baton is a beginning for someone. This is the pattern of the story that God is weaving throughout time. There is always a beginning of each person’s story where they must leave what they know, the comfortable life that they have created, and choose to follow God. 

This can be found throughout the biblical narratives of the calling of Abraham, the exodus from Egypt, and the beginnings of the body of Messiah. There is always a passing of the baton – a point where the originator of the story overlaps with the next main character. Today in our parasha, it goes from Terah to Abram. At Simchat Torah we read Deuteronomy 34:9 where the baton passes from Moses, who led the people out of Israel through the wilderness with Joshua walking alongside him, to Joshua, who leads the people into the Promised Land. In the Brit Chadasha the baton is passed from Yeshua to Peter, who is tasked with leading the burgeoning assembly of Messiah in Jerusalem after three years of walking together with Yeshua (Matt 4:18; 16:18–19).

This is how we must understand the concept of l’dor v’dor—from generation to generation. 

There is not an abrupt beginning and ending to each generation’s purpose and calling, but each person’s life and work become part of the collective effort that shapes God’s purpose for their generation. Every person in each generation has their beginning where they race at maximum speed with the baton. The next generation begins to run as they see the first generation racing toward them. They run alongside each other, legs pumping furiously so as not to lose any ground, both runners’ hands gripping the baton tightly. As the baton is passed, the first generation begins to slow as they watch the next generation take off with speed and energy toward their destination. And the cycle continues.

The Mishnah includes a famous quote: “It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it” (Pirkei Avot 2:16). We all have a part to play in God’s plan. Terah, the idol maker, left the pagan land of his birth where he had established his family and livelihood and took Lot, Abram, and Sarai to Haran. It was in that journey that Abram “ran” alongside his father to Haran, where Terah let go of the baton for Abram to continue on with the journey to the land of Canaan. Both men had a part to play. Without each individual fulfilling their part of the story, the narrative changes. As Mordechai says to Esther, “For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance will arise for the Jews from another place” (Esther 4:14, TLV). God’s plan and story will continue, with or without you, but you are called to run a specific part of the race. 

Therefore, since we have such a great cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also get rid of every weight and entangling sin. Let us run with endurance the race set before us, focusing on Yeshua, the initiator and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before Him, He endured the cross, disregarding its shame; and He has taken His seat at the right hand of the throne of God. (Heb 12:1–2 TLV)

You have a part in God’s story. For some, your race has already begun. Hold tight to the baton, work diligently at the tasks God has given you, and keep your eyes focused on the runner that waits ahead. And if you are the next runner—the next generation—you must begin running now. Don’t wait until the baton is handed to you to find ways that you can make an impact in your congregation and community. Service is never stagnant. Run alongside those in ministry and learn from them, benefiting from their knowledge and wisdom to create a seamless handoff of responsibilities. Know when it is time to let go of your baton and when it is time to take hold of it and bring new energy to the race. When you are called to—pass it on!

All Beginnings Are Hard

Parashat B’reisheet, Genesis 1:1 - 6:1

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

The Torah begins with the famous opening words:

 בְּרֵאשִׁ֖ית בָּרָ֣א אֱלֹהִ֑ים אֵ֥ת הַשָּׁמַ֖יִם וְאֵ֥ת הָאָֽרֶץ׃

When God began to create the heavens and the earth—

וְהָאָ֗רֶץ הָיְתָ֥ה תֹ֙הוּ֙ וָבֹ֔הוּ וְחֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־פְּנֵ֣י תְה֑וֹם וְר֣וּחַ אֱלֹהִ֔ים מְרַחֶ֖פֶת עַל־פְּנֵ֥י הַמָּֽיִם׃

the earth was unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep,

and the spirit of God hovered over the waters —

 וַיֹּ֥אמֶר אֱלֹהִ֖ים יְהִ֣י א֑וֹר וַֽיְהִי־אֽוֹר׃

God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light.

 -Genesis 1:1-3 (JPS 1985 with my own modifications)

 According to the 12th/13th century Spanish commentator, Ramban (Nachmanides), the Torah relates the story of the seven days of creation in order to refute other theories that claim that the universe came into being through some cosmic accident or coincidence. The Torah’s narration of creation speaks only in general terms to illustrate that nothing came into being except through God's command. This is emphasized by the use of the Hebrew word בָּרָא (bara), the word used for “create,” because grammatically, the word bara can only be used in connection to God (never for humans) and alludes to the creation of something from nothing.

The Torah's narrative of creation is meant to directly establish Hashem as the sovereign of the universe. Unlike other creation accounts circulating throughout the Ancient Near East, the Biblical account makes no attempt to explain the origins of God or persuade the listener of God's existence. Rather, the existence of God is understood as an axiomatic fact. As such, it immediately jumps into the explanation of God's creation of heaven and earth. 

Which leads us back to the opening phrase of the Torah: “When God began to create the heavens and the earth.” There are actually different ways to translate (and interpret) this verse. And although the phrasing “In the beginning . . .” is the most common translation into English, it may not be the most accurate.  

Every translation requires an amount of interpretation, as it is difficult to always accurately render a phrase (and its underlying worldview and assumptions) from one language into another. Anyone who speaks another language understands this. Sometimes specific vocabulary, word plays, or concepts don’t exist in other languages. And a single word might have multiple nuances. Translators are therefore forced to make decisions regarding how such words or ideas are rendered into another language. When this is done, the various nuances within the original language are lost. This is very common when translating, for instance, from Hebrew into English. The method of interpretation called Midrash often utilizes these ambiguities to make homiletical and hermeneutical points, and these points are often lost in English translations because the word plays and nuance are not immediately evident.  

Such nuances are what led the medieval French commentator Rashi (11th cent.), following a midrash, to comment that the opening phrase of Genesis should be understood as “with reisheet God created.” Rashi’s interpretation is based on the use of the word reisheet elsewhere in the Tanakh, where the word reisheet is used to refer to the Torah (Prov 8:22) and to Israel (Jer 2:3). Therefore, Rashi intentionally leaves the word reisheet untranslated, implying that the Torah and Israel were somehow present and involved in God’s act of creation.  

Expanding on this even further, another way to translate the opening words of Genesis could be: “With beginnings, God created . . .” This rendering plays on the opening word, emphasizing that everything in life has a beginning. Although there are times when everything seems to just fall into place, the reality is that most beginnings are not easy. 

Rashi arrives at this alternative interpretation of “beginnings” (in the plural) based again on the way the Tanakh uses the word reisheet for both the Torah (Prov 8:22) and the Jewish people (Jer 2:3). Rashi then additionally supports this interpretation by dividing the word b’reisheet into two different words: B reisheet (ב ראשית) where the bet (ב) is read as a number rather than a prefix . . . thus arriving at the idea of two beginnings: “With beginnings, God created.”

The idea that everything in life has a beginning is what led the author Chaim Potok to begin one of his most famous novels with the phrase: “All beginnings are hard.” An expression that gets repeated over and over in his book In the Beginning (originally published in 1975). Potok drew this idea from the rabbis of the Talmud who characterized all beginnings as being difficult. Rashi, commenting on Exodus 19:5, echoes this same motif: “And now . . . all beginnings are difficult.”

The most obvious difficult “beginning” is that of life itself. Consider childbirth and the extreme hardship, pain, and discomfort through which life is brought forth into the world. I still remember so vividly the traumatic birth of our eldest son and the following days he and my wife spent in the hospital due to unexpected difficulties. Had our son not had immediate medical intervention, he certainly would not be with us today. Yet years later, we just experienced the joy of celebrating his Bar Mitzvah.  

Throughout the Torah we repeatedly find difficult beginnings. Following the creation of Adam and Eve in the Garden, things quickly run amuck. Later, the beloved son Joseph is hated by his brothers and sold into slavery long before he ever becomes vizier to the pharaoh in Egypt. The Jewish people wandered in the desert for forty years hungry and tired after centuries of exile in Egypt before finally experiencing redemption and receiving the Torah. And even as we look toward the future, before we can experience the fulness of Messianic redemption we must first struggle through the pangs of exile. 

All beginnings are hard because they are intended to strengthen us and build character. A baby bird or reptile must first struggle to free itself from a shell. All mammals must survive the trauma of the birthing process. Each of these initial struggles establishes the strength needed for survival.  

When we look at our own experiences, we recognize that God often uses the most difficult challenges in our lives to work something new in us … to birth a new beginning. And yet, with new beginnings come new challenges to overcome. 

When I began my rabbinical studies, I remember a time when my mentor, Rabbi Murray Silberling, handed me a plunger after one of the stalls in the restroom got plugged up during a busy holiday service. He asked me: “How are you at plunging toilets?” He immediately responded: “If you are not willing to plunge toilets you have no business being in ministry.” His intention was to use an unpleasant moment to instill humility and build character. His lesson was that you cannot be a shepherd if you are not first willing to be a servant of others. That was an important lesson. I did not start at the top, but rather had to work my way up through various tasks and roles, demonstrating servanthood and responsibility.  

God often uses the same methodology for building character within us. Consider James 1:2-4 (CJB): 

Regard it all as joy, my brothers [and sisters], when you face various kinds of temptations; for you know that the testing of your trust produces perseverance. But let perseverance do its complete work; so that you may be complete and whole, lacking in nothing.

When life throws you under the bus, hits you with a curve ball, or knocks you down to the ground, it is easy to want to give up or shake our fists at God. But we have another choice, one far more difficult: to let those moments build character and birth something new within us.

If we are willing to be honest, we can often look back at some of the hardest times in our lives and see God working behind the scenes. However, while we are going through those “beginnings,” it is extremely difficult to often see God at work or to sense that God is even there.

That is why we always need to be reminded that we have not been abandoned. All beginnings are hard!

Our Torah portion reminds us, when things are difficult, we must learn again how to take a step back and regain a broader perspective. With God’s help, we must regather our strength, recollect our thoughts, and get back up on our feet.  

As we enter a new year on the Jewish calendar, we will certainly face new challenges and difficulties. Therefore, I want to bless each one of us, that God will give us the strength to confront those challenges head-on, and provide his guidance and direction, so that we can emerge on the other side with new blessings and encouragement. May Hashem strengthen us for these new “beginnings” in the coming year.

Sukkot: Celebrating God’s Presence

Sukkot 5786

David Tokajer, UMJC Vice-President, Congregation Mayim Chayim, Daphne, AL

Sukkot is called z’man simchateinu—the season of our joy—but the joy is not shallow happiness. It is joy rooted in God’s presence, His faithfulness, and the promise of ultimate redemption. The Torah reading for Shabbat Chol HaMoed during Sukkot (Exodus 33:12–34:26) and the primary Haftarah reading for Sukkot from Zechariah 14 together highlight this reality. They remind us that God’s presence is the true source of our joy, and that His glory will one day cover all nations as the waters cover the sea.

In the Torah portion, Moses pleads with God after the sin of the golden calf. Israel’s rebellion has jeopardized their loyalty to the covenant, and God has threatened to withdraw His presence. Moses refuses to settle for that. His cry is simple yet profound: “If Your presence does not go with me, don’t let us go up from here!” (Exod 33:15 TLV). Israel can survive without many things, but not without the Shekhinah, the Presence of God. Moses goes further—he dares to ask, “Show me Your glory.” God responds with a revelation of His character, the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy (Exod 34:6-7).

The essence of Sukkot comes into focus here: God’s people rejoice not because life is easy or secure, but because His Presence dwells among us. The sukkah itself is a reminder that our security does not rest in walls of stone but in the covering of El Shaddai.

How does the sukkah remind of us this reality? We build what can be best described as a temporary hut, leaving behind the comfort and security of our homes to reside in the outdoors where we have no control over the weather or natural environment. We step into our own vulnerability and place our trust in God for our security. We set aside the comfort of our homes that are designed to withstand significant external forces and we step into temporary dwelling places designed to remind us of God’s Presence leading our forefathers through the wilderness and of His divine hand providing for all our needs.

In the Haftarah reading, the prophet Zechariah looks forward to the end of days, when the nations will gather against Jerusalem but God Himself will intervene. His feet will stand on the Mount of Olives, and living waters will flow from Jerusalem to the east and the west. Then comes the stunning vision: “Adonai will then be King over all the earth. In that day Adonai will be Echad [One] and His Name Echad” (Zech 14:9 TLV). And what feast will the nations be commanded to celebrate at that time? Sukkot. The nations who once opposed God’s covenant people will be required to ascend to Jerusalem year after year to worship the King and to keep the Feast of Booths (Zech 14:16–19).

Why Sukkot? Because this festival embodies dependence on God, universal joy, and the gathering of all peoples. Unlike Pesach or Shavuot, Sukkot is explicitly tied to the nations. Seventy bulls were sacrificed in the Temple during the festival—one for each of the seventy nations of the world (Talmud, Sukkah 55b). The prophetic picture is that in the Kingdom age, all nations will acknowledge God’s sovereignty, and Sukkot will become the great unifying festival of worship.

The Torah and Haftarah together frame the tension we live in today. We, like Moses, cry out for God’s Presence in the midst of a broken world. We build sukkot to remind ourselves that our true dwelling is not yet here. But we also look forward with hope to the day Zechariah describes, when Messiah Yeshua reigns in Jerusalem and every nation comes to rejoice before Him.

This is one of the most significant reasons why Sukkot relies so heavily on the concept of l’dor v’dor (from generation to generation). Leviticus 23:42–43 relays that we are to live in Sukkot so that future generations will remember all that God did for Israel as He brought us out from the land of Egypt. It can become all too easy to become comfortable, complacent, and assimilated into the environment we find ourselves in, however once a year we are commanded to give up that comfort and to remember how we are to rely wholly upon God’s Presence for our security and our blessing. Sukkot is a fun and energetic holiday, it is a time of great joy and gladness, but the reason for that joy and gladness is that we know God is with us. We know that God is our covering and our protection, and every year we have a divinely orchestrated time in which we not only recognize His Presence as our ultimate covering, but we also have the opportunity to sew that beautiful reality into the tapestry of our future generations as well.

So as we celebrate this z’man simchateinu, we don’t simply shake the lulav—the palm frond, myrtle, and willow branches (Lev 23:40)—and dwell in the sukkah out of ritual. Rather, we proclaim with our lives that God’s Presence is our covering, His mercy is our joy, and His coming Kingdom is our hope.