Good Bread

Parashat b’Ha’alot’cha

Parashat b’Ha’alot’cha, Numbers 8:1–12:16
Chaim Dauermann, Brooklyn, NY
 
Many years ago I worked at a restaurant. Every day, we baked fresh bread there and brought it out to guests with olive oil as soon as they sat down. Anyone who wanted more was free to have more.

One evening, a man complained about the bread. He said it was terrible—some of the worst bread he’d ever had—and that other restaurants offered vastly better complimentary bread. When we explained that we had no other bread readily available, he ordered more out of spite. When it arrived, he made sure the staff witnessed him chewing the bread and loudly announcing how bad it was. When he ran out, he called for “more of this terrible bread!” (Although he used a more colorful word not suitable for publication.)

We never saw him again.

Now, most people do not make their dining decisions on the basis of the free bread. Most people are concerned about weightier things: the ambiance, the quality of the food, the value, the attentiveness of the staff. But hunger has a way of narrowing our vision. When the appetizers haven’t landed yet, the free bread can become the whole story.

In Numbers 11, the Israelites are trapped in a culture of complaint. The first verses report the people grumbling, and the Lord responding with discipline. “So the fire of the Lord burned among them, and consumed some in the outskirts of the camp” (Num 11:1). Moses intercedes, the fire is quenched, and then, almost immediately, the complaining begins again.

This time the matter is instigated by a group the text calls the asafsuf, often translated as “rabble.” Jewish tradition frequently identifies this group with the erev rav, the mixed multitude that came up out of Egypt alongside the Israelites, and it is this interpretation that informs the decisions of some translators: “Now the mixed multitude who were among them yielded to intense craving; so the children of Israel also wept again and said: ‘Who will give us meat to eat?’” (Num 11:4). The asafsuf have whipped the entire nation into a frenzy. The Israelites’ language becomes vivid: “We remember the fish which we ate freely in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic; but now our whole being is dried up; there is nothing at all except this manna before our eyes!” (Num 11:5–6.)

Egypt sounds downright pleasant here: Fish, cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions, garlic. This is not the kind of menu we would typically think to associate with slavery. The Israelites make it sound like a bountiful garden. And who wouldn’t miss a place with such abundance? But this is exactly the problem. It would seem that they are not reliable narrators. And the Sages have pointed to this as an example not of Egypt’s abundance, but of a problem in the hearts of the Children of Israel.

Sifrei Bamidbar 87 inquires: “‘We remember the fish that we would eat in Egypt, free’: Is it possible that the Egyptians gave them fish free? Is it not written (Shemot 5:18) ‘And now, go and work, and straw will not be given you.’” The midrash points out the obvious: The Egyptians who would not give them straw for bricks were unlikely to be handing out free fish. How, then, are we to understand “free?” The midrash answers: “Free of mitzvot.” Here, then, is the real substance of the complaint. The Children of Israel aren’t missing the fish. They are missing a life that was free of covenant obligation. In Egypt, they had hard labor, but in their distorted memory they were “free” from the commandments of God. In the wilderness, however, they were turned over to a different master. In both cases, much was required of them. But in this instance, so the Sages illuminate, the burdens of the Egyptians sounded preferable to the covenantal expectations of the God of Israel.

This is the irony of the whole thing: in the wilderness, they truly were eating free food. The manna cost them nothing. It fell from heaven, as an ongoing provision from God. It wasn’t purchased. It wasn’t earned. But the manna wasn’t “free” in the way that the fish in Egypt seemed to be free. The manna came along with instructions: When to gather it. How to gather it. When not to gather it. What the consequences are if the instructions aren’t heeded. Every step of the way, God must be trusted to provide. Faith was necessary.

However, no faith was required to receive fish in Egypt. The leeks came with no instructions. The garlic had no warnings. All they had attached to them were simple bondage and toil. This is one of the great temptations of living life redeemed in Messiah. If we let ourselves think obedience is difficult, our past slavery begins to look appealing. We rewrite the past to excuse our growing appetite for what we’ve told ourselves is “freedom,” and before long we miss the chains of our sins. We start to remember our former deeds as pleasant, and to forget the bitter costs attached to them. Soon, the freedom from sin that we have in Messiah begins to sound like toil, and our former life of bondage to sin starts to sound like liberty.

Rav Sha’ul gave a stark warning about this very thing in Romans:

For when you were slaves of sin, you were free in regard to righteousness. What fruit did you have then in the things of which you are now ashamed? For the end of those things is death. But now having been set free from sin, and having become slaves of God, you have your fruit to holiness, and the end, everlasting life. (Romans 6:20–22)

To paraphrase Sha’ul, we might quote the modern day sage, Bob Dylan: “You’re gonna have to serve somebody.” At the end of the day, what the Israelites could not grasp is that they were going to be in a state of servitude to somebody. Nothing is free, not manna, not fish. As the old saying goes, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” Or free fish. Or free bread. There are costs attached. There are debts owed. There are households to dwell in. Who better to call our Master than the one who created fish? The quality of the freebies doesn’t matter when only one path leads us to eternal sustenance.

Yeshua gave a teaching that speaks well into this very issue: “Do not labor for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to everlasting life, which the Son of Man will give you” (John 6:27). Later, he says, “I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and are dead. This is the bread which comes down from heaven, that one may eat of it and not die” (John 6:48–50).

Yeshua does not call us to a life without labor. He calls us away from laboring for things leading to death. He calls us away from the false freedom of our former lives, and toward the true freedom of the eternal life in Olam Haba, the Age to Come.

That’s some good bread.

All scripture quotations taken from NKJV.

We Bear the Family Name

Photo: Jewish tombstone, realpolandtours.com

Parashat Naso

‍ Parashat Naso, Numbers 4:21–7:29‍ ‍

Matt Absolon, Rosh Kehilah, Beth T’filah, Miramar, FL 

‍The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “Speak to Aaron and his sons, saying, Thus you shall bless the people of Israel: you shall say to them, The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace. “So shall they put my name upon the people of Israel, and I will bless them.” Numbers 6:22–27

‍The Aaronic blessing of Numbers Six is among the oldest liturgical texts in biblical history. Archaeologists have recovered it inscribed on silver amulets dating to the seventh century BCE, predating even the Dead Sea Scrolls. Its age, however, is not its most striking feature; rather it is the final verse that calls our attention: “So shall they put my name upon the people of Israel, and I will bless them.” The blessing is not mere sentiment or a wish; it is an act of covenantal naming. God’s name is placed upon Israel, a mark of family identity and divine sonship.‍ ‍

The great medieval commentator Ibn Ezra reflects on the ambiguous phrase, “I will bless them,” or avarekhem in Hebrew, and asks who it refers to.

It is possible that the mem of avarekhem [making it plural] refers to the kohanim [priests] who utter the blessing. It means they will bless Israel, and I will bless those who bless. It is also possible that the mem of avarekhem refers to Israel. Its meaning is, if the kohanim bless Israel, then I will bless Israel; that is, I will fulfill the blessing of the kohanim. In my opinion, the mem of avarekhem refers to all of them, the kohanim and the Israelites.

‍ Who exactly receives the blessing? The priests? Israel? Ibn Ezra’s answer: both. “The mem of avarekhem refers to all of them, the kohanim and the Israelites.” The priestly blessing is not a one-way transaction. When leadership faithfully discharges its duty to bless, and when the congregation receives with open hearts, blessings flows to both parties. There is a symbiotic covenantal exchange at work, not merely ritual formality.‍ ‍

This mutual blessing helps us to better understand communal Jewish living. The kohanim did not bless Israel because Israel had earned it; they blessed Israel because that was their function within the relationship. And Israel, in standing to receive, was not passive; they were active participants in a holy exchange.‍ ‍

But the act of blessing was never the exclusive domain of the priesthood. The Psalms are saturated with ordinary Israelites blessing God and blessing one another. Parents blessed children, friends blessed friends, strangers blessed those they encountered. To bless one another, levarekh, is to step into our calling as a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. Every member of the covenant family carries that capacity.‍ ‍

In like fashion today, congregational leadership that faithfully speaks blessing over the community functions as an instrument through which God places his name. A congregation that receives with humility completes the circuit.‍ ‍

This past weekend we celebrated Shavuot and studied the Ten Words. The commandment not to take God’s name in vain (Exod 20:7) carries fresh weight in light of the Aaronic Benediction. Because God has placed his name upon his people, Israel bears that name into the world as a family identity. To live contrary to his character while bearing his name—that is the deeper concern of the commandment. To be called by God’s name is not privilege without obligation. It is a vocation that shapes ethics, conduct, and communal witness.‍ ‍

Paul traffics in this language in his letter to the Ephesians: ‍ ‍

For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named, that according to the riches of his glory he may grant you to be strengthened with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Messiah may dwell in your hearts through faith—that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Messiah that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. (Eph 3:14–19)‍ ‍

The Greek “patria” in 3:14, meaning family or clan, implies a family bearing a father’s name. Paul’s argument is that through Yeshua the Messiah  functioning in a high-priestly capacity, the covenantal family naming has been extended to include the nations who turn to God. Those once outside are now named by the same Father through the salvific work of Yeshua. This is not a displacement of Israel’s calling but a fulfillment of the Abrahamic promise that all families of the earth would be blessed.

A high priest stands as an intermediary between God and the people, places the family name upon them, and blessing flows. When we in leadership speak blessing over our communities, and when those who follow receive it with faith, God places his name upon us. ‍ ‍

We are the family of God—and we carry the Father’s name—“that [we] may be filled with all the fullness of God.” We do not bear this name lightly; we bear it as sons and daughters of the king.

May we live worthy of our Father’s Name that has been placed upon us. And may we never cease to be a community where blessing flows—from leadership to congregation, from congregation back to our Heavenly Father—- in the beautiful, symbiotic rhythm that Heaven itself designed.

‍ Shabbat Shalom‍ ‍

Scripture references are from the English Standard Version (ESV).

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Obedience Begins with Listening

Shavuot 5786

Shavuot 5786, Exodus 19:1-20:23

Jennifer Caracelo, Kol Mashiach Messianic Synagogue, Melbourne, FL

Did you know that Hebrew is the only ancient language to be “revived” for modern use? I say “revived” in quotes because Hebrew never went completely dormant. It was always in use for religious purposes but for almost two thousand years it was not used for everyday language. Eliezer Ben-Yehuda believed that the Jewish people needed to unite under a common spoken language and he worked to bring Hebrew back into everyday use. His son, Itamar, was the first native Hebrew speaker in two millennia. Ben-Yehuda undertook the task of adding words for modern things and concepts to the ancient Hebrew language. One new word that was added was a verb for “obey.” In ancient Hebrew, sometimes referred to as “biblical Hebrew,” the word that is translated as “obey” is שׁמע shema. Most of you recognize this word from the beginning of the central creed of Judaism:

שׁמע ישׂראל יי אלהינוּ יי אחד

Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai echad.

Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. Deut 6:4

“Shema” means to hear or listen, but ancient Hebrew is a language of action. Hearing and listening are passive activities. When we find the word “shema” in the Bible, it can mean “to hear,” but oftentimes it is translated as “listen” when there is an active component of obedience or some form of action attached to the meaning.

Our Shavuot parashah opens with the preparation of the people before Hashem gives them the Torah on Mt. Sinai. He instructs them:

Now therefore, if you will indeed obey my voice and keep my covenant, you shall be my treasured possession among all peoples, for all the earth is mine. Exod 19:5

In this verse we see the word “obey” is a translation of “shema.” The children of Israel were called to listen carefully to the words that Hashem was about to give to them from Mt. Sinai and to follow through with obedience. Hashem desired for the obedience of Israel to flow from a faith that actively listened to his voice.

Many believe that obedience means following the set of “do’s” and “don’ts” found in Torah, but the sages say that the intention with which we do or do not do things matters. The heart and mind are an active part of obedience. You could say that it is a full-body experience – beginning with our brain as it listens intently and gauges the will of Hashem and moving to our mouths, hands, and feet as they fulfill the mitzvah, while being connected to a heart that is aware of the action it is purposefully engaging in. Torah is a framework for obedience, but the way that we obey his voice requires every aspect of who we are to be engaged in the process. 

The phrase “obey my voice” that we see in Exodus 19:5 is found many times in the Tanakh. Hashem calls people to this fully engaged level of response to his word. Referring to the Mount Sinai experience, Hashem reminded the people of the most important part of their covenant with him:

For in the day that I brought them out of the land of Egypt, I did not speak to your fathers  or command them concerning burnt offerings and sacrifices. But this command I gave them: “Obey my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people. And walk in all the way that I command you, that it may be well with you.” Jer 7:22-23

Not only does Jeremiah mention the obedience of listening combined with doing, but he adds, “walk in all the way” – another action of obedience. How we direct our steps should be ordered by the voice of Hashem (Prov 16:9).

At Mount Sinai, the voice of Hashem was evident in a clear and powerful way as it came out of the midst of the fire that blazed on the mountain. Though it is not often highlighted in our observance of Shavuot, the fire at Sinai is a key part of the whole experience – so much so that Moses reminds the people of it seven times in Deuteronomy 4 and 5.

The Lord spoke with you face to face at the mountain, out of the midst of the fire. Deut 4:12

This paradigm of Hashem speaking from fire shouldn’t come as a surprise. Before Moses led the people out of Egypt, he was directed to his calling by the voice of Hashem  speaking to him from within a bush (Exod 3:4) that was in flames but not burning (Exod 3:2). In fact, the psalmist says this: “The voice of Adonai flashes fiery flames” (Psa 29:7 CJB).

Fast-forward about 1500 years from the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai to the Shavuot following Yeshua’s death, resurrection, and ascension.

When the day of Shavuot had come, they were all together in one place. Suddenly there came from heaven a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and it filled the whole house where they were sitting. And tongues like fire spreading out appeared to them and settled on each one of them. They were all filled with the Ruach ha-Kodesh and began to speak in other tongues as the Ruach enabled them to speak out. Now Jewish people were staying in Jerusalem, devout men from every nation under heaven. And when this sound came, the crowd gathered. They were bewildered, because each was hearing them speaking in his own language. Acts 2:1-6 TLV

The Acts narrative also mentions fire. Not the benign little flames that get depicted peacefully resting atop everyone’s head, but most likely the fiery flames that the psalmist speaks of. These tongues of fire allowed the disciples to speak in the languages of all the nations that were assembled there. If we consider the words of Psalm 29:7, these tongues of fire were more than just fire. They were the very voice of Hashem alighting on the people and giving them the ability to speak his words to the nations.

We know this Acts 2 experience at Shavuot as “the giving of the Ruach Hakodesh.” When we look at the imagery of what happened, we could call this the giving of the Voice of Hashem to the followers of Yeshua. No longer do we need to wait for a once-in-a-millennium experience in which literal flames come from heaven to speak to us. We now have the ability to hear the Voice of Hashem on a daily, even minute by minute, basis. How privileged we are that we can more easily obey his voice as he has called us to do!

Yeshua left his disciples with these words:

But the Counselor, the Ruach HaKodesh, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything; that is, he will remind you of everything I have said to you. John 14:26 CJB

In other words, the Ruach HaKodesh will be the Voice of Hashem within you. Today, let us resolve to listen – shema – with minds attuned to the words of the Ruach Hakodesh within us and hearts prepared to align our lives to Hashem’s will. Let us use our mouths to speak words of love, kindness, and encouragement. Let our feet be always quick to go where he directs us and our hands eager to do his work as we obey his voice.

All verses are taken from the ESV, except where noted.

An Invitation to Intimacy

Parashat Bamidbar

Parashat Bamidbar, Numbers 1:1–4:20 

Joe Miterko, Kol Mashiach, Melbourne, FL

Adonai spoke to Moshe in the Sinai Desert, in the tent of meeting, on the first day of the second month of the second year after they had left the land of Egypt. He said, “Take a census of the entire assembly of the people of Isra’el, by clans and families. Record the names of all the men twenty years old and over who are subject to military service in Isra’el. You and Aharon are to enumerate them company by company.” (Numbers 1:1–3)

A Special Season

This time of year is so exciting for us. Summer is on its way with its joys and frivolities; we begin a new book in our Torah cycle; and Shavuot is approaching next week. I always look forward to Shavuot. As a kid, one of my favorite traditions was our dessert oneg with Mount Sinai Sundaes & Moishemallows! That was way more exciting than matzo and maror, as matzo can make me bored and is pretty crumby. 

All jokes aside, the afterglow of Pesach seems distant at this point, yet we remember our wanderings between redemption from Egypt and revelation at Sinai. We are commanded to keep a simple act of obedience for this time: we count the Omer! Moreover, we make these days of Omer count as we prepare ourselves to receive the gifts of the Torah and Ruach all over again, renewing our commitment to God’s Word. He desires us to order our days so we can see his work in our lives. 

Order and Shalom

Hashem loves and desires order. Paul writes “For God is not a God of unruliness but of shalom. . . . Let all things be done in a proper and orderly way” (1 Cor 14:33, 40). In the Torah, we see God’s order dispel chaos (see Gen 1:2) and then we see creation blossoming thereafter. Vayikra took us on a journey of instruction about holiness and proper worship. Priests, purity, holiness, and everyday matters were discussed at length within its chapters. These newly freed people needed to learn what true worship, avodah, looked like. Moreover, they needed to free themselves from a mindset of slavery. We even see the consequences of those who break this order of worship: Aaron’s two sons, Nadav and Avihu, were consumed for not following Hashem wholeheartedly (Lev 10). 

A People of Order and Shalom

Now we come to our parasha, Bamidbar. Bnei-Yisrael are set to leave Mount Sinai, ready for their next leg of the journey towards the Land of Promise. After all, it has been two years since leaving slavery in Egypt. Before the people can move, Hashem instructs Moshe and Aharon to number them. Specifically, he directs that all the men twenty years and older be counted for military service. The rest of our text this week describes this census, the formation of the tribes, and the unique roles and responsibilities of the Levites. 

At first glance, this parasha seems mundane and uneventful. Yet this is such an exciting part of the journey for Bnei-Yisrael.! Hashem takes a people who are scattered, still shaking off the chains and dust of Egyptian oppression, and creates a people for himself. The same God who ordered each day of creation is making sure his people are accounted for. Indeed, Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks comments, “It is almost as if the Torah were describing the Israelites the way it describes the cosmos in the first chapter of Genesis, everything in its due proportion and proper place.” Not only is this an important step towards unity of the Jewish people; it also shows that Hashem cares for every single individual within the camp. 

A Call to Intimacy

This call to enumerate the people goes beyond checking off boxes and creating physical order.  Hashem invites his people into a covenantal relationship through intimacy. He wants each person standing at Sinai to know that they are beloved, cared for, and treasured by him. Even when times get tough, even when the wilderness seems endless without food, water, and shelter, the people are invited to know that Hashem’s arm is continuously fighting for them. `

The text of our Haftarah passage in Hosea dives more deeply into this concept. It opens: 

Nevertheless, the people of Isra’el will number as many as the grains of sand by the sea, which cannot be measured or counted; so that the time will come when, instead of being told, “You are not my people,” it will be said to them, “You are the children of the living God.” (Hos 2:1 [1:10]) 

Later on, the Lord makes a beautiful promise:

I will betroth you to me forever; yes, I will betroth you to me in righteousness, in justice, in grace and in compassion; I will betroth you to me in faithfulness, and you will know Adonai. (Hos 2:21–22 [2:19–20]) 

The people being as numerous as the grains of sand by the sea harkens back to the census taken at Sinai. Further, the Lord draws them into a relationship as a groom with a bride. This concept of betrothal is critical to the Biblical narrative. In fact, on Pesach we read Song of Songs to remember this. 

Recommitment through Intimacy 

In the New Testament, we read how the resurrected Yeshua would appear to his talmidim during the days of the Omer. In fact, Rav Sha’ul said he appeared to over five hundred people (1 Cor 15:6). Yet, he revealed himself in a more intimate way to some of his followers. John 21 highlights an episode of particular interest. We see a close dialogue between Yeshua and Peter, even after Peter’s bitter denial from a few nights beforehand. Yeshua wants his love to restore Peter and meet him where he is. After they ate breakfast that the Master prepared on the shores of the Galil, he took time to have a very important conversation that Peter needed to hear. 

God is not just a God of order; he desires for us to draw near to him. As we begin Sefer Bamidbar, we remember how he cared for our ancestors by numbering them and giving them freedom from bondage.  Further, he invites them into intimacy, into a covenant that is alive and well today. Our challenge is: Will we accept it? Will we draw close as God desires to know us even more deeply? Will we love this beautiful heritage he has given us? My answer is a hearty Ken y’hi ratzon—Yes, may it be your will!

Shabbat Shalom! 

All Scripture references are from Complete Jewish Bible (CJB). 

Real Trust Requires Surrender

Parashat Behar-Bechukotai

Parashat Behar-Bechukotai, Leviticus 25:1–27:34

Rabbi Jude Caracelo, Kol Mashiach, Melbourne, FL

Behar-Bechukotai is another double Torah portion, and the last two parashot in the book of Leviticus. We are right in the middle of the Torah, and these portions have a significant amount of rules and laws that the Israelites had to take on and follow as part of their covenant with Hashem. There are laws about redemption of property, redemption of a fellow Israelite brother, regulations on vows, and even rules for how to treat others with kindness. Hashem was teaching the Israelites the right way to live life – his way. Sometimes this could mean they were told to do things that just didn’t make sense to them. And that required that they trust God and surrender to his will for their lives. And the same is true for us today. We, as followers of Yeshua, are called to a life of trust & surrender to the Lord’s plan for our lives.

The double portion begins with the shemita, the sabbatical year: 

The Lord spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai, saying, “Speak to the people of Israel and say to them, When you come into the land that I give you, the land shall keep a Sabbath to the Lord. For six years you shall sow your field, and for six years you shall prune your vineyard and gather in its fruits, but in the seventh year there shall be a Sabbath of solemn rest for the land, a Sabbath to the Lord. You shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard. You shall not reap what grows of itself in your harvest, or gather the grapes of your undressed vine. It shall be a year of solemn rest for the land.” (Leviticus 25:1–5)

The Children of Israel were subsistence farmers, so they had to sow and reap their fields to survive. If you didn’t work, you didn’t eat. You could not provide for your family. Can you imagine what they may have said when they heard these words from Hashem? “What do you mean we can’t work our fields for a whole year? That doesn’t make any sense. We won’t survive!” I can certainly imagine this, because this is what I most likely would say. But what this statute, and this double Torah portion teaches us, is that frequently the Lord has us do things that just don’t make sense to us. This requires us to trust him. Trust is defined as a reliance on the integrity, strength or ability of someone or something. In this case, the Israelites had to rely on God and trust that he would make the right decisions for them. They had to allow him to direct their lives. 

We can see this pattern of trusting God even when it doesn’t make sense with other people in the Bible. One such character was Abraham. He trusted Hashem when he was called from his home country and his people and told to go to a new land he didn’t know. He trusted Hashem when the Lord promised Abraham a son, even though his wife Sarah was barren and could not have children. And he still trusted God, when he was told to then take the son he had long been promised and sacrifice him on an altar to the Lord. 

After these things God tested Abraham and said to him, “Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.” He said, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you.” (Genesis 22:1–2) 

What was Abraham’s response to this request from the Lord? The Biblical text goes on to tell us that Abraham rose up early the next morning and set out with Isaac to the place of sacrifice. In obedience, Abraham trusted God and acknowledged him as sovereign over his life. Would we have that type of trust? Or would we argue with the Lord? If I’m honest, and the Lord asked this of me, I could hear myself probably having a nice Jewish discussion with him about it. “Lord, can’t you see I have trusted you already so much in my life? I need a break here! Why does no one else have to sacrifice their son but me? Listen, I’ll do anything else. Please just let me keep my son!” 

Of course, Abraham didn’t say this. He went forward and was about to sacrifice Isaac when God intervened at the last second. In this instance and in many others, Abraham demonstrated a consistent pattern of reliance on God and not himself. Like Abraham, we are asked to trust God with our lives over and over. Trust is not just giving God the reins once in our life, and expecting a “well done, good and faithful servant” in the end. This type of repeated trust is demonstrated by us surrendering our lives to him. What is surrender? Simply put, it is giving up our idea of how our lives should be run and accepting God’s idea for us. As he lays out his direction for our lives, we display that Abraham-like trust. 

Looking back at our parashah in particular, and the entire Torah in general, we see Israel being called to surrender everything to God. This meant in all aspects of their lives, and it included their idea of how life should go. They were called to do everything God’s way and not their way. That can seem easy for us when God asks us to do something we understand. But it is required even when we don’t. And frequently we don’t understand! We are called to surrender our lives to God. Yeshua our Messiah said, “Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 10:39). 

King Solomon once wrote, “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun” (Ecclesiastes 1:9). The Israelites had to learn to trust God and surrender to him when he asked them to take a sabbatical year every seventh year. Abraham had to trust God and surrender to him when God told him to kill his long-awaited son. And as followers of Yeshua, each one of us is to trust God and surrender to him with whatever he calls us to in our lives. Even when it doesn’t make sense. 

Scripture references are from the English Standard Version (ESV).

The Shepherd and the Lamb

Parashat Emor

Parashat Emor, Leviticus 21:1-24:23; Haftarah, Ezekiel 44:15-31

Rabbi David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

You are not obligated to finish the work,

But neither can you refrain; so don’t just sit there and lurk.

That’s from “The Sayings of the Fathers” or Pirke Avot

And 2:16 is where I got that quote.

Now in Ezekiel 1, in the thirtieth year

(“But of what?” we may ask — perhaps birthday cheer)

So it’s Ezekiel, perhaps, that is turning 3-0. 

In which case, that’s the year that a priest starts the show!  

But he can’t, there’s no Temple, it’s all been destroyed

So, Ezekiel, the priest, must feel distraught and annoyed

But even if the 30 doesn’t refer to ole’ Zeke

The situation where a priest can’t do his calling is unique.

Now he’s sitting on the bank of the Kebar River

Wondering how the Lord could ever deliver.

If the Temple is gone, whence the Presence of God?

And how could he ever fulfill his priesthood abroad?

By the Rivers of Babylon, where we sat down,

There we wept, when we remembered Zion.

Then the wicked carried us away in captivity

And required from us a song.

But how can we sing the Lord's song

In a strange land?

When suddenly the heavens opened, with strange weather features,

Wind, fire, and lightning, and four living creatures

And a blazing heavenly chariot: the God-mobile,

A movable throne with tricked-out bejeweled wheels

That for some reason in Jerusalem — at that moment — was not found

For the Lord God of Israel cannot be geographically bound.

And Ezekiel may have wondered how his assignment was even knowable

But God’s gift and his calling are irrevocable.

We may say this to God as well: “How can I do it?

“I’m ill-equipped, incomplete, and I already blew it.

“Plus the forces around me are beyond my control,

I’m bruised and I’m broken — just a weary soul.”

And in this week’s parasha, something lingers like mist:

The incomplete priests are apparently dismissed.

He cannot be blind, or disfigured, or lame

In the Holy Place — this desecrates the Name.

He cannot have scars or boils or scurvy

Or be missing a limb or be from New Jersey

(Not because something’s wrong with the great Garden State

But because he’d be anachronistic — 3000 years late).

But here is the catch — he’s not put out to pasture

He can still eat the holy food — not a total disaster.

He can pray, lead, and guide — gather wood for the altar.

He can judge, teach, and worship, and sing from the psalter.

He can worship God with the Levites orally.

He’s unclean ritually, but for sure not morally.

Remember ole’ Zeke — well he’s not just a priest

But one of the greatest prophets to come out of the East.

You’re not defined by one thing that you do

You’re a complex, integrated, and valuable you!

Our defects are setbacks, but they’re not who we are.

They throw a wrench in our calling, but can’t totally bar

And even if circumstance brings you outside the Land

And the Temple’s gone — nonetheless, God has a plan!

Perhaps he will bring his Presence right to your spot

To comfort and guide you, ‘cause he likes you a lot.

Now, the story doesn’t end with limitation;

The Gospels show a move toward wholeness and restoration

For Yeshua heals the blind, the sick, and the lame,

And what he did years ago, he still does the same.

So if you have a defect, a blemish, or blight,

It might be a weakness to accept until all things are made right,

Or a skill to develop, to learn over time,

Or a job to delegate, like the seeing priests did for the blind,

Or perhaps a change in belief is rising to the surface

Like you think you can’t do something just because you’re not perfect.

We are not required to complete God’s work on the earth 

But neither can we refrain because we doubt our inherent worth

‘Cause we are made in his image, loved more than words can express.

He’s not looking for perfection — he’s looking for a “yes.”

And if you’re wondering why this drash was done in coupled rhyme

Perhaps I’m full of whimsy, or just have too much time

Or perhaps I wanted to share, in ordered pairs,

How God makes things whole, restores, and repairs.

Plus, I wanted to show through conventional poetry

How God brings life and order — from wasteland to “grow-a-tree.”

But there’s another pairing besides these rhyming couples

It’s in the parasha this week, there’s a purposeful double:

The sacrifice and the priest have the same laws and stipulations,

They both must be whole and unblemished creations.

There is One who exists without any defect in the least

Both the perfect, final sacrifice and eternal High Priest.

The offering and Priest — the Shepherd and the Lamb

The offering and Priest — the Shepherd and the Lamb.

Glory to the One who died and rose again

And is the great I Am.

The Shepherd and the Lamb.

Hallelujah!

Yeshua went from whole to broken, to make the broken whole. Yeshua absorbed uncleanness, sin, and death into himself, to bring cleansing, forgiveness, and eternal life. 

Therefore if anyone is in Messiah, this person is a new creation; the old things have passed away; behold, new things have come. He made him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in him. (2 Cor 5:17,21)

Real-life Holiness

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim, Leviticus 16:1–20:27

David Tokajer, Congregation Mayim Chayim, Daphne, AL

Parashat Acharei Mot–Kedoshim sits right within the tension every serious believer has to deal with: we want closeness with God, but we don’t get to define the terms of that closeness. Leviticus 16 opens with the death of Nadav and Avihu in chapter 10 still hanging in the air. This is not just background, it is a warning label: You don’t walk casually into the presence of a holy God.

The instructions for Yom Kippur are then laid out in detail. One day. One man. One way. The Kohen HaGadol enters the Holy of Holies not with creativity, not with personal expression, but with precise obedience. Blood is brought in, not as a ritual for ritual’s sake, but as a stark reminder: access to God costs something. Sin is not theoretical; it stains, it separates, and it requires atonement.

But then we come to chapter 17, and the focus shifts. Suddenly it’s not just about the High Priest once a year, it’s about every Israelite, every day: What you eat; where you bring sacrifices; and how you treat blood. Holiness is no longer confined to the Mishkan, it starts pressing into the ordinary rhythms of life.

Then the transition from macro to micro continues with chapters 18 and 20 of Leviticus, areas most people would rather skip. Sexual ethics. Boundaries. Prohibitions that feel blunt and, to modern ears, uncomfortable. But here’s the point: holiness is not abstract. It shows up in the most personal areas of life. God is not just interested in your worship set or your prayer language. He’s concerned with your body, your relationships, your integrity when no one is watching.

Then comes Leviticus 19, the center of Parashat Kedoshim, and it hits like a hammer: “You shall be holy, for I, Adonai your God, am holy” (Lev 19:2 TLV). This not a suggestion or some sort of spiritual bonus tier. It’s the baseline expectation of covenant life.

But look at how that holiness is defined. It’s not mystical detachment, nor is it retreating from the world into isolation. It’s deeply practical:

•   Leave the corners of your field for the poor.

•   Don’t steal.

•   Don’t lie.

•   Pay your workers on time.

•   Don’t curse the deaf or trip the blind.

•   Judge fairly.

•   Don’t gossip.

•   Love your neighbor as yourself.

This is where people far too often get it wrong. Holiness is not about appearing spiritual; it’s really about reflecting God’s character in real, lived ways. It is ethical, relational, and visible.

The rabbis picked up on this tension. In Sifra Kedoshim, the command to “be holy” is tied directly to separation from immoral behavior, not as an end in itself, but as alignment with God’s nature. Ramban pushes it further, warning against being a נבל ברשות התורה (naval birshut haTorah), a scoundrel within the bounds of the Torah. In other words, you can technically keep commandments and still completely miss holiness if your heart and conduct are corrupt. Holiness is not loophole management, it’s transformation.

Now here’s where this lands for us in a Messianic Jewish context. We don’t read Acharei Mot without thinking about Yeshua. Hebrews 9–10 makes the connection unavoidable. The High Priest entering once a year with blood is a ritual that pointed forward. Yeshua doesn’t enter an earthly Holy of Holies; He enters the heavenly one, once for all, with His own blood.

This reality changes access. It doesn’t lower the bar of holiness, it actually raises it. Because now the question isn’t, “Can I come near God?” The answer is yes, through Messiah. The real question becomes: “Now that I’ve been brought near, how do I live?”

Peter quotes Leviticus directly: “For it is written, ‘Kedoshim you shall be, for I am kadosh’” (1 Peter 1:16 TLV). He doesn’t water it down, he doesn’t reinterpret it into something symbolic. He doubles down. Why? Because holiness was never about geography, it was always about identity. You are either reflecting God’s character, or you’re not.

And this is where Acharei Mot–Kedoshim cuts through modern spirituality.

We live in a culture that wants intimacy with God without transformation. People want presence without obedience. We want the experience of God without the standards of God. That doesn’t exist in Tanakh, and it doesn’t exist in the Brit Chadashah either.

Holiness means being set apart, but not just from something. It means being set apart to Someone. That’s the difference. If holiness is only separation, you end up with legalism. If it’s only connection, you end up with compromise. Torah holds both together: you are separated from what is corrupt so that you can be fully aligned with the One who is holy. And that plays out in everything:

•   Holiness in your speech: no gossip, no deception.

•   Holiness in your business: fairness, integrity.

•   Holiness in your relationships: faithfulness, boundaries.

•   Holiness in your worship: reverence, not casual familiarity.

•   It’s comprehensive. It touches every inch of life.

Leviticus 20 closes out the parasha by repeating the same idea in a slightly different form: “You are to be holy to Me, for I, Adonai, am holy, and have set you apart from the peoples, so that you would be Mine” (Lev 20:26 TLV).

That is covenant language. Ownership language. Identity language. You don’t pursue holiness to become God’s people. You pursue holiness because you already are His.

So here’s the reality: holiness is not optional for the believer. It’s not extreme. It’s not reserved for the “super spiritual.” It is the expected outcome of walking in covenant with a holy God. And if we’re honest, this is where the struggle is. Not in understanding holiness, but in actually living it out consistently. Because holiness will always confront areas we’d rather leave alone.

But that’s exactly the point. God doesn’t call us to selective holiness. He calls us to comprehensive holiness, because He is comprehensively holy. So the question Acharei Mot–Kedoshim forces on us is simple and uncomfortable: Where in my life am I trying to draw near to God without actually aligning with His holiness?

Because Torah doesn’t allow that disconnect, and neither does Messiah. Holiness is not the barrier to intimacy with God. It is the pathway.

The Lightness of Grace

Parashat Tazria-Metzora

‍Parashat Tazria-Metzora, Leviticus 12:1-15:33

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

‍ ‍

Seeing the Whole Person‍ ‍

In this week’s Torah portion, Tazria-Metzora, we encounter the person afflicted with tzara’at, a skin condition that brings not only physical suffering but also deep social isolation. The Torah instructs that the afflicted individual be brought to the Kohen for examination, and then later for re-examination. The repetition invites a deeper question. What, exactly, is the Kohen meant to see?‍ ‍

Already, the tradition pushes us beyond a surface reading. The halakhic midrash teaches that the priest must examine not only the affliction but also the person himself (Sifra, Tazria, Parashah 5). The Kohen is not simply diagnosing a condition. He is encountering a human being.‍ ‍

Rabbi Yehoshua of Kutno deepens this insight, teaching that the Kohen must see the whole person, not merely the outward affliction. This requires a kind of spiritual imagination, the ability to look beyond visible brokenness and perceive the wholeness that still resides within. The Kohen’s role is not merely diagnostic but restorative. Healing begins with seeing rightly.‍ ‍

And this calling is not limited to the Kohanim of old. It is a calling that rests upon all of us.‍ ‍

The Power to Transform

In the Besora of Luke, chapter 14, verses 1 through 6, Yeshua encounters a man on Shabbat suffering from a debilitating condition at the house of a Pharisee. The man is clearly in need, yet those present, who might have had the authority or ability to respond, remain distant. They choose caution over compassion and judgment over healing.

The tradition itself warns against such distance. “Judge every person on the side of merit” (Pirkei Avot 1:6). To see only the fault is to fail in our moral vision.

‍Yeshua responds differently. He heals the man, and in doing so reveals something essential about the nature of the Kingdom of God. It is not a realm of exclusion but of radical inclusion, a table widened by grace, where even the unexpected and the unwanted are invited in. After all, to restore even one life is to restore an entire world (Sanhedrin 37a).‍ ‍

This same dynamic appears when two blind men cry out to Him, “Have mercy on us, Son of David.” Yeshua does not assume what they need. Instead, He asks, “What do you want Me to do for you?” It is a deeply personal question, one that honors their agency. ‍ ‍

That question continues to echo. Grace is offered freely, but it is not imposed. It invites response.‍ ‍

The Courage to Be Healed‍ ‍

This raises a more difficult truth: Not everyone truly wants to be healed.‍ ‍

In the Gospel of John, chapter 5, Yeshua approaches a man who has been lying near the pool of Bethesda for thirty-eight years and asks him, “Do you want to be healed?” At first glance, the question seems unnecessary. Of course he wants healing. Or perhaps not.

The sages remind us that transformation often requires help beyond ourselves. “A prisoner cannot free himself from prison” (Berakhot 5b). Healing demands not only the possibility of change but the willingness to step into it.‍ ‍

Healing is not only about relief. It is about transformation. It requires letting go of familiar patterns, even when those patterns are painful. It asks us to release identities we have grown accustomed to, even when those identities are shaped by brokenness. To be healed is to risk hope.‍ ‍

There are times when people become so accustomed to the weight they carry that they no longer imagine life without it. They stop seeing themselves as whole. They stop believing that change is possible. And yet grace cannot take root in a heart that is closed to it. It must be received.‍ ‍

The Lightness of Grace‍ ‍

When grace is received, it often feels like a lifting, a release from heaviness long carried. Something shifts within, as though the gravity of the soul has changed.‍ ‍

The rabbinic tradition gives language to this transformation. “Great is repentance, for it can transform even deliberate sins into merits” (Yoma 86b). What once weighed us down can, through grace, become the very ground of renewal.‍ ‍

Grace works in multiple dimensions of our lives. It lifts the burden of guilt by reminding us that we are forgiven. It heals the wound of shame by affirming that we are loved. It strengthens us to change by assuring us that we are capable. And it fills us with gratitude, awakening a sense that we are, indeed, blessed.‍ ‍

A powerful illustration of this transformative grace can be found in the story of Larry Trapp, a former white supremacist who terrorized Jewish communities and people of color. He once sent death threats to Cantor Michael Weisser, filled with hatred and menace.‍

Yet Cantor Weisser responded not with fear or retaliation, but with unexpected kindness. He reached out, left messages of peace, and eventually made contact. Over time, something in Trapp began to break open. He repented. He wept. He allowed himself to be seen differently and to see differently. Before his death, he even embraced Judaism.‍ ‍

Grace did not deny the harm that had been done. But it refused to define the man solely by his worst actions. It saw beyond them toward the possibility of transformation. It saw wholeness before he could see it himself. As the midrash reminds us, the Holy One desires the heart (Midrash Tehillim on Psalm 34).

Rising to the Occasion‍ ‍

To be healed, we must learn to see ourselves as whole, even when we feel broken.‍ ‍

To bring healing to others, we must learn to see them as whole, even when their brokenness is all too visible.‍ ‍

This is what it means to live as a mamlechet kohanim, a kingdom of priests. We are called not to stand at a distance in judgment but to draw near in compassion. We are called to recognize the image of God in the face of the afflicted, to speak words that restore, and to embody the lightness of grace.

The invitation before us is both simple and profound. ‍ ‍

To rise to the occasion.
To become healers.
To live as whole people.
And, in doing so, to become vessels of grace.

‍

Beauty in Distinction

Parashat Shemini

MediaConvert

Parashat Shemini, Leviticus 9:1–11:47

Matthew Absolon, Beth Tfilah, Miramar, FL

This week’s portion, Shemini, presents us with a foundational charge at the heart of Torah life: “You are to distinguish between the holy and the common, between the unclean and the clean, and you are to teach the people of Israel all the statutes that the LORD has spoken to them by Moses” (Leviticus 10:10–11).

This imperative is not confined to the ritual sphere alone; rather, it reflects a broader theological and moral discipline. The life shaped by Torah is at its core a life cultivated in distinction.  

Indeed, the very fabric of creation is woven through acts of distinction. “God separated the light from the darkness” (Genesis 1:4). The word “separated” shares the root of the word translated as distinction (בדל). It’s from this same root that we get the word “Havdalah,” meaning “to make distinct/ separate.”

Through the creation story we see that prior to comprehension, there is order; prior to beauty, there is separation. Distinction, therefore, ought not to be misconstrued as division, but rightly understood as the necessary condition for harmony. Distinctions, properly held, do not diminish creation—they allow it to flourish, each part bearing its own dignity and purpose.

This insight finds an unexpected parallel in the contemporary field of artificial intelligence. Despite considerable advancement, AI continues to struggle with even the most basic acts of perception; failing to distinguish reliably between a hand and its fingers, or between sky and cloud. Without careful instruction, the world appears to AI as without form and void of meaning.

And if we are honest, we may recognize something of ourselves here. Without the steady guidance of the Torah, the human heart, too, begins to blur what God has made distinct.

Where such distinctions erode, confusion inevitably follows. The categories of light and darkness, holy and common, clean and unclean become increasingly indistinct. When a society relinquishes these boundaries, it does not enter into a realm of greater freedom, but rather into one of deep disorientation.

Nature abhors a vacuum; where the virtue of distinction recedes, the vice of chaos is seldom far behind, waiting to fill the vacuum. 

Yet it must be said with equal care that the distinctions articulated by the Torah are never intended to wound or exclude. Although further on the Lord tells Israel, “I have set you apart . . . to be Mine” (Leviticus 20:26), yet the prophet Isaiah tenderly reminds us, “Let not the foreigner say, ‘The Lord will exclude me’” (Isaiah 56:3). Here we encounter the sacred tension between the particular and the universal; a tension that can only be resolved through the covenantal work of Yeshua and his love filling our hearts. 

Our sages recognized the importance of distinction and taught us to bless the “One who makes creatures different” (meshaneh ha-briyot), affirming that diversity itself is part of the Divine wisdom. Each distinction carries within it a unique dignity. Each person, each animal, each role, reflects a different facet of God’s glory. When these distinctions are honored within a framework of love and covenant, they do not divide us—they deepen our capacity to see one another and to see God more fully.

As we learn the correct distinctions as shown to us by the Torah, may we learn to love each other, not in spite of our distinctions, but because of our distinctions. May we see the unique facet of God’s beauty, distinct in the person sitting right next to us.

Shabbat shalom!

Afikomen—A Passover Symbol of Hope

Passover 5786

Rabbi Barney Kasdan, UMJC President

Oy vey! What tumultuous times we are living in! Right when it seems that we hit a new low, there seems to be another one. Whether it be the troubling war in the Middle East, the shaky economy in the USA, or the increasingly ugly presence of antisemitism, there seems to be no shortage of things to worry about. Many people consequently have hit new lows of anxiety and despair.

This sounds like the perfect time for a Seder! It is always a blessing to gather with family and friends for this most ancient religious observance among humanity. Alongside the delicious dinner is a Seder plate which displays the important reminders of our redemption from slavery. There’s a shank bone of a lamb, recalling the original sacrifice, as well as the bitter herbs and sweet haroset to remind us of both the bitterness of slavery and the sweetness of freedom. There is also a conspicuous container for three pieces of matzah called the Matzah Tash. The more one contemplates this unusual religious element, the more mysterious it becomes.

We could ask, as we do of the various other elements, “What is the meaning of these three separated matzahs in the one container?” In the traditional Haggadah there is no lengthy explanation for this universal custom although it is certainly a vital element of the Seder. One interpretation is that the three pieces of unleavened bread represent our forefathers; Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who are our distinct yet united as one. Another interpretation suggests that perhaps the three matzahs represent the three classes of the Jewish people; Cohen, Levi, and common people of Israel, united is one. While these interpretations are worth considering, there are still more mysterious elements about the Matzah Tash and especially the middle matzah.

Towards the beginning of the Seder, it is the middle matzah which is removed from the Matzah Tash and becomes a special focus of the dinner. Without explanation that middle matzah is broken in half with one half going back into the container while the remaining half becomes a special focus called the Afikomen. This broken matzah is then wrapped up or placed in an afikomen bag and hidden away while all the guests close their eyes. The afikomen will thus remain hidden until the end of the Seder when it makes a surprise return after there is a search for it.

This part of the ceremony leads to more questions. Why the special focus on the middle matzah? Why is Isaac removed and broken? Why would the Levites be hidden away? There are other interpretations that actually make a lot more sense. Rabbi Dr. Ron Wolfson of American Jewish University points out the following:

The step of the Seder where the afikomen is found and redeemed is called Tzafun, literally "hidden." This is a "hiding" which will ultimately be discovered. This is a "hiding" which foreshadows the future. In the future, something now in hiding will make complete that which is now incomplete. This is a foreshadowing of the Messiah, establishing that we not only celebrate the Passover of the past, but the Passover of the future. (The Passover Seder, p. 103)

This interpretation regarding the Messiah resonates with those of us in Messianic Judaism. Messiah is to be broken for our transgressions and buried for a season according to the Tanakh, yet it is predicted that he will also reappear after a short period of time (see Isaiah 53). A careful reading of the New Testament seems to confirm that it was this afikomen that Yeshua shared with his Jewish disciples at that famous last Seder. Although he would be broken at this season, there is great hope, as he would also reappear in resurrection—an event that would change the course of world history to this day. A testimony to this reality is the millions of believers from various tribes and tongues who will be celebrating this resurrection hope during this holiday week, including a significant number of us Jewish Yeshua-followers at our seders.

So, we come to Passover 5786 and the challenges of our current day. We will continue to pray and work for a lasting peace throughout the Middle East. May this Passover be a time of renewal and refreshment with family and friends. May it also be a time of optimism and hope as we contemplate the messianic symbolism of the afikomen. As Yeshua himself affirmed at that last Seder: "In the world you will have tribulation (tzuris) but take heart; I have overcome the world" (Yochanan / John 16:33).