The Lightness of Grace

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

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

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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.

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Beauty in Distinction

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).

Passover Removes the Leaven of Despair

Photo: Yeast spores, Getty Images

Shabbat Hagadol, 5786

Russ Resnik, UMJC Rabbinic Counsel

In synagogues around the world, the sermon for Shabbat Hagadol (the shabbat before Passover) usually focuses on preparations for the holiday ahead. It will doubtless be the same this year, with Shabbat Hagadol coming March 28, but our preparations may need some expansion amidst the current surge of antisemitism throughout Europe and North America.

Passover, of course, is communal, family-oriented, celebrating the great high point of the Jewish story. But Passover entails a personal dimension as well: “In every generation,” says the Haggadah, “a person ought to look on himself as if he came forth from Egypt.” So, preparations for Passover include outward, familial steps—including the well-known (if not so well-loved) tradition of cleansing the home of all leaven or chametz—as well as inward preparation. Guidelines for our preparation are given in the account of the first Passover in Exodus 12.

14 “This day shall be for you a memorial day and you shall keep it as a feast to the Lord; throughout your generations, as a statute forever, you shall keep it as a feast. . . .  18 In the first month, from the fourteenth day of the month at evening, you shall eat matzot until the twenty-first day of the month at evening. 19 For seven days no leaven is to be found in your houses. . . . 20 You shall eat nothing leavened; in all your dwelling places you shall eat matzah. (ESV modified)

Verses 19–20 reiterate two aspects of the preparation: Negative—remove leaven, chametz, from your homes; and Positive—eat unleavened bread, matzah.

Outward preparation, then, includes the removal of chametz, which includes all products containing the five grains of biblical times: wheat, barley, spelt, rye, and oats. In later times Ashkenazi Jews also came to prohibit kitniyot—including legumes, rice, peanuts, and corn—but Sephardic custom permits these. The ban on chametz traditionally includes ownership: chametz products must be discarded, given away, or sold to a gentile (although it’s permissible to buy them back after Passover).

But why do we focus on removal of grain and grain products when the Torah just bans leaven? Because yeast spores are in the air around us and will alight on any grain that’s present and leaven it. Both the Talmud and the B’rit Chadasha speak of leaven as a metaphor for sin or the “evil inclination,” in a deep insight into the pervasiveness of sin and its corrupting nature. This is where preparations for Passover must be personal and inward, as well as outward and communal. When all the chametz is removed from your possession, it’s customary to recite a nullification: “All chametz in my possession [even if I missed it], may it be annulled and made ownerless, like the dust of the earth.” At some point an additional, more personal annulment was added to the prayer:

Just as I have ridden the chametz from my house and all I possess, may it be pleasing in your sight, Lord our God and God of our Fathers, to rid me of the Evil Inclination, and to rid all wickedness from the land (earth).

So, we don’t eat or even own chametz, but we do eat matzah, “the bread of affliction [or humility],” which reminds us that we were once afflicted by sin and death, and only God in his mercy could set us free. Just as we are dependent on bread for our sustenance, we remain humbly dependent on God’s undeserved kindness for our redemption, and we gladly affirm this dependency every Passover.

Paul captures the spiritual implications of both negative and positive, outward and inward, commandments, as he admonishes the Yeshua-followers in Corinth.

For indeed Messiah our Passover was sacrificed for us. Therefore, let us keep the feast, not with old chametz, nor with the chametz of malice and wickedness, but with the matzah of sincerity and truth. (1 Cor 5:7–8 CJB)

Passover this year comes amidst a surge of antisemitic activity throughout Europe and North America. Just this week a despicable act of Jewish hate fell upon us in London, in the early hours of Monday morning. According to combatantisemitism.org, police are “investigating a suspected antisemitic attack after a group of assailants set fire to four ambulances operated by Hatzola Northwest outside a synagogue.”

Hatzola Northwest provides rapid, volunteer-based emergency medical care in the area, operating around the clock and free of charge. Its teams are often first to arrive in critical situations.

The attack did not only destroy vehicles. It directly targeted a Jewish emergency service built to save lives.

Photo: http://combatantisemitism.org

This reprehensible attack is just one example of the current spike in antisemitic activity of which you all are doubtless aware. In response, may I suggest another form of chametz that we must clean out this year? I’m thinking of fear and intimidation. It may be normal to be anxious as we’re bombarded with reports of antisemitic violence. But the Survivors’ Haggadah (published in 1946 for Jews still in European DP camps observing their first Passover after World War II) declares, “The seder is a protest against despair.” We can be aware of the pervasive hatred around us and still clean out the residue of fear and despair that it leaves behind. We can speak up when we hear antisemitic remarks in everyday social settings, in person (always the best); online, although algorithmic silos often hamper real communication; in letters to the editor or governmental figures or whatever public forum is available. We can join protests and rallies out on the street.

The good news is that simply keeping the tradition of Passover in solidarity with the entire Jewish community, both worldwide and right where we live, is itself a vital step in countering antisemitism. We need to be wise in our behavior, but this is no time to keep our Jewishness in the closet. Instead, as the Torah declares in an additional positive command, Remember!

This day shall be for you as a memorial and you shall keep it as a feast to the Lord; throughout your generations, as a statute forever (Exod 12:14 ESV).

Then Moses said to the people, “Remember this day in which you came out from Egypt, out of the house of slavery. . . . (Exod 13:3).

The Haggadah amplifies this whole picture:

In every generation a person ought to look on himself as if he came forth from Egypt.

As it is said: “And you shall tell your son in that day saying, It is because of what the Lord did for me when I came forth from Egypt.” (Exodus 13:8).

It was not only our fathers that the Holy One, blessed be he, redeemed, but us as well he redeemed along with them.

Therefore we are duty-bound to thank, praise, glorify, honor, exalt, extol, and bless him who did for our forefathers and for us all these miracles. He brought us forth from slavery to freedom, anguish to joy, mourning to festival, darkness to great light, subjugation to redemption, so we should say before him, Hallelujah!  

This, my friends, is proper remembrance. “The seder is a protest against despair.” That’s exactly right today in the spring of 2026, as we remember through retelling and reliving the story of our deliverance from Egypt, and our deliverance from bondage and despair through the resurrection of Messiah Yeshua during this very season.

So, as we prepare for Passover in the year of 5786, we can prepare in rejoicing and hope, because Messiah our Passover has been sacrificed for us. “Therefore, let us keep the feast, not with old chametz, nor with the chametz of malice and wickedness, but with the matzah of sincerity and truth.”

The Call to Connection

Parashat Vayikra: Leviticus 1:1–5:26

Ben Volman, UMJC Canadian Regional Director

The closing sentences of Exodus are like the finale of a great symphony. The epic story of Israel transformed into a nation united with God in the covenant at Mount Sinai concludes with a thunderclap of visible divine power. The Tabernacle, where Israel is meant to fully experience and sustain their new relationship with God, is so filled with the Presence of the Lord that Moshe is unable to enter. There is a further note concerning this Presence, that Israel would not move until they were led by the cloud “throughout all their journeys” (Exod 40:36).

In contrast, the opening of Leviticus, which begins at the moment when Exodus concludes, can seem mysteriously subtle and poetically crafted. Vayikra el-Moshe vaydaber Adonai elav (“Now Adonai called to Moshe and spoke to him,” v. 1). The opening word of the text brings us back to that familiar yet unique call that Moses first heard at the burning bush. According to Rashi, the sound of this call can be compared to the voices “that ministering angels employ.” Nachmanides describes the call as a word of “affection and endearment” to his servant and, by extension, to all those who respond to its message.

Israel remains camped at the foot of Mt. Sinai and goes no further in the pages of Leviticus. Yet Vayikra is a call for Israel under the cloud of the Presence to take a personal journey into the depths of God’s wellspring of chesed v’shalom, lovingkindness and peace. As Nachmanides suggests, it is God’s caring invitation for all who entered the covenant at Sinai to draw close in worship, prayer, and obedience to his word. The invitation is openly addressed to “adam,” properly translated as “anyone.” Men and women alike are welcome; despite their hesitations from failure, broken relationships, sin and shame, they will be received with respect and dignity. Despite the overwhelming details of the sacrifices, the purpose was to remove the barriers between us and our Creator.

Our modern concept of a sacrifice is usually focused on the value of what we’ve given or given up. Here, the word for offering, korban, is derived from the root karav, which means “close” or “near.” The korban brings us near with the purpose of showing reverence or paying homage. The material value of the offering is not important. This act of drawing near must also take place in the heart of the worshiper, coming with the right intentions and attitudes. As the psalmist writes, “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit. / A broken and a contrite heart, O God, / You will not despise” (Psa 51:19).

Leviticus begins by describing voluntary offerings or gifts from anyone who has a need or impulse to seek God, whether one had completed a vow, sought help in times of distress, or wished to celebrate in gratitude. The first offering described here is the olah or burnt offering. Olah, meaning “to ascend,” reflects the distinctive aspect of sacrifices on the altar which rise to heaven as smoke. It is completely consumed on the altar and represents the unreserved devotion of one who comes to worship. This is the offering that Noah gave after the flood and that Abraham brought after the binding of Isaac. The offering was a healthy, domesticated animal “without defect” from one’s herds or flocks, but if one could not afford this, an inexpensive bird or fowl was sufficient. If one was utterly reduced in poverty, even a handful of flour would suffice.

The worshiper would be received by the priest in order to understand their reasons for coming and then have them lay their hands on the offering. The Hertz Chumash comments that no offering would be made in silence and from the beginning the priests must have required prayer and confession with the “laying on of hands.” Walter Brueggemann suggests that we may be hearing the voices of these confessions in the penitential psalms, such Psalms 6, 32, 51, and 130.

In his commentary on the sin offerings in Leviticus, Nachmanides tells us there is to be a complete identification with the sacrifice as a substitute: a life given for our life, which would not be spared “were it not for the lovingkindness of the Creator.” Afterwards, blood of the offering is poured out for the priest, who completes the necessary preparations for atonement. The principle is stated in Leviticus 17:11: “For the life of the creature is in the blood . . . it is the blood that makes atonement.” Depending on the era in which the sacrifice took place, blood was applied either to the horns of the altar or literally splashed on the corners of the altar covering every direction. In either case, the symbolic meaning is beautifully reflected in Psalm 103:12: “As far as the east is from the west / so far has He removed our transgressions from us.” 

When Walter Bruegemann describes our innate awareness of the distance between humanity and a holy God, he recalls the famous image from Michelangelo’s painting of the Creation. God and Adam are reaching out to each other with fingers extended but not touching. “In Israel, however, unlike the Sistine Chapel,” he notes, “they do make contact!”  

The assurance of atonement, the full reconciliation between the worshiper and their Creator, is the most powerful aspect of these passages in Leviticus. Our inward journey is complete because the barriers that have separated us from God and also from one another are lifted. Voluntary offerings to provide personal restoration with others are described in Leviticus chapter 3 as shelamim. The word is variously translated as “peace,” “thanksgiving,” or “well-being” offerings. They began with the same rituals as the burnt offering, but only a small piece of the sacrifice was placed on the altar. Apart from the portion due to the priest, the rest was shared as a solemn celebratory meal shared by one’s family and invited guests as an act of community reconciliation. 

It is unfortunate that the spiritually rich message of Leviticus has largely been lost in an age longing for connection. Lori Gottlieb, who writes an advice column for the New York Times, Ask the Therapist, receives thousands of letters each week from people who feel too isolated to turn elsewhere. She has come to understand that in this age of constant digital connections there is a deep dissatisfaction. Most of those questions, she says, convey the same essential need: “How do I connect? And how do I feel seen, heard, understood, valued, and respected?”

During these challenging times, most of us are overwhelmed by floods of information and social media that distract us from following our hearts to make those needed spiritual inward journeys. Let’s recall our ancestors who were ascending up to the Temple with their offerings and probably carried in their hearts emotions and struggles similar to those we are feeling now as they sang from Psalm 130:

Out of the depths I cry to You, Adonai!
Lord, hear my voice!
Let Your ears be attentive to the sound of my supplications.
If You, Adonai, kept a record of iniquities—
my Lord, who could stand?
For with You there is forgiveness,
so You may be revered.
I wait for Adonai, my soul waits,
and in His word I hope. . . .
He will redeem Israel
  from all its iniquities. (Psa 130:1-5, 8)

All Scriptures citations are from the TLV.

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Our Noise and God’s Music

Photo: The Vineyard Gazette - Martha's Vineyard News

Parashat Vayakhel-Pekudei, Exodus 35:1–40:38

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann

Shuvah Yisrael Messianic Congregation, Plainview, New York 

Yeshua warned us that toward the time of the end, we would hear of wars and rumors of wars, but that we should see to it we are not alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come (see Matthew 24:8).  

As a musician, I like how Yeshua mentions the faculty of hearing in this statement. Years ago, in his splendid Songs of Heaven, Bible teacher Robert A. Coleman reminded us that there are fourteen songs in the Book of Revelation. And I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that when all is said and done all humanity and all creation will sing together in perfect harmony.  

But until then, our ears are bothered by too much tinkling brass and clanging cymbals (1 Cor 13). Still, from time to time, even when historical forces do not always sing in unison, sometimes we find things harmonizing, a foretaste of better things to come.

Our parasha portrays a rarely seen and crucial harmony between divine desire and human motivation. It is a harmony between the exterior — the expressed will of God, and the interior — the heart and will of human beings. This harmony portrayed in Torah reaches its crescendo in the blessings of the New Covenant, and its final cadence in the world to come.

Look with me at our passage as it repeatedly portrays the interplay between the exterior commands of God and the interior will and heart of humankind. In Sh’mot/Exodus 35 we read of “the things that Adonai has ordered you to do” (v. 2), chiefly taking up a collection that Adonai has ordered (v. 4), with all the craftsmen making all that Adonai has ordered. The outcome was: “Every man and woman of the people of Isra’el whose heart impelled him to contribute to the work Adonai had ordered through Moshe brought it to Adonai as a voluntary offering” (v. 29).

And in this last verse we see the harmony that appears repeatedly in the text, between the external orders (commandments, demands of God), and people’s internal motivations. The respondents to God’s will do so out of inner motivation, referred to as “anyone whose heart makes him willing” (v. 5); “Everyone whose heart stirred him and everyone whose spirit made him willing” (v. 20); “Both men and women came, as many as had willing hearts” (v. 20);  “All the women who were skilled at spinning got to work and brought what they had spun, the blue, purple and scarlet yarn and the fine linen. Likewise, the women whose heart stirred them to use their skill spun the goat’s hair. The leaders brought the onyx stones and the stones to be set for the ritual vest and the breastplate” (vv. 25–27). The final verse in this section brings together the outer factor (God’s order), and the inner factors (people’s hearts and spirits impelled and stirred), saying, “Thus every man and woman of the people of Isra’el whose heart impelled him to contribute to any of the work [the interior] Adonai had ordered through Moshe brought it to Adonai [the exterior] as a voluntary offering [the interior again!]” (Exod 35:29).

The offering was voluntary and yet there was something more at work, something beyond simple human response to the orders given by Hashem. What was the added factor that accounted for all this harmony?

We find out in the verses that follow:

30 Moshe said to the people of Isra’el, “See, Adonai has singled out B’tzal’el the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Y’hudah. 31 He has filled him with the Spirit of God — with wisdom, understanding and knowledge concerning every kind of artisanry. 32 He is a master of design in gold, silver, bronze, 33 cutting precious stones to be set, woodcarving and every other craft. 34 [Adonai] has also given him and Oholi’av the son of Achisamakh, of the tribe of Dan, the ability to teach others. 35 He has filled them with the skill needed for every kind of work, whether done by an artisan, a designer, an embroiderer using blue, purple and scarlet yarn, and fine linen, or a weaverthey have the skill for every kind of work and design. (Exod 35:30–35)

It is the Spirit of God who coordinates the outer and the inner, the divine command with the inner desire expressed freely in generosity, in creativity, and in skill.

If you look for them, you will find references to this holy interplay elsewhere in the Bible. I find its most elegant iteration in this passage from Paul’s letter to the Philippians:

Therefore, my loved ones, just as you have always obeyed — not only in my presence, but now even more in my absence—work out your salvation with fear and trembling.  For the One working in you is God — both to will and to work for His good pleasure. (Phil 2:12–13 TLV)

Here we hear the music of the inner and the outer working together in perfect harmony as orchestrated by the Spirit of God.

It is the Spirit who guarantees and achieves this beautiful harmony between the outer demands of God and the inner responses of people.

If we look and listen around us, what we will hear is often tinkling brass and clanging cymbals, wars and rumors of wars. But in the midst, another sound vies for our attention, the Son of Man knocking at our door. If we will but open the door and bid him enter, we will, in his Spirit, make beautiful music together.

Unless otherwise noted, Scripture references are from Complete Jewish Bible (CJB).

Lingering in the Tent

Parashat Ki Tisa, Exodus 30:11-34:35

Chaim Dauermann, Brooklyn, NY

As a congregational leader, I am often asked questions pertaining to belief. People want to know the biblically correct perspective on eschatology, salvation, the nature of God, and any number of other things. I am always happy to answer these questions to the best of my ability. To be honest, it’s far less frequently that I’m asked more practical questions: How should I live? What should I do? What sort of person should I strive to be? The deeper I get into my walk with Yeshua, the more often I find myself meditating on this latter category of questions, although never at the expense of questions of belief. Perhaps this is why I love the yearly cycle of readings through the Torah. Each week is a fresh opportunity to bring our questions to the text, and each week we are left with practical answers ready to be applied.

This week, our parasha sees much drama, with the incident of the Golden Calf and its consequences occupying the bulk of the narrative. But between the giving of the first set of tablets and the second, we are treated to an aside that proves intriguing. Moses, it is said, “used to take the tent and pitch it outside the camp, far off from the camp, and he called it the Tent of Meeting” (Exodus 33:7). When Moses would enter the tent, the Lord would descend in a pillar of cloud, and there “Adonai spoke with Moses face to face, as a man speaks with his friend.” Now comes the intrigue: “Then he would return to the camp, but his servant Joshua, the son of Nun, a young man, did not leave the Tent.”

What was Joshua doing in the tent? And why would he remain after Moses departed? No other details about this are given. In fact, relatively little personal detail is given about Joshua before the mantle of leadership passes to him from Moses. Thus, for lack of other material, the Sages infer much about Joshua’s character from this small detail at Exodus 33:11.

Rabbi Yonatan explains: The Holy One, Blessed be He, saw Joshua and observed that the words of Torah were very precious to him, as it is stated: “And the Lord spoke to Moses face-to-face . . . and his servant Joshua, son of Nun, a young man, did not depart from the Tent.” The Holy One, Blessed be He, said to Joshua: Joshua, are the words of Torah so precious to you? I bless you that “this Torah scroll shall not depart from your mouth.” Menachot 99b

This is but one of many places in the traditional literature where the Sages portray Joshua’s remaining in the Tent as an indicator of his zeal for Torah. And, in citing Joshua 1:8 here (“this Torah scroll shall not depart from your mouth”) this zeal becomes connected with God’s commissioning of Joshua for leadership.

For the Sages, also in view is Joshua’s zeal for serving his master, Moses:

“The guardian of a fig tree will eat its fruit” (Proverbs 27:18) – your sons sat idly and did not engage in Torah study. Joshua served you very much and accorded you great honor, and he would come early and stay late at your house of assembly. He would arrange the benches and spread the mats. Because he served you with all his might, he is worthy of serving Israel, as he will not be deprived of his reward. Bamidbar Rabbah 21:14

Why was Joshua chosen to lead Israel after the death of Moses? Consider that the leadership of Bnei Yisrael had been a family affair throughout the wilderness years. With Moses, Aaron, and Miriam all ministering to the needs of the nation, it was not unreasonable to wonder what qualified Joshua, a man of no direct familial relation, for the role. For the Sages, the answer is clear: Joshua’s love of God’s commandments, and of his teacher Moses, qualified him to lead others.

In the Brit Chadashah, there’s an unexpected connection to be found. Matthew’s gospel points us subtly back to this situation with Joshua, even as it points us forward in showing how disciples of Yeshua ought to walk. At the end of his account, Matthew preserves for us what has come to be known as the “Great Commission.”

And Yeshua came up to them and spoke to them, saying, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to Me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, immersing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Ruach ha-Kodesh, teaching them to observe all I have commanded you. And remember! I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” Matthew 28:18–20.

Commentators typically place their emphasis on the “sending” element of this passage—that the disciples are being enjoined to reach the world with the Good News of Yeshua. Less often do we see emphasis on the second part of Yeshua’s instructions. But in this part, we hear an echo of a previous text. If we are mindful that Matthew frames his account to emphasize Yeshua as a “new Moses,” then the parallels between Yeshua’s final instructions to his disciples and God’s commissioning of Joshua (in Joshua 1) become rather striking. God gives Joshua the imperative to go forth to a new place (verse 2); this imperative is given on the basis of authority (verse 3); Joshua is instructed to embody the commandments of God in word and deed (verses 7 and 8) and is promised that God will be with him wherever he goes (verse 9).

If we allow the words of the Sages to inform our interpretation of these two parallel passages, a fuller pattern begins to emerge. While Matthew’s Great Commission echoes Joshua’s commissioning in Joshua 1, the Sages remind us that Joshua’s calling didn’t begin there—it began in the Tent of Meeting, where his devotion to Torah and to Moses were on display.

In applying the Great Commission to ourselves as Yeshua’s disciples, it may not be enough for us to think of ourselves as receiving these words as would the apostles. If it was Matthew’s intent to portray the apostles as Joshuas to Yeshua’s Moses, then our own marching orders become ever clearer, and the wisdom of the Sages suddenly takes on a more personal tone. When I read Exodus 33:11 through this lens this week, I asked myself: “Am I, like Joshua, inclined to linger in the Tent of Meeting? Are the words of the Torah precious to me? Do I desire to serve Yeshua very much, and do I come early and stay late in the house of his assembly? Do I serve him with all of my might?”

The Scriptures and the words of the Sages inquire of us. And Yeshua calls us daily. Let them find us lingering in the Tent.

All Scripture quotations are taken from the TLV.

Do Not Forget

Megillat Esther, Scroll of Esther. theTorah.com

A D’var Torah for Tetzaveh and Zachor

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

The Torah portion for this week, Tetzaveh (Exodus 27:20-30:10), literally means “you shall command,” and it conveys the most imperative sense of divine instruction. It continues God’s detailed directions for the building and operation of the Mishkan, the unique sanctuary in which Hashem promises to dwell with Israel during our travels through the wilderness. It represents far more than a temporary structure to occupy or instruct the people along a difficult journey. Rather, it becomes the sacred meeting place where heaven and earth touch, and where Israel learns who we are and why we exist.

The precision with which the Holy One commands Israel through Moses suggests that the Mishkan reflects nothing less than the completion of creation itself. Just as Genesis describes God bringing order out of chaos, so here every measurement, material, and detail is carefully ordered. Nothing is accidental. Every board, every vessel, every half cubit matters. The sages even observed that the language of the Mishkan echoes the language of creation, teaching that the sanctuary functions as a miniature world, a microcosm of creation (Midrash Tanchuma, Pekudei 2). In this way, Israel is invited to participate in finishing what began in Eden by preparing a dwelling place for the Divine Presence.

This portion gives instructions concerning the incense, the altar, the menorah, and the vestments of the kohanim, Israel’s priestly legacy. If one were to borrow theatrical language, the Mishkan resembles a sacred drama. The mood, the lighting, and the costumes are prepared with intention. Hashem is the author and producer; Moses directs; Aaron and his sons serve; and Israel becomes the cast. For nearly forty years, day after day, our ancestors enacted a traveling testimony that through sacrifice and kavanah (intentional prayer and devotion) the Glory of Hashem could be brought into this world and the light of Olam HaBa (the Age Come) could illuminate ordinary life, as we see when the cloud fills the Tabernacle at the end of Exodus.

Yet the Torah does not romanticize the story. Like all human endeavors, the drama of the Mishkan is complicated by human frailty. The performers forget their lines. Nadav and Avihu bring “strange fire” (Lev 10:1). Korach competes for a role that was never his (Num 16:1–3). The people grumble and lose heart. Again and again, they forget why they are there. They forget that they were called to be a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. Their lives were meant to serve God, creation, and humanity, not themselves.

That theme of forgetting leads directly into the second reading of the week. When Tetzaveh coincides with Shabbat Zachor, the Sabbath of Remembrance, we read the maftir portion that precedes Purim:

Remember what Amalek did to you on the way when you came out of Egypt … you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. You shall not forget. (Deut 25:17–19)

At a historical level, the connection is clear. Haman, the antagonist of the Purim story, is a descendant of Amalek, and both sought Israel’s destruction through treachery. Yet the commandment is deeper than history alone. The Gemara teaches that we must remember Amalek with the mouth and not forget in the heart (Megillah 18a). Remembrance is therefore not merely intellectual. It is verbal and emotional. We speak the memory aloud and we internalize it so that our hearts develop a moral revulsion toward cruelty and evil. The Sefer HaChinuch explains that this mitzvah trains the soul to resist wickedness wherever it appears.

Amalek thus becomes more than an ancient nation. Amalek symbolizes spiritual fatigue and doubt. Rashi, citing the Midrash, says that Amalek “cooled off” Israel’s awe after the Exodus, weakening our sense of wonder and trust. Amalek attacked the stragglers, the weary and distracted, those who had fallen behind. The message is clear. When we lose focus, when we grow complacent, when we forget who we are, we become vulnerable.

This is precisely what the Mishkan was designed to prevent. The daily offerings, the priestly garments, the lamps, the incense, and the rhythms of worship continually rehearse Israel’s identity. They train the heart to remember. Tetzaveh establishes a liturgy of sacred purpose, and Zachor warns us what happens when memory fades. Together they teach that holiness requires intentional remembrance.

For Messianic believers, these themes reach their fulfillment in Yeshua. The New Covenant presents him as both Kohen and offering, the greater High Priest who ministers in the heavenly sanctuary, as described in Hebrews. Yochanan writes that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, literally “tabernacled” among us. The Mishkan points forward to the ultimate dwelling of God with humanity. At his final meal Yeshua gives a command that echoes Zachor itself, “Do this in remembrance of me.” Once again, memory becomes covenant faithfulness embodied in action.

If Amalek represents forgetfulness, Messiah restores remembrance. If the wilderness generation forgot their lines, we are called to rehearse them daily. Build the sanctuary. Light the lamps. Guard the heart. Remember the calling placed upon us.

Parashat Tetzaveh and Shabbat Zachor together offer a simple but urgent charge. Remember who you are. Remember whom you serve. Remember why you were redeemed. And do not forget.

The Gift is More Than Giving

Parashat Terumah, Exodus 25:1-27:19

Mary Haller, Tikvat Israel Synagogue, Richmond VA

Our portion begins with a request from Adonai to his beloved servant Moses.

Adonai spoke to Moses saying, “Tell Bnei-Yisrael to take up an offering for Me. From anyone whose heart compels him you are to take My offering.” Exodus 25:1-2 TLV

Let’s not forget, at the time of this request Moses was in the presence of Adonai on Mount Sinai. Following the request was a detailed list of specific items (verses 3-7) the people could offer. The items were to be used to construct a Sanctuary, a travel-worthy dwelling place for Adonai among his people. Keep in mind the people were traveling in the desert. All their belongings were precious and limited to what they had at the time. Since they were traveling to a new land yet unknown to them, replacing anything they would contribute to this project would not be easy, in some cases even impossible. The Israelites responded positively to the request that came from Adonai. We can read in Exodus 36:6–7 the amount of building items brought in was so abundant that Moses had to tell them to stop donating. What a dynamic life lesson for all of us today!  

It is my understanding that the story we are being told points to a deeper offering. The items to be contributed would be precious, perhaps even holding more value than what might normally be attributed to them. Together with the phrase “anyone whose heart compels him,” this put their giving in a noteworthy category. To me it speaks of surrendering things we value, precious and perhaps even irreplaceable items. 

The gift they were being asked to contribute would require each individual to elevate something/someone far above their own selves. It is important for us today remember that the people Israel were in the process of experiencing freedom from the bondage they suffered for a very long season.   

Like the people in Moses’ time, we to are in the process of experiencing our own new freedom. As humans we are often held captive to physical desires and expectations of success. According to 1 Corinthians 6:19-20, our human bodies are the temple for the Ruach of God to dwell. So how do we proceed to make the space, so to speak, for Adonai’s Ruach to be present within our human bodies?  

In Moses’ day the heartfelt donations were used to construct a special place for Adonai to dwell with his people as they continued on their journey. Unlike in Moses’ time our individual building project is more spiritual and emotional than physical. Instead of giving precious materials to construct a physical dwelling we are in process of learning to live less for our own worldly successes and physical desires and more to become one with the Ruach of God. Today our freedom comes as we desire to become the person we were designed to be for him within our human community. 

In opening our hearts and life with giving to, rather than taking from others, we cultivate the practice referred to as Terumah in Exodus 25:2—generous giving out of piety with a deep regard for ethics. This selfless giving is what Adonai wanted his dwelling place with his people to be fashioned from. It is not just giving of what we have to others. It is not just serving in our communities, is giving beyond what we have, it is giving beyond what we know can be replaced.  

An example of totally heartfelt selfless giving is donating a kidney while we are still alive. The act of giving has to come from a deep place of our surrendered self. The part of us that is no longer our own, the part of our being that belongs to Adonai. 

For through the law I died to the law, so that I might live for God. I have been crucified with Messiah; and it is no longer I who live, but Messiah lives in me. And the life I now live in the body, I live by trusting in Ben-Elohim—who loved me and gave Himself up for me. I do not nullify the grace of God—for if righteousness comes through Torah, then Messiah died for no reason. Galatians 2:20-21 TLV 

Practicing a life of giving without expecting to receive anything in return is a journey, one that begins when we first honestly seek to know the Creator of the Universe, when we begin to learn there is more to life than what we see and hear in the physical realm.  

The more we desire to know Adonai the more we begin to distinguish his voice from our human thoughts. In following the inner voice we become more like Moses who heard the voice in the cloud. We too can touch the lives of those around us as we respond in heartfelt obedience to love others.

I have come to know this life is a life of freedom from the expectations of the world around us. We are no longer tethered to human nature and human ego. It is no longer what I want, but rather, “Lord what would you have me do today to bless your creation, what can you do through your Ruach that you have placed with in me to touch the lives of those around me?”

Galatians 2:20–21 describes this way of living as the exchanged life. A life dwelling in the space with the Ruach of our God. Not as slaves to our flesh but as created beings who choose to surrender to the life we have been given, to serve as a dwelling place for the Ruach’s holiness. A life that is willing to have the Ruach’s love, peace, mercy, grace and goodness flow freely from us to touch others.

Our individual lives become like the traveling dwelling-place of Moses’ day. Individually we give our lives as pieces of the building for all people to benefit from the Holy Presence.

This concept may not be easy to understand. I do believe this life of heartfelt giving has the potential to be the greatest journey of all time. As we give to live, our hope is that others will begin to recognize the goodness of Adonai through us. They too will want to draw near to the Cloud of Glory Moses experienced.

Growing New Shells

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1–24:18

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

Parashat Mishpatim refuses to remain in the realm of ideals. It moves deliberately into the pressurized spaces of human life: unpaid debts that threaten freedom, injuries that demand accountability, power imbalances between masters and servants, lenders and borrowers, judges and the judged. It deals with animals attacking neighbors, negligence destroying livelihoods, the poor pawning their cloaks to survive the night. The Torah does not look away from exploitation, retaliation, or the quiet cruelty of indifference. Instead, it legislates restraint, responsibility, and mercy. It addresses us not at our best, but at our most strained—insisting that justice, compassion, and holiness must take root precisely where life is hardest to live.

None of us is exempt from this fragility. Jobs are lost. Relationships fracture. Power is abused. We are all, at times, exposed to forces beyond our control. The Torah does not look away from these pressures. It addresses us within them, summoning us to become more fully human precisely where life weighs heaviest.

When we first moved to Ann Arbor, more than forty years ago, there was a Chinese restaurant near the mall with a giant lobster in a tank in its foyer. The creature was nearly three feet long and must have weighed close to twenty pounds. No one knew for sure how old it was; they simply guessed—perhaps seventy-five years, give or take.

So why am I talking about lobsters and what does it have to do with our parasha?

Stress as a Signal

One of my favorite writers is Rabbi Dr. Abraham Twerski, a psychiatrist who did a lot of work in AA. He is an author of around eighty books. He spent his life helping people confront addiction, suffering, and despair without being crushed by them. He had a gift for translation: taking the language of psychology and rendering it into human speech. One day, while sitting in a dentist’s office, Twerski read a Nature magazine article about lobsters molting. He learned that a lobster grows until its shell becomes painfully tight. The pressure does not merely irritate; it confines. Eventually, the lobster cannot function as it once did. So it retreats under a rock, sheds the shell that once protected it, and begins—slowly, vulnerably—to form a new one. 

Lobsters actually never stop growing. But growth comes at a cost. Over the course of a lifetime, a lobster may molt twenty or more times. Some eventually reach forty pounds. To watch a lobster molt—many of us have seen the footage—is unsettling. The creature splits its shell and crawls out of itself. For a time, it is soft, exposed, defenseless. The scene looks less like biology and more like a moment from a science‑fiction film.

In reading this article, Rabbi Twerski realized that this is a metaphor for us experiencing stress, pain, and life challenges. He summarized the insight with characteristic clarity:

The stimulus for the lobster to be able to grow is to feel uncomfortable. Times of stress are signals for growth, and if we use adversity properly, we can grow through adversity. (“On Responding to Stress,” https://youtu.be/3aDXM5H-Fuw?si=w9zDZ1tm-JY77veP)

The lobster has no choice but to grow or die. We, however, are burdened with the freedom to ignore the signal. We can choose to inhabit a shell that has become a coffin. Through the narcotics of consumption and the relentless hum of the screen, we attempt to silence the ache of our own expansion. But the discomfort is a messenger. It announces that the world we inhabit has grown too small for the soul that God is calling forth.

Yet the call placed before us is different. To listen rather than to numb ourselves. To recognize discomfort as a signal, not a threat. To seek clarity and deeper self‑awareness instead of fleeing the pain that is asking something of us.

Stress, then, is not simply an enemy to be defeated. It is a message. It tells us that something in us no longer fits the world we are inhabiting—or that the world is demanding a larger self than the one we have been living from.

When the Shell No Longer Fits

It is difficult to deny that we are living in such a moment. We wake, reach for our phones, and are struck—sometimes literally in the gut—by the weight of what is happening in our country and across the world. Conflict multiplies. Fear hardens. Moral shock and exhaustion has become a way of life.

Like the lobster, we experience pressure not because something has gone wrong, but because something has changed. Our familiar ways of coping—our habits, assumptions, reflexes, even our inherited theologies—may no longer stretch far enough to contain the present moment. What once protected us can begin to suffocate us.

Like lobsters, to grow we need to molt over and over again throughout our lives.

Pirkei Avot 5:23 gives this truth a blunt voice through Ben Hei Hei: “According to the pain is the gain.”

Pain here is not romanticized. It is acknowledged. But it is not meaningless. Discomfort is often the signal that growth is being demanded of us.

The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidism, taught in a similar spirit: adversity doesn't have to be an obstacle to spiritual life; it can become its instrument—if we allow it.

Vulnerability Under the Rock

When a lobster molts, it is at its most vulnerable. Without a shell, it is exposed to predators. That is why it hides under a rock. Growth does not happen in the open sea.

This matters for us.

Growth requires vulnerability, and vulnerability is frightening. Many people today feel raw, stripped of the protections they once relied upon. 

Yet vulnerability, painful as it is, can also become the place where resilience is formed, where faith deepens, where compassion is born—not as an idea, but as a necessity.

The lobster does not molt alone in the open ocean. It seeks shelter. So too, in times of spiritual and emotional molting, we are called to seek refuge—in trusted friendships, in family, in congregations and communities that can hold us when we are soft and unarmored.

For me, as I struggle in these disturbing world events, the liturgy has become my rock, my safe haven, where I can rest and recuperate. 

Retreat is not failure. It is preparation.

Prayer, reflection, and care for the soul are not luxuries in such times. They are the conditions that make renewal possible.

The Rock Beneath Us

Scripture presses the metaphor further still. All throughout the Torah and Besorah, Hashem is called our Rock.  The rock beneath which the lobster hides can point beyond human shelter to divine refuge.

Psalm 18 declares:

The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.

This image courses through the veins of Jewish memory. In the shadows of the Crusades—a time of visceral terror—the authors of Maoz Tzur, which we sing during Chanukah, did not reach for a language of comfort, but for a “Rock of Salvation.” Their praise was an act of defiance. They recalled the ancestral molting—the narrow escapes from Egypt, Babylon, and Persia—not as ancient history, but as evidence that the soul can survive the shattering of its old world:

Rock of my salvation, to You it is fitting to give praise.
Restore my House of prayer,
And there I will offer thanksgiving.

The middle stanzas remember survival from our oppressors—Egypt, Babylon, Persia, Greece.

The final verse forms an acrostic spelling Chazak—be strong. It is less an encouragement and more a command: Be Strong. It is the call to harden into a new resilience while still sheltered in the Divine. 

Just before the Amidah we echo the same language in Mi Chamocha:

Rock of Israel, arise to the help of Israel.

The Rock of Israel does not offer an escape from the storm, but a foundation beneath the surge. In the shelter of the Rock—in the discipline of prayer and the density of community—we undergo the quiet, agonizing work of becoming new. We do this while the world’s chaos attempts to terrify us into paralysis. We retreat not to hide, but to harden into a resilience that the world cannot shatter.

Building on the Rock

In Matthew 7:24–27, Yeshua’s mashal (parable) regarding foundations strips away the illusion of our own brilliance. When the waters rise and the winds batter the house, the only thing that endures is that which is anchored in the bedrock. Spiritual molting is the terrifying process of releasing the flimsy structures we have built for ourselves—the old that must pass away—to trust that a new creation is being forged on ground that cannot be swept away. Rav Shaul names this transformation plainly:

If anyone is united with the Messiah, he is a new creation—the old has passed; look, what has come is fresh and new. (2 Corinthians 5:17, CJB)

(Just like a lobster with his new shell!)

Ya’akov adds the difficult word we would rather avoid:

Regard it all as joy, my brothers, when you face various kinds of trials; for you know that the testing of your trust produces perseverance. (James 1:2–3, CJB)

Joy here is not cheerfulness. It is the confidence that suffering is not the final author of our lives.

We are summoned to treat our discomfort not as an enemy to be defeated, but as a signal that the shells we have inhabited—our old coping mechanisms, assumptions, and inherited theologies—no longer stretch far enough to contain the demands of the present. To grow, we must allow the pressure to drive us toward the Rock. Like the lobster beneath its stone, we must find the courage to be soft and unarmored, seeking shelter in the Rock of Israel to undergo the agonizing, necessary work of renewal. This is the "testing of our trust" that produces a perseverance more durable than any armor we could forge for ourselves.

May we refuse to numb the ache of our own expansion. May we find the wisdom to retreat into the sanctuary of community and prayer, letting the "old" pass away so that the "new creation" might emerge. Having shed what no longer serves life, let us emerge from the shadows—resilient and unafraid—ready to stand firm even as the testing continues.