The Matter of Timing

Parashat Korach

Parashat Korach, Numbers 16:1-18:32

Rachel Martins, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

There is a rhythm to time that only God fully understands.

We measure our days in hours and moments, rushing from one thing to the next, yet the Creator moves with eternal purpose—never late, never early, always perfect. In the noise of life, it is easy to forget that his timing is not only different from ours . . . it is holy. But have you ever stopped to fully think about how God sees and uses time?

Our human minds, though created by him, cannot fully fathom the grandeur and holiness of our Creator. Yet, in His zealous love, He imparts glimpses of Himself through Scripture, Creation, and the love expressed within our community.

When we consider God’s timing, we should also recognize how He works all things for His glory. We see His hand not only in seasons of joy and redemption but also in times of profound sorrow and loss. While it can be difficult to understand how God could use tragedy for His glory, Scripture repeatedly shows that He is able to bring purpose and redemption even from humanity’s darkest moments. History continues to bear witness to this truth. Even in the midst of suffering, God can use seasons of pain to draw His people back to Himself.

In this week’s parasha, timing meets a devastating crossroads between human desire and God’s divine order, law, and boundaries. Korach, along with Dathan, Abiram, and On, rises up against Moses and Aaron, accusing them of going too far. Korach and his followers argue that “all the community is holy,” questioning why Aaron and his sons alone are chosen for the priesthood.

Many commentaries focus on the gravity of this rebellion—how opposing Moses, Aaron, and ultimately God Himself is a serious offense. But have you ever paused to consider where Korach came from? What position did he hold before his rebellion?

Korach was a Levite. According to a midrash in Bemidbar Rabbah 18.3 (some editions number it 18.2), he held a prominent role in carrying the ark with The Ten Commandments, as well as being the third eldest of the great-grandchildren of Levi after Moses and Aaron. He also had great wealth, requiring a caravan of 300 mules just to transport the keys to his treasure house.

In reality Korach could want for nothing, the Lord had provided for him, and yet it wasn't enough.

I would like to imagine that Korach started as someone who was zealous to do what is right in God’s eyes. He carried the ark of the covenant! He was blessed with flocks, herds, and leadership of men.

Yet somewhere along the way, he lost sight of the boundary between himself—a created being—and the eternal, all-knowing holiness of God. Korach seemed unable to recognize his human limitations or the divine order established by the holy Creator.

There is a fine line between pursuing God and attempting to assume a place that is not ours. That line is defined by who God was, who He is, and what He chooses to reveal in His timing.

Korach’s rebellion reminds us how easily jealousy, misunderstanding, and a sense of entitlement can cloud our understanding of God’s will. The phrase, “His timing is perfect,” brings comfort only when we are willing to surrender our own desires, expectations, and frustrations to Him. Korach is an example of the unfortunate consequences of rebellion but yet we discover in the coming chapters there is redemption for his sons (Num 26:11), who write a number of glorious Psalms.

To align ourselves with God’s timeline, we must remain focused on what He has placed before us today. As we await the footsteps of Messiah, we must not allow the busyness or darkness of this world to distract us from God’s eternal perspective of time. Korach did not understand and chose to question why Moses and Aaron were called to be set apart. Instead of stopping and trying to see through God’s vision and timeline he chose to be rebellious. Let us not forget why we are called to be set apart and fully trust in what God has for us even when we cannot see the full timeline.

Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, so that He may lift you up at the appropriate time. Cast all your worries on Him, for He cares for you. Stay alert! Watch out! Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, searching for someone to devour. Stand up against him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same kinds of suffering are being laid upon your brothers and sisters throughout the world. After you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace—who has called you into His eternal glory in Messiah—will Himself restore, support, strengthen, and establish you. All power to Him forever! Amen. (1 Peter 5:6-11 TLV)

Safety First?

Parashat Sh’lach L’cha

Parashat Sh’lach L’cha, Numbers 13:1-15:41

Chaim Dauermann, Brooklyn, NY

Unbelief is a powerful thing. But its power is not always obvious. It does not usually announce itself as rebellion. Often it speaks in a quieter, more respectable voice. It can speak in the voice of caution or pragmatism. It can even sound like love.

I have a young son. Almost every day, we go to a playground near our home, and almost every time we go, he approaches the monkey bars. He sees older and stronger children make their way across them easily. But he is only three years old. He grasps the first bar, swings for a moment, and then drops his little feet back onto the platform and runs off to do something else.

It takes a lot of self control not to help him. It takes even more self control not to forbid him from trying.

When I was a little older than he is, I hurt myself on a set of monkey bars. I fell, hit my head, and needed stitches. So when I see his small hands grasp the bar, I remember the pain and embarrassment from that moment—feelings that somehow still feel close, even forty years later. But I say nothing each time he steps forward, clinging to the bar with his little hands, playfully kicking the air once or twice. I just let him swing.

I am trying not to confuse my reality with his. My fear is not prophetic, and my past injury has nothing to do with his present experience.

Parental caution is not unbelief. And there are times when our kids try to do something crazy and it’s essential to step in. But fear can also borrow the voice of wisdom. It can sound responsible, even as it quietly convinces us that our own anxieties are more trustworthy than God.

Such is the case for the Children of Israel in this week’s parasha. Moses has led them across the wilderness, and they are only one or two days’ journey from the promised land. Twelve spies are sent to scout out the land and bring back a report, but of the twelve, ten come back with bad news. The land is lush, fertile, generous—and also filled with dangers. The frightened spies take the land to be too fearsome for the Israelites to face: “The land through which we have gone as spies is a land that devours its inhabitants, and all the people whom we saw in it are men of great stature” (Num 13:32).

The children of Israel are whipped into a frenzy of grief and fear. “Why has the Lord brought us to this land to fall by the sword, that our wives and children should become victims? Would it not be better for us to return to Egypt?” (Num 14:3).

It’s all too easy to gloss over the fact that this sounds like an utterly reasonable concern. If the land is full of dangers, naturally the welfare of one’s family would be a matter of first importance. It sounds commendable. But is it? Herein lies the problem. The issue here is not whether the danger was real, but that Israel was interpreting this danger as though God were not in the picture. They claim a desire for safety but at the heart is something less altruistic: Fear and lack of trust that God can continue to take care of them. Whether they are focused on their own welfare or that of their children, they are missing the point.

A focus on safety, in the absence of trust in God, can deceive. The Talmud records an interesting perspective on what was meant when the spies said that the land “devours its inhabitants.” The Sages view it this way: That the spies saw death wherever they went—mourning, funerals, things that gave them the impression that life there was difficult and dangerous. Sotah 35a records the words of Rava:

The Holy One, Blessed be He, said: I intended the land to appear to consume its inhabitants for their own good, but they considered this proof that the land was bad. I intended it for their good by causing many people to die there so that anywhere that the spies arrived, the most important of them died, so that the Canaanites would be preoccupied with mourning and would not inquire about them.

What the spies had seen as danger was actually an example of God’s provision, but because they had not viewed the land from the perspective of faith, they interpreted what was good as something bad.

When the Israelites feared for their wives and children, their concerns may have seemed justified and coming from a place of love. But when viewing the land from a position of unbelief, they were unable to interpret what God was doing. They were unable to make an informed decision based on trust and based on God’s own acts of provisions. All they had to go on were their own perceptions and fears, and they failed.

God sees through this, and the older generation bears the consequences of their faithlessness: “But your little ones, whom you said would be victims, I will bring in, and they shall know the land which you have despised. But as for you, your carcasses shall fall in this wilderness” (Num 14:31–32). The faithless Israelites would never live to see the land, while their children would prosper in the very place they had feared.

I’m reminded of an incident in the life of Yeshua. In Mark’s Besorah, we read of a time when the Lord beckoned his disciples to join him in a boat on the Galilee. He says to them, “Let us cross over to the other side.”

And a great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that it was already filling. But He was in the stern, asleep on a pillow. And they awoke Him and said to Him, “Teacher, do You not care that we are perishing?”

Then He arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace, be still!” And the wind ceased and there was a great calm. But He said to them, “Why are you so fearful? How is it that you have no faith?” (Mark 4:37–40)

By this time, they had seen Yeshua cleanse lepers and heal cripples, but they perceived dangers; they thought of themselves rather than remembering his word that he would see them to the other side.

It is good to be concerned with our safety and the safety of those we love. But we cannot allow our concerns to impede our response to something God is trying to do or to show us. Indeed, sometimes God’s directives, when we view them without faith, might seem dangerous. This is why belief is so paramount. Without it, we may not be able to see things clearly at all.

Tomorrow, more than likely, I’ll be at the playground with my son yet again. And yet again, he will approach the monkey bars, grasp onto the first rung, and swing his legs out over the void. It’s more than likely that I’ll feel a familiar anxiety. But I’ll let him play. Not because there is no danger, and not because he will certainly not fall (he may one day) but because fear must not be allowed to become something I hand down to him.

The next generation does not need to inherit our unbelief, they need to learn how to see the world truthfully, and that can only come with faith.

All scripture quotations taken from the NKJV

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.

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