The Shepherd and the Lamb

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, 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, Leviticus 12:1-15:33

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

‍ ‍

Seeing the Whole Person‍ ‍

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

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

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

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

The Power to Transform

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

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

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

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

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

The Courage to Be Healed‍ ‍

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

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

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

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

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

The Lightness of Grace‍ ‍

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rising to the Occasion‍ ‍

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

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

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

The invitation before us is both simple and profound. ‍ ‍

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

‍

Beauty in Distinction

Parashat Shemini, 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.