Arise and Shine!

Sixth Haftarah of Comfort, Isaiah 60:1-22

Suzy Linett, Devar Shalom, Ontario, CA

“Kumi ori—Arise, shine, for your light has come! The glory of Adonai has risen on you” (Isaiah 60:1). It has been six weeks since Tisha b’Av, since that time of deep mourning for all that has happened to the Jewish people over the centuries, so much of which occurred on that date. This week, we read the sixth of the Seven Haftarot of Comfort, read between Tisha b’Av and Rosh Hashanah, or Yom Teruah, the Day of Trumpet Blast (Leviticus 23:24). We are in the month of Elul, the season of return. We draw near to God and seek forgiveness. We long for that ultimate Day of Trumpet Blast, the sounding of the Shofar, and the coronation of the King of Kings. This week, we are stirred to arise; we are moving from a time of sorrow to a time of glory and great joy. Arise and shine; it’s time to wake up. 

“Rise and shine.” Although I was unfamiliar with this haftarah at the time, these are the words I heard some mornings when I was awakened for a school day. Later, in Jewish summer camp, we sang, “Rise and shine, and give God the glory, glory, children of the Lord.” (Actual origin of the song unknown). It was time to wake up.  

Isaiah 60 is both a prophecy and a command. Throughout scripture, the theme of “arise and shine” repeats. Abram was told to arise, to leave his father’s house, to become Abraham and bring forth the people who would take God’s shining light to the world. In Exodus 34:29–30 we read, “Now it happened, when Moses came down from Mount Sinai . . . Moses did not know that the skin of his face was radiant, because God had spoken with him. When Aaron and all Bnei-Yisrael saw Moses, the skin of his face shone in rays, so they were afraid to come near him.” He had climbed and risen to the top of the mountain to meet with the Lord, and he shone after the experience. After Yeshua ascended the Mount of Transfiguration, with Peter and Jacob and John his brother, “He was transfigured before them; His face shone like the sun, and His clothes became as white as the light” (Matt 17:2). They had climbed, arisen, to the top of that mountain.

The second verse of Isaiah 60 reads, “For behold, darkness covers the earth, and deep darkness the peoples. But Adonai will arise upon you, and His glory will appear over you.” This is reminiscent of Genesis 1:2–3, “Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.” The presence of the Lord brings light. We are to be the ones who bring the light; we are to rise and shine.

The tragedies that occurred over history on the ninth of Av were a result of turning away from God. Our sages taught those events were the result of the bad report brought by the ten spies which resulted in a 40-year wilderness journey (Mishnah Taanit 4.6:3). They did not see the spiritual truth. They did not rise to the occasion and trust the land would be theirs. They did not see that the Lord would shine through the Israelites and overcome the darkness of the pagan tribes living in the land.  

Now, in repentance, it is time to turn towards Him; to return to Him. It is time to turn to His light and to reflect it and take it to the world. Isaiah 60 is a call to wake up and show the glory of the Lord. Israel will shine. Israel is not dead. Israel has not been replaced. Israel will respond to the command, “Kumi Ori.” Israel will “Arise and shine.” 

Arise and shine – wake up and do your best. Arise and shine – get up and get going. Arise and shine – move from darkness to light.

“Nations will come to your light, kings to the brilliance of your rising” (Isaiah 60:3). Nations will come to the light. Nations will come to the Lord through Israel’s light. When diamonds and other gems are first mined, they are rough and uneven stones. They do not look anything like the refined and polished jewels we admire. They are raised from the earth, then must undergo a process of refinement. They must be cut, shaped, and polished. They must be made into shapes that sparkle when they reflect light. They must undergo a process provided by trained gem cutters who work with precision. Isn’t that like us? When we come to the Lord, we are raised into new life, but we must undergo refinement. We must be cut, shaped, and polished through a process, trusting the Lord Who knows how to cut each of us to uniquely shine.  

Throughout history, the Jewish people have been cut. We have been mined, excavated, and elevated. We have been “diamonds in the rough,” a chosen people with great value who have shone throughout the ages. Then, we stumble, we fall. It is as if the diamond slipped from its setting back into the dirt. Then, the Master brings it out again, cleans it off, and sets it out to shine once more.  

We are commanded to wake up, to get up, to move, to shine and give glory to God. Yet it is difficult. How do we shine? “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overpowered it” (John 1:5). We shine in the darkness when we reflect the light of the Lord. We reflect His light when we live as He commands. The journey through the seven weeks from Tisha b’Av to Rosh Hashanah mirrors our walk as we draw closer to the Lord. Messiah Yeshua said, 

You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.  Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a basket. Instead, they put it on a lampstand so it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before men so they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven. (Matt 5:14–16)

During this season we travel towards the Lord in repentance and awe. As we turn towards Him, we see His radiance, His glory, His light. We have His forgiveness, if we only return to Him and seek Him. As we are cleansed, we are chiseled into gems of glory. We recall a promise found in this haftarah.

No more will the sun be your light by day,

nor the glow of the moon be your light,

but Adonai will be your everlasting light,

and your God for your glory.

No more will your sun set,

nor will your moon wane,

for Adonai will be your everlasting light,

as the days of your mourning end. (Isa 60:19–20)

The Lord is available. He is waiting for us to turn to Him. He will shine His light upon us as we seek Him. In his vision of the New Jerusalem, John sees the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy:

I saw no temple in her, for its Temple is Adonai Elohei-Tzva’ot and the Lamb. And the city has no need for the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God lights it up, and its lamp is the Lamb. The nations shall walk by its light, and the kings of the earth bring their glory into it. . . . Night shall be no more, and people will have no need for lamplight or sunlight—for Adonai Elohim will shine on them. And they shall reign forever and ever! (Rev 21:22–24, 22:5)

The King will sit on His throne, He will provide the light, and we will reflect His glory. Wake up! Kumi Ori! Arise and shine! The King is coming!

Scripture references are from the TLV

The Stray Ox and the People of Israel

Parashat Ki Teitzei, Deuteronomy 21:10 – 25:19

Haftarah of Consolation #5: Isaiah 54:1–10

Rachel Wolf, Congregation Beth Messiah, Cincinnati

You shall not see your brother’s ox or his sheep going astray, and hide yourself from them; you shall certainly bring them back to your brother. And if your brother is not near you, or if you do not know him, then you shall bring it to your own house, and it shall remain with you until your brother seeks it; then you shall restore it to him.  (Deut 22:1–2)

A while back I saw an inspiring connection between this rather ordinary (though revolutionary) statute, and a seemingly unrelated section of Hosea. To explain the connection, I will focus on two Hebrew words and also make use of the Jewish literary technique called kal va-chomer, which literally means “light and heavy.”

One type of kal va-chomer appears in midrashic stories that make a teaching point using a commonplace situation most people would readily understand—the “light” part. This point is then used to help us understand something more complicated or far-reaching, perhaps a prophetic scripture or a particular commandment—the “heavy” part. In a kal va-chomer the commonplace story would be compared to the biblical point by saying, If this is true (that is, the moral or point of the commonplace situation), how much more is it true in the “heavy” parallel situation (the prophecy or commandment). 

The Hebrew word in this passage usually translated “going astray” is nidachim (root: נדח, nadach). “If you see your fellow Israelite’s ox [or sheep] straying, do not ignore it but be sure to take it back to its owner” (paraphrase). 

The verb form nadach means “to be thrust forth, impelled; to be expelled, driven out, cast away,” with the noun form nidach meaning “one expelled, driven out, an outcast. The lost ox or sheep that an Israelite may come upon was not merely a wanderer, a stray. These animals were driven from the flock—perhaps by a predator. I checked other references for this word and saw that nadach is most often applied to the people of Israel. Here are just two of many instances:  

Jer. 50:17 – Israel is like scattered sheep; the lions have driven him away.

Ezek 34:16 – I will seek the lost, bring back those driven away.

 (For a word study on nadach go to

 https://bethmessiah.net/rachel-wolf/f/word-study---nidach?blogcategory=Insights+and+Essays.)

We can easily apply this injunction of Torah in Deuteronomy 22:1–2 as a kal va-chomer: If this is true for your fellow Israelite’s oxen or sheep, how much more for your fellow Israelite? If you see your fellow Israelite straying, driven out, scattered or lost, be sure to take him back to his owner. That would be Hashem, the God of Israel himself! 

But the verse continues: “If your brother is not nearby, bring the ox or sheep to your own house until its proper owner seeks it and you shall restore it to him.”  

How does this apply to us, and to our brother Israelite who has been driven from the flock of his God, and how does it apply to the Haftarah portion? Another reading from the Prophets helps us see the connection.

Hosea and the Prostitute

Within the context starting at Hosea 2:14, God commands Hosea to show love to a woman who is a harlot “just like the love of the LORD for the children of Israel” (Hos 3:1). “So I bought her for myself. . . . And I said to her, ‘You shall stay with me many days; you shall not play the harlot, nor shall you have a man—so, too, will I be toward you’” (Hosea 3:2–3). Hosea takes care of the harlot in his own house!

Then God immediately connects this with his ultimate Consolation and Restoration of Israel:

For the children of Israel shall abide many days without king or prince, without sacrifice or sacred pillar, without ephod or teraphim. Afterward the children of Israel shall return and seek the Lord their God and David their king. They shall fear the Lord and His goodness in the latter days. (Hosea 3:4–5)

The kal va-chomer would go something like this: If we are required to treat a stray ox or donkey as our own family member until its owner comes to claim it, how much more are we compelled to love, honor and protect the sons and daughters of Jerusalem until our God returns to redeem Jerusalem?

Haftarah of Consolation #5, Isaiah 54:1-10

This kal va-chomer connects us intimately to this week’s Haftarah of Consolation. Here we see Zion described as a barren and desolate woman, “a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit.”  

There are at least five different Hebrew roots used here in Isaiah 54 to connote barrenness and shame, all of which are predicated on rejection, on being an outcast (nidach). I am going to unpack the word translated “barren” in the opening verse, Isaiah 54:1: “Sing, O barren . . .” 

We see right away that the barren woman is told to sing; rejoice. But why? And, more, what does “barren” mean in this context? We know that all of the matriarchs were barren until Hashem visited them, but what does it mean when applied to Jerusalem, a metaphor for all of Israel? 

The Hebrew for “barren” here is עקרה (akara). In checking the origin of this word and more straightforward usages of it, I saw that עקר (akar) means an “offshoot” and the verb can mean “pluck or root up.” Aha! 

Zion/Jerusalem, the barren and forsaken woman, is barren (rejected, not able to bear fruit) specifically because she has been “plucked up” or “rooted out” of the soil in which God has planted her. She is a nidach, and an akara, captive in a foreign land. It is only the soil of Zion in which she can “expand her tents” and bear offspring for the blessing of the world. It is here she is called by the “God of the whole earth” (Isa 54:5) to be fruitful!  She cannot expand or bear among the nations. Zion and the people of Israel are intimately connected one with the other. One is not fruitful without the other. Each is barren without the other. 

The barren woman is called to sing, because her captivity is coming to an end! Her owner, her Maker, her husband is bringing her back home! 

“Sing, O barren,

You who have not borne!

Break forth into singing, and cry aloud,

You who have not labored with child!

For more are the children of the desolate

Than the children of the married woman,” says the Lord.

“For a brief moment I abandoned you,

but with deep compassion I will bring you back.

In a surge of anger

I hid my face from you for a moment,

but with everlasting kindness     

I will have compassion on you,”

says the Lord your Redeemer.

“Though the mountains be shaken

and the hills be removed,

yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken

nor my covenant of peace be removed,”

says the Lord, who has compassion on you.   (Isaiah 54:1-10 portions)

 Comfort Ye My People: No More Nidach, No More Akara

We are called to care for our fellow Israelite, even as we would care for his lost animal! We are to participate in God’s program of consolation and protection for the people of Israel until “the Lord, [our] Redeemer” returns to have compassion on her and take her back to his own home and bring all of her children back from captivity. This is the time, the era, of “favor for Zion” (Psa 102:13 [14]). It is the time for Zion to expand her tents for all of her offspring.

And if, as I believe, it is the time to favor Zion, how much more will this mean favor for all? “For if their being cast away [here Paul is reflecting the Hebrew word nidach] is the reconciling of the world, what will their [homecoming] be but life from the dead?” (Romans 11:15). 

Scripture references are from the New King James Version, NKJV.

Muddled Minds and Confused Hearts

Parashat Shoftim, Deuteronomy 16:18–21:9

Matt Absolon, Beth Tfilah, Miramar, FL 

You shall not accept a bribe, for a bribe blinds the eyes of the wise and subverts the cause of the righteous. — Deuteronomy 16:19

One of life’s deeper meditations is the realization of just how narrow the line is between righteousness and wrongdoing. This week’s portion presses that point powerfully, not by warning the wicked, but by cautioning the wise. The Torah displays that is not the evil man who is at risk here; it is the wise man.

Rabbi Shabbethai ben Joseph Bass comments: “Once he has accepted his bribe . . . his clear-sightedness will be blinded because his mind will become muddled.”

The sober warning extracted from R. Bass is that a bribe does not require an evil heart to do its work. It only requires accommodation, a small compromise, to muddle a mind that was once clear. In this sense, that which clouds our spiritual clarity is not wickedness, but accommodation.

A little bribe clouds wise judgment.
A little lust misdirects the faithful heart.
A little white lie chips away at truthfulness.
A little greed puts a price tag on honesty.
A small dose of deceit fetters transparency.

And that is the tragedy, not that fools fall into sin, but that the righteous can be gently led astray. Not by leaps, but by inches. Not by rebellion, but by slow erosion. Not by coercion, but by a bribe.

A seemingly harmless gesture of goodwill, a favor here, a small gift there, muddles the mind. What begins as a passing glance, if unchecked, distorts devotion and opens the door to unfaithfulness. The trusted mouth, if it bends once for convenience, becomes a source of doubt. The honest man, once he permits a minor exception, teaches his heart that truth has a price. Even the transparent person, motivated by hidden self-interest, can shackle himself to a millstone of lies.

Again, R. Bass is surgical in his language: “his mind will become muddled.” Muddled, as in clouded, confused, disordered. During our Yom Kippur Musaf Service, the prayers address this condition of muddled confusion. Reciting the Al Chet we say: “For the sin we committed before you with a confused heart.” The sages understood the quiet danger of the confused heart and the muddled mind, and they penned this confession to help us remember too.

You see, our transgression isn’t always born out of outright sin, but often out of small, socially acceptable compromises, the little bribes of the heart.

How often have we welcomed these small consensual trades? How often have we, in a moment of fatigue or flattery, permitted something we knew wasn’t right, because it seemed too small to matter?

This month of Elul, leading us gently toward Yom Kippur, is a time to reflect not only on the major failings, but the subtle shifts, the small bribes we’ve allowed to creep in.

My prayer for all of us is that the Spirit of God may grant us grace and strength to recognize where we have given an inch, only to find ourselves miles from the values we hold dear. May we name these small bribes for what they are, reject them, and return, with clean hearts and clear minds, to the One who is always ready to receive us.

“Justice, justice shall you pursue” (Deut 16:20). May our pursuit begin in the quiet places of the heart.

May you be written and sealed for good, and a warm Shabbat Shalom!

Parashat Re’eh: Seeing the Mystery

Parashat Re’eh, Deuteronomy 11:26–16:17

Rabbi Dr. Joshua Brumbach

Congregation Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

The opening line of this week’s Torah portion reads: “See, I present before you today a blessing and a curse” (Deut 11:26). 

The first word of the parasha, re’eh, is conjugated in an imperative form, meaning that it is a command to do, to pay attention to, and “to see to” all the instructions God is setting forth.  

Moshe does not just present Israel with a choice between blessings and curses. Moshe actually opens with a prophetic blessing to the Jewish people. The blessing is the hope that Israel would be able to re’eh – “see” beyond the blessings and curses. It is the prayer of Moshe that the Jewish people would observe the commandments of Hashem and prophetically “see” God’s ultimate purposes in and through them. This way of understanding the opening words of our Torah portion as a prophetic blessing is supported by the Malbim (Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel Wisser, 1809–1879): 

The blessing and curse are not simply promises for the future. Once can actually see that people who observe the Torah have a sense of accomplishment, fulfillment, and spiritual growth. The blessing is there for all to see. (Artscroll Stone Edition Chumash, 998) 

To be able “to see” is to have vision. As Proverbs 29:18 states, “Without a prophetic vision, the people throw off all restraint; but he who keeps Torah is happy” (CJB). Similarly, Moshe is directly connecting observance of Torah with spiritual discernment and prophetic (spiritual) giftings. Moshe wants the Jewish people to walk in the ways of Hashem, and the mitzvot help guide us on the path toward spiritual maturity.  

As we know, the Book of Deuteronomy is a repetition of much of the Torah to the next generation, and this week’s portion is an even further condensed repetition. As such, the opening verse speaks of the importance of re’eh, “seeing” to all that God requires of us. 

Therefore, observance of the mitzvot is an exercise in spiritual discipline. In doing the things God instructs us, we become more sensitive to the working of the Spirit. It is the blessing of Moshe that by choosing to follow God’s instructions we will re’eh - “see” into the mysteries of HaShem. That is why this parasha concludes with the commandments concerning the shalosh regalim, the three pilgrimage festivals when we are to appear before God – Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot (Deut 16:16–17). These festivals are known as mo’edim. The word mo’ed is a divine appointment. These are times when God chooses to meet with us, times set aside for God to impart something into us. They are ultimately opportunities for a more intimate relationship.   

We know that God’s ultimate purpose for us is relationship. As the great Jewish philosopher Abraham Joshua Heschel describes it, since creation, God has been in pursuit of a relationship with us (see God in Search of Man, 136–144). This relational connection between observance and our relationship with God is also supported by Yeshua in his instruction: “If you love me, you will keep my commands” (John 14:15 CJB). Our observance of the Torah is not simply an act of obedience, it is relational. It is an opportunity to become united with our Creator, and through that intimate union, gain greater spiritual perception. In our prayer and observance we become united with Hashem through Yeshua, the Living Torah, and are shaped by that experience, becoming reflections of the Torah/Messiah ourselves. As the Messianic Jewish pioneer Paul Philip Levertoff once wrote, “The deepest longing, therefore, of the genuine [person of faith] is to become a ‘Living Torah.’ The keeping of the Law is to him only a means to an end: union with God” (Love and the Messianic Age, 43). 

When we invest in our relationship with God by drawing closer to him through prayer and observing what the Torah instructs, we are choosing “to see” spiritually. We are choosing to view the world, and ourselves, through a spiritual lens. Parashat Re’eh, therefore, provides keys to establishing the very presence of God in our midst. This week’s portion guides us through the observance of kashrut, the dietary laws, the rules for offering gifts (tithes, offerings, and sacrifices), and for the mo’edim, as prophetic opportunities to understand and experience the essence of Hashem.

 Shabbat Shalom! 

Fuel for Righteous Living

Parashat Ekev, Deuteronomy 7:12-11:25

Mary Haller, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

Our portion this week covers topics that are essential for building an unshakable foundation of faith as well as a strong and unwavering relationship with the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Moses tells the people:

It is not by your righteousness or the uprightness of your heart that you are going in to possess their land. Rather, because of the wickedness of these nations, Adonai your God is driving them out from before you, and in order to keep the word Adonai swore to your fathers—to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob. So you should understand that it is not because of your righteousness that Adonai your God is giving you this good land to possess—for you are a stiff-necked people. (Deut 9:5-6)

These words seem pretty clear. God was doing the kind and loving thing for a people who were, well, not so kind and loving. Today we might say God was paying it forward, giving out of his love to simply bless and provide. I believe there is more to it than simple kindness. God wanted to give the people a fresh start; God was reaching out to the people.  As I understand it, God was taking the first step towards building a relationship with the Israelites.  They were to respond accordingly by accepting God’s ways or rejecting them.  Last week's portion explains all the ways to live well through the commands and in the Shema. God wanted good things for the people and his statutes were their guide to living well.

The simple Hebrew word Ekev (the name of this parasha) is packed with deep meaning. When we take a close look at the origin of the word and familiarize ourselves with it, the word speaks loudly. We also need to understand its meaning in today’s western culture.

Ekev in Deuteronomy 7:12 means “because of,” or “on the heels of.” The biblical story of Jacob and Esau’s birth uses the root word Ekev to describe Jacob having a grasp on the heel of his twin brother as they are being birthed. The three-letter Hebrew root is the same for Ekev as it is for Jacob’s name, Yaakov.

An example we can consider to paint a picture of the meaning of Ekev is lake-effect snow. If you have ever lived near one of the Great Lakes, Lake Michigan for example, lake-effect snow would definitely be in your vocabulary. This snow occurs when cold air moves over the warmer lake waters, causing evaporation and the formation of narrow snow clouds downwind of the lake. The greater the temperature difference between the air and the water the greater the potential for a lot of snow. The snow comes in on the heel of the wind blowing across the lake. This is not because of the wind being a good thing or the waters being good or bad; it is just a result of existing forces of nature. Something happens because of something that preceded it.

Now that we have an idea of the meaning of Ekev as something or someone coming into our realm because of something or someone else, we should also take a moment to recall some of the highlights of last week's portion. In chapter 5 of Deuteronomy, Moses recounts how the people were fearful of the voice of God speaking out from the fire on the mountain. Moses reminded the people how he stood between the Voice of God and the people who were listening to all the words spoken. The words were instructions and commandments on how to live a life that would be pleasing to the God who delivered them out bondage to the Egyptians. This portion includes the well-known Shema. Many of us can recite this with hardly a thought, which poses the question of our heartfelt intention.

It is as important for each of us today as it was for the people just entering the land to have an understanding of the expectation God has for his people so we can live a life that is pleasing to him. A peaceful life full of blessings not just for ourselves and our families but also for our communities.

Moses continues to remind the people not to forget the God who was there to bring them into the Promised Land. The people weren’t perfect, they complained and even wanted to return to their former place when they were hungry for the food of Egypt. Moses continued to remind the people God delivered them because he loved them and had a plan for them. Again from last week’s portion we read:

Only be watchful and watch over your soul closely, so you do not forget the things your eyes have seen and they slip from your heart all the days of your life. (Deut 4:9)

It will be righteousness to us, if we take care to do all this commandment before Adonai our God, just as he has commanded us. (Deut 4:25)

God did not want the Israelites to forget what they had lived through.  God did not want the Israelites to forget He was with them throughout the 40 year journey.  God did not want the Israelites to forget the manna that fell daily or that their shoes did not wear out.

Like the Israelites, we too must not forget that we cannot build a relationship with God out of our own goodness or our own righteousness. As we read in Paul's letter to the Romans, “God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Messiah died for us” (5:8).

Our world today encourages us to be motivated by many things, money, career growth, better, bigger, and brighter things, but l want to leave you with this one thing Yeshua said: “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. . . .  Whatever you did to the least of these My brethren you did it to Me” (Matt 25:35, 40). Yeshua painted a picture for those who truly loved him then and even today. We who desire his righteousness to live through us will always be willing to lend a helping hand to any and all in need. Out of our surrender renewal is birthed; out of our renewal transformation occurs. It is out of this transformation that our heart-felt worship wafts through the heavens to the throne room and our service is blessed.

Shabbat Shalom! 

The Paradox of Election

Parashat Va’Etchanan, Deuteronomy 3:23–7:11 

Dave Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

Our parasha begins with Moses continuing his speeches of exhortation to the Israelites on the plains of Moab, as the Israelites prepare to enter the land of promise. He asks a question that to this day resonates:

Has any god ventured to go and take for himself one nation from the midst of another by prodigious acts, by signs and portents, by war, by a mighty and an outstretched arm and awesome power, as the Lord your God did for you in Egypt before your very eyes? (Deut 4:34 JPS)

A modern reader may have difficulty accepting the prodigious acts and portents that accompanied the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt. But perhaps more challenging, given our culture’s commitment to the equality of all people, is the idea that God would choose one people in particular. 

But Moses doubles down, claiming: “And having loved your ancestors, God chose their heirs after them” (4:37). This one people gets chosen, not because of any merit, but because of who they are related to! It’s bald nepotism! God really liked one guy (Abraham), and 3000 years later everyone with even a tenuous connection to him gets to be part of this special club.

It is a startling paradox of our faith that an eternal, limitless, all-encompassing God chose a family of humans, and, for lack of a better way to describe it, initiated a friendship with them.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l helps us make sense of this in his book The Dignity of Difference. According to the dominant narrative in Western thought, the moral arc of history moves from tribal particularism (bad!) to undifferentiated universalism (good!). But in Genesis, according to R. Sacks, it’s the opposite: universalism, identified as totalitarian, globalist Babel, doesn’t work at all. And what is God’s solution? Choosing a particular family, that of Abraham. Why? Sacks explains,

The universality of moral concern is not something we learn by being universal but by being particular. Because we know what it is to be a parent, loving our children, not children in general, we understand what it is for someone else, somewhere else, to be a parent, loving his or her children, not ours. There is no road to human solidarity that does not begin with moral particularity—by coming to know what it means to be a child, a parent, a neighbor, a friend. We learn to love humanity by loving specific human beings. There is no short-cut. (p. 58)

In other words, the most elevated expressions of love are not toward “humanity,” but toward actual, individual people. In fact, the only trustworthy love of humanity is that which is rooted in real interpersonal relationships . . . and that even applies to God.

Okay, fine, you might say. It makes sense that God would have a relationship with Abraham. But how can this special love extend to all of Abraham’s descendants three millennia later?

Further, why doesn’t God just love the good people more than the bad people? In a sense this is the claim of certain streams of Christian thought, that God’s elect are those who believe the right things, regardless of their background. Wouldn’t it make more sense if God had a special relationship with the good people?

But that’s not the story of the Torah. As Michael Wyschogrod puts it, Israel’s election is “a carnal election that is transmitted through the body” (Body of Faith, 176). Perhaps it is because the Torah elevates the unconditional love of family over the love of those we like (“even the pagans do that”). Perhaps it’s because the physical world matters, and spirit doesn’t exist separate from body. Or perhaps it is because humans are deeply social animals, and the modern conception of humans as free-floating individuals with identities independent of society and culture is more philosophical fiction than reality.

I think all these are true: familial love is undervalued today; spirit and body are inseparable; and corporate, social identity is fundamental to human life, identity, and flourishing. But whatever the reason, it is clear that the Torah privileges peoplehood, and not just a spiritual peoplehood, but an embodied, physical peoplehood of parents, children, and families.

And then there’s the issue of being chosen. We might occasionally find ourselves echoing Tevye’s complaint in Fiddler on the Roof: ”Maybe you could choose someone else for a change!” But the truth is that as much as we value freedom and choice, the most meaningful relationships in life are not chosen: you can’t shop for different parents or siblings. Or, in the case of a spouse, we make a choice once and get to live with the beauty (and challenges) of being stuck with someone. To paraphrase Antonio García Martínez, an author and tech entrepreneur who wrote eloquently on his decision to convert to Judaism, optionality is overrated.

So, we have this idea that physicality matters and that peoplehood matters. We have this idea from the Torah and from the very fact of the incarnation of Messiah—and not as a solitary, disconnected human, but one who is part of a people, with everything that entails. It would be easy to ask how this idea constrains us, but let’s look instead at how it opens up possibilities.

First of all, this gives us permission to be loyal to our people even through disappointment, disagreement, and conflict. The world is full of people who are willing to love Jews in the abstract, or love Jews that they agree with. The State of Israel may express the highest values of liberalism and justice—or it may not. It matters, but it doesn’t matter enough to undermine our love for acheinu benei Yisrael, our brothers and sisters, the Jewish people. It doesn’t always feel good, just as some familial bonds bring as much heartache as joy, but this bond’s power comes in part from its immutability.

Second, while many of us may intuit that it is important for our Jewish children to marry Jewish, the Torah’s valuing of familial identity provides a theological basis for “marrying in.” In contemporary parlance to say that the ethnicity or religion of a person matters for marriage is practically transgressive. (Jewishness is both ethnicity and religion—and neither—but we will set that aside for now). But understanding the importance of peoplehood and families (also see Deut 6:20–25) allows us to take seriously the notion (which was obvious in earlier times) that marriage is not only about romance, or even just about two individuals in isolation from their past or future families.

Finally, coming to terms with the particularity of God’s love for Israel gives us clarity in our responsibilities to others. Imagine a parent who is so loving and generous to others that their children get squeezed out and feel neglected. It’s not that the parent doesn’t love their children, even love them the most. More likely they just have a hard time saying “no” to the needs of others. That ability to draw boundaries is a prerequisite for meaningful, consistent, loyal relationships. 

Yeshua was quite capable of saying no (e.g. Matt 15:21–27). It was not for lack of compassion or love, but he understood that, as Priya Parker writes, sometimes you need to exclude in order to include. She writes (quoting Barack Obama’s aunt!), “If everyone is family, no one is family.” It is blood that makes a tribe, a border that makes a nation (The Art of Gathering, How We Meet and Why it Matters, p. 38).

Leaning into Ahavat Yisrael, the love of Israel, will always have its share of challenges, as will any relationship that we are stuck with. The wonderful thing is, we are also loved in this same way. Daily when laying tefillin we remind ourselves of God’s words to us through the prophet Hosea, “I will betroth you to Me forever . . . with righteousness, justice, covenant loyalty and compassion. I will betroth you to Me with faithfulness” (2:21–22 TLV). 

The security of being loved immutably will free us to love our people . . . freely. May we follow the examples of Yeshua and Moses, and may all of our actions and words be “rooted and grounded in love” (Eph. 3:17). 

Build and Rebuild

Shabbat Chazon and Tisha B’Av

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

In addition to beginning a new book of the Torah (Deuteronomy), this week marks a special Shabbat, Shabbat Chazon, which gets its name from the opening word of the haftarah read just before Tisha B’Av: “The vision (chazon) of Isaiah the son of Amotz, which he saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem . . .” (Isaiah 1:1).

Shabbat Chazon is the final warning of what is about to befall Jerusalem and the Jewish people because of our sins against Hashem.

Tisha B’Av begins this coming Saturday night, and marks one of the most tragic days on the Jewish calendar. Numerous atrocities have befallen the Jewish people on this date (or just around it) throughout the last 3,000 years, the pinnacles being the destruction of both the first and second Temples. 

Tisha B’Av is a timely reminder that although Jewish history is full of tragedy, it will not end that way. As our special haftarah promises, ultimately there will be redemption for Israel (see Isaiah 1:16-17). The cycle of Jewish time embodies this idea that redemption is birthed out of tragedy.

Although Shabbat Chazon contains a final warning, and Saturday night marks our mourning of the tragic events associated with Tisha B’av, next week is another special Shabbat, called Shabbat Nachamu (the Shabbat of Comfort). 

From the Shabbat following Tisha B’Av until Rosh Hashanah there is a seven-week period of hope and consolation. As Professor Rachel Adelman of Hebrew College points out, there are seven special haftarah readings from Isaiah between Tisha B’Av and Rosh HaShanah, which trace a movement from mourning to comfort, and from desolation to joy, over the course of these seven weeks. According to a midrash cited in Machzor Vitri, these haftarot “all speak of comfort . . . in the way that one comforts (a mourner) slowly by stages.”  

Therefore, beginning with Isaiah’s words in next week’s haftarah, “Comfort, Comfort, my people,” over the next seven weeks we move from the tragedy of Tisha B’av to Rosh HaShanah, with all its imagery of the coronation of God as our King. 

This idea of Tragedy to Redemption is so firmly built into the fabric of Jewish consciousness that there is even a tradition cited in the Jerusalem Talmud and in Midrash that Messiah will be born on Tisha B’Av. For out of tragedy, redemption will sprout forth! 

According to Rabbi David Wolpe, “The Talmud declares [Tisha B’Av as] also the day of the Messiah’s birth. Before God inflicts the wound, the rabbis teach, God sends the salve, the healing.” 

As a Messianic Jewish community, we might not believe that Tisha B’Av is the literal date of Messiah’s birth, but we are able to resonate with the understanding that out of tragedy redemption sprouts forth. Yeshua’s teachings also reflect this idea. Twice Yeshua refers to the forthcoming destruction of the second temple, in Matthew 24:1–3 and John 2:19–22:

Matthew 24:1–3 (CJB) As Yeshua left the Temple and was going away, his talmidim came and called his attention to its buildings. But he answered them, “You see all these? Yes! I tell you, they will be totally destroyed – not a single stone will be left standing!” When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives, the talmidim came to him privately. “Tell us,” they said, “when will these things happen? 

In the passage from John 2, Yeshua again references the destruction of the Temple, but this time he applies the imagery of the Temple’s destruction to himself.

 John 2:19–22 (CJB) Yeshua answered them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up again.” The Judeans said, “It took 46 years to build this Temple, and you’re going to raise it in three days?” 21 But the “temple” he had spoken of was his body. Therefore, when he was raised from the dead, his talmidim remembered that he had said this, and they trusted in the Tanakh and in what Yeshua had said.

 According to the great medieval Torah commentator, Abravanel:

When the Torah speaks about the Temple, it is not only describing a sacred building in which worship takes place but it also has in mind the body of each human being. That is to say, each human being is a sacred sanctuary.

 And isn’t this exactly what Paul wrote in 1 Corinthians?

Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?  If any person destroys the temple of God, God will destroy him, for the temple of God is holy, and that is what you are. (1 Cor 3:16–17, NASB 1995 )

And again in 1 Corinthians 6:19–20:

Or do you not know that your body is a temple for the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?  For you have been bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body (NASB 1995).

 By applying this imagery of the Temple to our bodies, the New Testament and Jewish tradition are making a powerful statement. Our bodies can either be a center for what is holy or an object that can be destroyed because of our life choices.

Our rabbis teach that the reason the Temple was destroyed was because of Sinat Chinam – Baseless Hatred. And what is the cause of this kind of hatred? It is really a form of stubbornness . . . an inability to see others as B’tzelem Elohim, created in the image of God.

This inability to see the value in others, especially minorities or others on the periphery of society, has long been a path to dehumanization. When you no longer see each other as human, it then becomes possible to justify all kinds of treatment toward each other. And as Jews, we know of this kind of dehumanization all too well.

Therefore, if, according to our tradition, the Temple was destroyed due to sinat chinam, baseless hatred, it was because the people (and especially the leadership) of the time were taking advantage of, and misrepresenting, that which was supposed to be holy. And in the same way, we have to account for the way we use our own vessels to glorify God today.

In Exodus 25:8, God commanded us to build him a Sanctuary so that he could dwell among us. God was not just talking about the Mishkan, the physical Tabernacle. God was also providing a spiritual principle, that wherever we make a place for God’s presence to dwell, he will fill it. And that includes ourselves! This includes the ability to see the holiness in others as well.

The Kotzker Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, once raised a surprising question to a number of his chassidim who happened to be with him. He asked: “Where is the presence of God?” His chassidim laughed: “What a thing to ask! Isn’t the whole world full of God’s glory!” But then the Kotzker Rebbe answered: “God dwells wherever we let God in.”

On Tisha B’Av we mourn along with our people the many losses associated with this day. As a Messianic Jewish community, we mourn because these tragedies are ours. And yet, as a Messianic Jewish community, we also recognize a tension because ultimately, out of these ashes we will also gain a glimpse of something greater, the redemption that still waits to be fully attained and realized.

Since the Temple’s destruction we have been in exile, both physically and spiritually. However, we are also experiencing a powerful shift as we are now living in a day and age when we are witnessing God regathering his people, returning us to our Land, and revealing to us our beloved Messiah.

God is indeed strengthening us and giving us a renewed purpose. The Hebrew word chazon means “vision.” As Proverbs 29:18 states: “Where there is no vision, the people perish; but those who keep Torah are happy” (CJB).

We are called to be a people, spiritually and prophetically, who are able to see redemption arise out of the ashes of tragedy. We are those who must have a vision when the rest of the world is lost and without hope. And we must be those who not only understand that all of us are temples for God’s presence to dwell within, but are also able to see that same holiness within others.

During these days leading up to Tisha B’Av, we need to observe this period of mourning over the many calamities of our past, but we must also remember that we are always able to build and rebuild. With a clear vision we are able to build something beautiful for God’s presence to dwell within.

Cut into Covenant: The Passion and Promise of Messianic Judaism

Our Weekly Torah commentary this week is the text of the Shabbat morning sermon from last week’s UMJC conference, delivered by Rabbi Paul L. Saal of Shuvah Yisrael, West Hartford, CT. The audio version is an abridgement of the full message. 

There are always two unseen guests at every bris — neither of whom ever gets an invitation, and both of whom probably wouldn’t RSVP even if we sent one. But their presence is felt nonetheless.

One is Elijah — the beloved and expected one. The chair we set aside for him isn’t just a quaint tradition. It’s a bold reminder that covenant is never just about the past. It’s about the promise of a future.

The other guest? He’s not quite so cuddly.

His name is Pinchas — and he doesn’t get a chair. He gets a spear. And frankly, if he showed up unannounced at your next family simcha, most of us would probably call security.

And yet... every bris includes the passage from this week’s parasha, where God makes a covenant of peace with Pinchas:

Pinchas son of Elazar, the son of Aharon the priest, turned back My wrath from upon the Children of Israel when he zealously avenged Me among them . . . therefore I grant him My covenant of peace. — Numbers 25:11–13

What an odd text to recite at a baby’s circumcision. Couldn’t we go with something lighter? Maybe something about Abraham holding baby Isaac, with soft lighting and a harp in the background?

But no — it’s Pinchas. Zealot. Avenger. Spear-wielding priest. The Torah doesn’t shy away from the tension, and neither should we.

 Why Pinchas? Why Here? Why Now?

We first met Pinchas at the end of Parashat Balak (Num 25:7–8). The nation of Israel, under divine protection, could not be cursed by Balaam — no matter how much Balak paid him. So, as we learn in this week’s parasha, Matot-Masei, Balaam, ever the strategist, proposed a more covert and devastating tactic: corrupt them from within (Num 31:16). According to Moreh Nevuchim (1:36) and Sanhedrin 106a, since he could not curse Israel, Balaam advised Balak to strike at their moral center — specifically, to target their sexual integrity, knowing that sexual morality is one of the foundations of Jewish holiness. He counseled that if the people could be seduced into transgression, their divine protection would collapse from the inside.

So Balak sent the women of Moab to entice the general population, and the daughters of Midian were reserved for a more insidious purpose: to undermine Israel’s leadership, to entangle those closest to the heart of the covenant.

And it worked.

Zimri, a leader in Israel — a prince of the tribe of Simeon — publicly flaunts this rebellion by bringing Cozbi, a Midianite princess, into the heart of the camp and cohabiting with her in full view (Num 25:14–15). This was not merely an indiscretion. It was a calculated act of defiance. A challenge to Moses, to Torah, to the moral foundations of the people, and to the God who had set them apart.

Enter Pinchas.

Without invitation. Without instruction. Without delay. He rises, spear in hand, and impales them both — ending the plague and halting Israel’s descent into chaos.

Outrageous? Over the top? Shocking? Overly dramatic? Illegal?

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And — according to halakhic tradition — yes.

And yet... God responds with affirmation.

We are left to wrestle with this.

The rabbinic tradition is clear that Pinchas’ action was extraordinary and not legally sanctioned: ein morin kein — we do not teach this as precedent. This is not normative behavior. This is not the model. It is a lightning-strike exception.

And yet the Torah blesses him. God makes with him a covenant of peace.

This is not an endorsement of violence. It is a recognition of something deeper: the power of holy passion.

Other Moments of Severe Response

Pinchas is not alone in the biblical narrative when it comes to divine responses that overwhelm us. There are other moments that challenge our sensibilities:

• Jephthah makes a rash vow and ends up sacrificing his own daughter (Judges 11)

• Uzzah reaches out instinctively to steady the Ark — and is struck down (2 Samuel 6)

• Ananias and Sapphira lie about their offering and fall dead before the apostles (Acts 5)

• Abraham is called to sacrifice Isaac — a test so harrowing it has reverberated through centuries of sacred memory (Genesis 22)

Each of these stories makes us uncomfortable. They disturb our modern notions of grace, process, and proportionality. But they all force the same recognition: covenant is sacred. Holiness is dangerous. God's presence, though full of love, is not to be trivialized.

The Torah is not subtle in moments like these. It tells us: there are things worth trembling for.

Bris: A Moment of Vulnerability and Vision

Dare I say that if there’s ever a moment when widespread biblical illiteracy might offer unexpected comfort, it is during a bris — when nervous parents are about to watch their child undergo minor surgery without what would today be considered adequate anesthetic.

As a father of four daughters and no sons, I’ve been quite content to stand at the back of the room during these rituals. The mohel will often try to lighten the moment — with soothing words, gentle humor, sometimes a bit of misdirection. And all of that is entirely appropriate.

But still — why this passage? Why bring up a religious zealot with a sharp object at precisely this moment?

Because, while our first concern is naturally for the child’s safety, the real focus of the brit milah is not medical — it is covenantal.

This act marks entry into something ancient, sacred, and communal. It is not merely a ritual of identity. It is a claim of destiny — on the life of this child, by the people of Israel and by the God of Israel. And that claim must be preserved with the same seriousness and passion that Pinchas embodied.

What Are We Willing to Risk?

The passion of Pinchas reminds us that sacred identity is not maintained by accident. It must be guarded. It must be lived. And at times — it must be defended.

It is somewhat axiomatic in our age that when moral norms are quietly abandoned, the foundations of a people begin to crack. Few things so easily erode a covenantal community as unaddressed transgressions involving sex and money. Entire movements have collapsed under the weight of what they failed to confront.

But our generation fears zeal — often for good reason. We have seen what religious extremism can do. We have seen zeal without knowledge, fire without wisdom, and certainty without compassion.

But what about the opposite danger?

What about apathy? What about silence? What about the slow, dignified slide into irrelevance — because nothing is worth fighting for, and nothing is worth guarding?

Today, we are not losing Jews to violence or exile. We are losing them to forgetfulness. To assimilation. To absence.

We are losing Jews not to persecution — but to indifference.

Pinchas reminds us that covenant requires commitment. That peoplehood requires passion. 

Pinchas and Elijah: Zeal and Hope

Pinchas and Elijah are spiritually linked — so much so that both midrashic and mystical sources suggest that Pinchas became Elijah. This idea appears in Bamidbar Rabbah and is expanded in the Zohar, where their connection is seen spiritually, or even mystically, as the same soul continuing across generations. Both figures are marked by passionate commitment, a willingness to stand alone, and an unflinching zeal for God’s holiness.

Yet over time, there is a transformation — from spear to whisper, from fire to stillness. And this matters deeply.

We remember the story of Elijah on Mount Horeb, hiding in a cave, desperate for God’s reassurance. There is wind — tearing at the mountains. Then an earthquake. Then fire. But God is not in any of those. Finally, there is kol d’mamah dakah — a still, small voice. And only then does Elijah wrap his face in his cloak.

The message is clear: the Lord can break mountains and shake the earth, but His truest presence is often discerned in the quiet and the gentle. Elijah responds not to the dramatic, but to the intimate — the voice that speaks not to the ears, but to the soul.

It is rarely the brazen or vociferous that exemplify godly action, but rather the quiet, the spiritual, the unassuming. The Spirit of God is the voice to our innermost being — a presence that melts the heart rather than hardening it. Sternness hardens; love alone melts. Miracles may ring like a great bell through the fabric of nature, but the Spirit is God’s personal whisper to the soul.

This same spirit — the passion of Pinchas, matured through Elijah — continued through the generations. Yochanan the Immerser came “in the spirit and power of Elijah,” calling Israel to repentance and preparing the way for Messiah. In every age, this spirit reemerges — bold, refining, and prophetic — reminding us that covenant is not only inherited, but must be reawakened.

This does not mean there are no moments that call for bold and deliberate action — Pinchas shows us there are. But most often, true heroism is as quiet and unassuming as the small, still voice that inspires it. 

And this is our calling: to live in that sacred tension — between courage and compassion, between fire and whisper. Between the boldness to act and the humility to listen.

Ruth the Moabitess: A Holy Contrast

It is important to remember that not every outsider in this story was a threat. While Moabite women were part of the moral sabotage Balaam proposed, one Moabite woman later became the very symbol of covenantal love and belonging.

Her name was Ruth.

Where Cozbi was a Midianite woman sent to destroy, Ruth was a Moabite woman who chose to build.

Where others tempted Israel away from holiness, Ruth embraced Israel’s God and Torah freely and permanently. Her declaration to Naomi — “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God” — was not just a conversion. It was an entry into peoplehood.

And that matters deeply.

Judaism is more than an ethnicity and more than a religion. It is a peoplehood — a civilization forged in suffering, sustained by memory, shaped by Torah, and carried forward by covenant.

Ruth did not just adopt a creed. She took on a people. She chose the sacred burden of identity — and through her came the Davidic line, and ultimately, Messiah.

A Vision for Messianic Judaism

Messianic Judaism cannot be a spiritual costume — a kind of Hebrew-flavored Christianity. Nor can it simply be “Judaism plus Jesus.” It must be something deeper, more authentic.

A true return. A rebuilding of the house of Israel with Yeshua at the center — not as an in  truder, but as the Cornerstone.

We dream of a community where Jewish life is not a performance but a way of being. Where we wear tzitzit not to prove a point, but to remember the mitzvot. Where our children grow up saying the Shema with conviction and singing Modeh Ani with joy. Where Yeshua is not only our personal savior but the Redeemer of All Israel.

This is the meaning behind Ruth’s words: “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.” It is not just about belief, but about belonging — about becoming part of a people with a sacred story and an eternal calling.

This kind of faith takes more than belief. It takes passion. It takes people willing to be like Pinchas — not violent, but unafraid. Not reckless, but courageous. People who love this faith enough to live it fully, and pass it on.

Conclusion: Carrying the Fire

And so, we return to the bris.

The child is brought into the covenant.

Elijah is seated.

Pinchas hovers, silently.

And we must ask: What kind of faith are we passing on?

Will this child see a community that burns with passion for holiness? That protects what is sacred? That knows who they are?

Will we be the generation that guards the covenant — not with fear, but with love?

May we be that people.

May we carry the fire of Pinchas and the stillness of Elijah.

May we walk in the courage of Ruth and the conviction of Moses.

May we build a Messianic Judaism that is bold, mature, rooted, and real.

And may the One who is coming — the Son of David, the pierced Redeemer — find us faithful, passionate, and ready.

The Women Who Spoke What is Right

Parashat Pinchas, Numbers 25:10—30:1

Daniel Nessim, Kehilat Tsion, Vancouver, BC

Our parasha begins this week with a blessing on Pinchas for his heroic action to preserve Israel’s moral and spiritual character. In the following chapter, the children of Israel are numbered, clan by clan, specifically counting those of fighting age. After that the inheritances of the tribes, clans, and families of Israel are listed. Now we can see why it is the warriors who are counted. Israel is going to war in order to inherit its Land. As Rashi noted, and as is plain in the text, these warriors were counted “after their fathers’ tribes . . . and not after their mothers.”

So what about the women then? Actually, they are far from absent.

Right after the census and just before Moses was instructed to go up into Mount Abarim (today called Mount Nebo in Jordan) to view the Land before dying and being gathered to his people, the women feature prominently (Num 27:1–11).

Moses, the great teacher of the Law, was presented with one final and consequential decision to make in his lifetime. A crucial decision concerning inheritance law had to be made. How would Moses decide? But it was not Moses who decided the Law. Midrash Rabbah 21.12 comments, “The Holy One, blessed be He, said to [Moses]: ‘did you not say, “The cause that is too hard for you ye shall bring unto me”? The law with which you are unacquainted is decided by the women!’” The law was thus decided by Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah, the five daughters of Zelophehad. They were probably quite young, as there is no statement that they were married.

Their father Zelophehad was one of the generation who had died in the wilderness, but his daughters wanted to preserve their father’s heritage, their family’s heritage, in the Promised Land as it was divided up and assigned to the people.

It is tempting to look at the ancient biblical text through modern eyes. Doing so can obscure our understanding of the author’s intent. For example, some might view the story of Zelophehad’s daughters against modern concepts of Patriarchy. Britannica online describes Patriarchy as an “hypothetical social system in which the father or a male elder has absolute authority over the family group; by extension, one or more men (as in a council) exert absolute authority over the community as a whole.” Is that the view of Torah, which exalts the Patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and typically names families, clans, and tribes by their patriarchs?

Naturally, it is dangerous to take modern concepts and apply them directly to ancient cultures and texts. On the other hand, we can’t pretend that we don’t live in the world we live in now, and that this doesn’t affect the questions we have when we come to the Torah. So setting aside our contemporary questions about patriarchy as well as family and community structure, what does Moses tell us in our parashah? What does this parashah tell us about family and community structure in Moses’ day?

While women are not mentioned as much as men in our parashah, or in Scripture as a whole, there is no doubt that they have as much agency and initiative as anyone. Sometimes this can be negative. When Pinchas slew an Israelite man and a Midianite woman, both are named (Num 25:14). She was Cozbi the daughter of Zur, who was head of the people of a father’s house in Midian. Both she and Zimri who died with her are treated as significant persons, members of households, or clans, known by a patriarch. The significance of the patriarch and the significance of the individual are both upheld. The two were equal in their transgression, and equal in the judgment they received. Both of them are described (interestingly) as descended from a “prince.”

A number of times in the subsequent counting of the warriors of Israel, women are included. Were they also warriors? Within the tribe of Manasseh (Num 26:33), Zelophehad’s daughters Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah are first mentioned. Were they also fighters? They do seem to have been counted. The same applies to the daughter of Asher, whose name was Serah (Num 26:46). Among the Levites, Amram’s wife is named as Jochebed (Num 26:59). The counting is by families. Families with sons and daughters. Whereas the transgressors Cozbi and Zimri were described as the offspring of princes, among the children of Israel they were all families.

To be in a home led by a “prince” smacks of that authoritarian system where male figures hold absolute sway. Moses portrays his people, the children of Israel, quite differently, and perhaps we should look at ourselves and our communities in the same way. Families, especially multi-generational families as Moses listed them, are collaborative communities where each individual participates according to relational rules, not on the basis of authoritarian impositions.

Societies and family structures based purely on authority contrast with those among the people of the Promise. Take for example the descendants of Esau and Jacob. Esau’s descendants (who were outside of the Promise) were generally described as chiefs (Gen 36). Jacob’s descendants were described as sons (Gen 35:22–26). Esau’s descendants were those of a hunter. Jacob’s descendants were those of an ish tam, one who was perfect, or complete, with integrity (Gen 25:26).

In Parashat Pinchas, Moses upholds the dignity of every child of Israel, man or woman. The modern idea of “patriarchy” would have been foreign to him. There were people whose families were dominated by authority figures, whether they were called princes or chiefs, but in Parashat Pinchas, Moses saw families, and families are where every member is valued.

This is why the daughters of Zelophehad are mentioned with such respect. Midrash Rabbah 21.12 attributes to them the role of judges of the law, even in Moses’ presence, for as the Lord said, they “speak what is right” (Num 27:6). That is quite startling! Before Moses himself, the women judge rightly and the Lord puts his seal of approval on their interpretation of the Law.

These women were not only descendants of Israel, but also descendants of the righteous Joseph, we are told (Num 27:1). The midrash in the passage already mentioned describes them as “wise and righteous.” Perhaps this is more typical of women than men, the midrash intimates, as it points out that when the Lord said of Israel “they shall surely die in the wilderness,” our parshah seems to indicate that this only applied to the men. It was the men who all died, not the women, according to the midrash. We are told (Num 26:65) “there was not left a man of them.” Were the women more righteous? On this day, they were certainly the wise ones, and to this day they remind us to pay heed to the way the Almighty views us – men and women alike, the children of Israel.

“Have this attitude in yourselves, which also was in Messiah Yeshua.” Rav Shaul wrote this in his letter to the Philippians (Phil 2:5). His counsel stands today as well as it did then.

Which Name of God Will You Make Known?

Parashat Balak, Numbers 22:2–25:9

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

Bereisheet Rabbah, commenting on Genesis 28:11, refers to God as HaMakom—“The Place”—not merely a location, but the sacred space where heaven touches earth, where we encounter the Holy, and more than that, where we dwell with him.

In this week’s parasha, when Bil‘am exclaims, “How goodly are your tents, O Ya’akov,” he beholds more than the neat rows of Israel’s encampment. He sees a mystery unfolding before him—the quiet radiance of the Divine Presence, Shekhinah, nestled within the tents of ordinary life. In that moment, Bil‘am’s understanding of God transforms. Hashem is no longer just a transcendent Redeemer who shatters the chains of slavery, but the indwelling God who abides in the everyday, sanctifying it from within. One might even say that Bil‘am intuits a new Name of God: “The Tent of Jacob”—a God who is not only above us, but with us, and even among us. And in a twist of irony and grace, it is this name that he makes known in a blessing instead of a curse, the blessing that opens our morning prayers in the Siddur: ‘How goodly are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel” (Num 24:5, Koren Siddur).

When Moshe stood before the burning bush, he was overwhelmed by awe and uncertainty. The voice from the flames declared: “I am the God of your forefathers, the God of Avraham, the God of Yitzhak, and the God of Ya’akov.” And then, this voice—the voice of Hashem—said something astonishing: “I have seen the plight of my people, and I am sending you.”

In that sacred moment, Moshe asked a curious question: “What if they ask me your name? What shall I say to them?”

Was Moshe ignorant of God’s name? Surely, he had heard of Elohim, El Elyon, El Shaddai. So why ask?

Ibn Ezra suggests Moshe wasn’t simply asking out of ignorance, but with a strategic pastoral concern—he wanted to know which divine name would truly resonate with the Israelites, convincing them that the God of their forefathers was still present and powerful enough to redeem them.

Ramban (Nachmanides) goes further—he says that El Shaddai would have been sufficient. But God offered something else. Something deeper. He replied, “Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh”—I Am That I Am.” But like Bil‘am’s perception, Exodus Rabbah interprets this as “I have been with you in this exile, and I will be with you in all future exiles.”

It is this name—YHVH—that God ultimately gives Moshe. A name not just of identity, but of relationship and mystery. A name that speaks of covenant, of journeying together through time.

God was saying: I am the God you will come to know—not just in theory, but through experience, through history, through walking together.

As a people, we perceive God in the collective: not just an “I-Thou” but a “We-Thou.” The God of our ancestors is not merely a personal deity; he is the God revealed through covenant and community. Yet, at the same time, each of us experiences God uniquely.

That’s why Scripture speaks not just of “The God of Israel,” but names the ancestors separately: “the God of Avraham, Yitzhak, and Ya’akov.” Each encountered God differently.

Avraham met him as Adonai Yireh at Mount Moriah, when God provided a ram in place of Isaac, revealing himself as the One who sees and provides (Gen 22:14). In that moment, Avraham not only encountered divine provision but also the depth of God’s faithfulness to his promises. It was a revelation born of obedience, fear, and profound trust.

Yitzhak encountered God during a season of conflict and uncertainty. After facing repeated disputes over wells, he named the final one Rehovot, saying, “Now the Lord has made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land” (Gen 26:22). That night, God appeared and reaffirmed the covenant, and Yitzhak built an altar and called upon the name of the Lord. For Yitzhak, God was the One who brings peace after striving, the God who honors quiet faithfulness.

Ya’akov, after wrestling with the divine through the night, emerged limping but transformed. He named the place Peniel, saying, “I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved” (Gen 32:30).

This continues on throughout the Torah and into the Besorah. Moshe raised a banner and named him Adonai Nissi after defeating Amalek. Gideon called him Adonai Shalom. David sang of Adonai Ro’i, the Shepherd. Hosea spoke of God as Ish—a husband. Shimon Kefa called Yeshua the Messiah, the Son of the Living God. Mary Magdalene called him Rabboni, her beloved Teacher. Thomas declared, “My Lord and my God” after touching his wounds. Rav Shaul proclaimed him as the power and wisdom of God, revealed on the road to Damascus.

In the Besorah, Yeshua prays for his talmidim:

Righteous Father, the world has not known you, but I have known you, and these people have known that you sent me. I made your name known to them, and I will continue to make it known; so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I myself may be united with them. (John 17:25-26 CJB, emphasis added)

As I read that passage 30 years ago, the words leapt off the page. God whispered to my heart: “These verses are yours.”

That was my calling: to come to know God, and to make him known to others.

And, I am convinced, this is not just mine. It is our shared calling.

We are invited to seek him, to discover the Bush who quietly burns in our lives. We have to turn aside and look, as Moshe did. That means living lives of attentiveness, pursuing him through prayer, through study, through openness.

And just as Yeshua says, “I have made your name known,” we must ask: What name?

What name has God made known to you?

Sometimes the revelation of God’s name is inseparable from the revelation of our own. Avram becomes Avraham, the father of many nations; Sarai becomes Sarah, a mother of kings. Ya’akov becomes Yisrael after wrestling with God, forever marked by struggle and blessing. Shimon is renamed Kefa—the Rock upon which a community would be built. These moments are not just renamings; they are unveilings of true identity, given in the presence of the Holy One.

Each of us may carry a different name for God in our hearts—a name shaped by the path we’ve walked, the pain we’ve endured, and the grace we’ve received. For me, that name is captured in my Hebrew name, Yitzhak-Rephaiah. Rephaiah means “God has healed,” and Yitzhak means “laughter.” These are not just linguistic meanings—they are mile markers on my spiritual road. I began as someone weighed down with angst and inner wounds, but Hashem has gently rewritten my story: from a soul clenched in anguish to one able to laugh again, healed and held in divine love.

We live in a world that has not known Hashem. But we have. And now, we are called to make his name known.

So I ask you:

• Have you discovered your name for God?

• Have you discovered a new name for yourself as you have encountered the Living God?

• Have you shared that name with others?

May we turn aside to seek the quietly burning bush. May we come to know the Name that speaks to us. May we make that Name known in love. And in doing so, may we be united with Messiah Yeshua, with our brothers and sisters, and with our Beloved Father.