A Perfect Government

Parashat Yitro, Exodus 18:1–20:23

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

 With Parashat Yitro we reach one of the decisive turning points in Israel’s formation as a people. The journey from Egypt to Sinai has never been merely about escape from oppression; it has been about the reordering of allegiance. From the moment God speaks to Moses at the burning bush, the issue is not whether Israel will serve, but whom they will serve. Pharaoh claims absolute authority over bodies, labor, time, and even life itself, presenting himself as a god-king whose word defines reality. The God of Israel reveals himself differently, not as a tyrant, but as the source of life, blessing, and meaning. Redemption, therefore, is not the abolition of authority but its transformation. Israel is redeemed from Pharaoh in order to come to Sinai and willingly accept the sovereignty of the One to whom all creation already belongs.

Every one of us, whether we acknowledge it or not, lives under some form of authority. There is always a voice that carries the final word in our lives—the ruler supreme, the judgment that prevails when all other opinions fall silent. Many of us like to believe that we answer only to ourselves, that we are independent, self-directed, and free. Yet experience has a way of challenging that assumption. Consider how often people speak about going into business for themselves as the ultimate expression of freedom: no boss, no one telling you what to do, total independence. And yet what many discover, sometimes painfully, is that self-employment often comes with a different set of masters. Banks, lenders, investors, cash flow, market forces, and debt obligations begin to exert authority. The dream of autonomy gives way to leverage. The question is no longer whether one will serve, but whom one will serve. This is precisely the question at the heart of the Exodus.

It is no accident that before the thunder and fire of Sinai, the Torah introduces the figure of Yitro. Moses’ father-in-law sees what Moses himself cannot yet see: that even divinely appointed leadership can become distorted if it remains centralized and unshared. Moses is judging the people alone, from morning until night, and Yitro names the danger plainly: “What you are doing is not good. You will surely wear yourself out, both you and this people” (Exod 18:17–18). Authority among God’s people cannot mirror Pharaoh’s model, even in subtler form. Leadership must be distributed, entrusted to others who fear God, love truth, and reject unjust gain. The Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishmael notes that Yitro rejoiced not merely at Israel’s escape from Egypt, but also at the good God did for them in bringing them toward Torah. In other words, Yitro understands that freedom without covenant is fragile, and covenant without shared responsibility is unsustainable. Before Israel can stand at Sinai as a kingdom of priests, Moses himself must relinquish the illusion that covenantal leadership rests on a single set of shoulders.

Only after authority is shared does Israel arrive at Sinai, where their national identity is forged in earnest. Their collective experience of bondage and liberation now takes on meaning within covenant. God declares, “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exod 19:6). This is not a promise of privilege detached from obligation, but a calling that unites dignity and responsibility.

From the beginning, humanity was created to reflect God’s image in the world. In Genesis, God names the elements of creation, establishing their purpose, and then invites the human being to participate by naming the animals. Sovereignty, in God’s economy, is never exploitative; it is always relational and participatory. To rule is to care. To govern is to serve.

At Sinai, that original human vocation is renewed. God tells Israel that obedience to Torah will enable them to image him as both kings and priests, sovereigns and servants. The language of service is crucial. The command given to Adam “to till and serve” the ground finds its echo in God’s promise to Moses: “When you bring the people out of Egypt, you will serve God on this mountain” (Exod 3:12). Worship and service are inseparable. To serve God is not to retreat from the world, but to engage it rightly.

Biblical scholar Jon Levenson famously described Israel’s dual calling as “an aristocracy of humility,” a phrase that captures the paradox at the heart of Sinai. Authority is real, but it is exercised through submission to God and responsibility toward others.

Standing at the foot of the mountain, the people respond with one voice, “All that the Lord has spoken, we will do” (Exod 24:3). This declaration is not naïve enthusiasm; it is covenantal consent. Israel accepts not only the honor of bearing God’s name, but the weight of living in a way that reflects his character. The rabbis deepen this moment by teaching that Torah was given in the wilderness because the wilderness is ownerless, so that no one could claim exclusive   possession of it (Exodus Rabbah 27:8). Revelation itself resists concentration of power. Torah belongs to all Israel, and through Israel, ultimately to the world.

This contrast between God’s kingship and Pharaoh’s tyranny runs throughout the Exodus narrative. Pharaoh’s authority is sustained by fear, coercion, and scarcity. When God blesses Israel with growth, Pharaoh responds with intensified oppression and violence. Exodus Rabbah observes that tyrannical power cannot tolerate life it does not control (Exodus R. 1:9). God’s authority, by contrast, is revealed through blessing, fruitfulness, and distinction. Liberation is not only about defeating Egypt; it is about reshaping Israel into a people capable of living under a different kind of rule.

The Torah’s vision of authority reaches its fullest expression in the figure of Messiah, whose role is already anticipated in rabbinic expectation. The Messiah is not portrayed as a conqueror who seizes power, but as one who bears responsibility for others. This prepares the way for the Messianic claim that Yeshua fulfills Israel’s calling by embodying the very pattern revealed at Sinai. He does not exploit status or cling to privilege but takes the form of a servant. His authority is expressed through healing, teaching, and self-giving love. As he teaches his disciples, “The kings of the nations lord it over them… but it shall not be so among you” (Mark 10:42–43). Greatness, in his kingdom, is measured by service.

In this, Yeshua does not depart from Torah; he lives it to its depths. He embodies Israel’s vocation to be a kingdom of priests, mediating God’s life to others through humility and faithfulness. The rabbis themselves teach that Torah is acquired through humility, bearing the yoke with others, and serving the community (Pirkei Avot 6:6). Authority flows not from dominance, but from submission to God and care for others.

Each time we stand before the open ark, we stand again at Sinai. We repeat Israel’s ancient pledge, knowingly or not, affirming that all God has spoken, we will do. Parashat Yitro reminds us that this pledge demands more than belief. It demands shared leadership, covenantal responsibility, and lives shaped by service. When God sits on the throne, we are freed from the crushing burden of being our own masters. In that paradox, submission becomes freedom, service becomes dignity, and humility becomes the truest form of nobility. This is the path from Egypt to Sinai, and it remains the calling of Israel—and of all who walk in faithfulness to Israel’s Messiah.

The Promise of Freedom Lives On

Parashat B’Shalach: Exodus 13:17–17:16

Ben Volman, UMJC Canadian Regional Director

The epic story of Israel’s rise from bondage to freedom has had an enduring, universal impact among nations where there is a vision for national and individual liberty. It still speaks as powerfully to the internet generation as it did when Thomas Jefferson, in his second inaugural address, told Americans of his need for guidance from “that Being . . . who led our fathers, as Israel of old, from their native land and planted them in a country flowing with all the necessities and comforts of life.” 

The late British Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks highlights the lasting appeal, particularly in American public life, of the story of Pesach, found in this week’s parasha. Alongside Jefferson, Rabbi Sacks quotes political speeches from across the centuries that celebrate the great themes of “exodus, redemption and the presence of God in history.” Reflecting on the terrible cost of the Civil War, President Lincoln at his second inauguration, might have been describing God’s presence during the Exodus when he quoted from the book of James, “the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether” (James 1:27).

The tumultuous plagues that God imposed on the Egyptians and their gods might have climaxed after the plague of death upon the first-born of Egypt when Pharaoh told Moshe and Aaron to “get out of here! But bless me too” (Ex. 12:32). Yet God hardened Pharaoh’s heart one last time. He repented of letting Israel go free and called out his army to bring them back. God would deliver one last judgment in order that “the Egyptians will realize at last that I am Adonai” (Ex. 14:4).

Israel had marched boldly out of Egypt, but at the shore of the Red Sea we see them wailing in fear as Pharaoh’s horses and chariots filled the horizon. Moshe tried to rally the people with the assurance that God would surely fight for them, but God interrupts: “Why are you crying out to me? Lift your staff, reach out with your hand over the sea, and divide it in two . . . Isra’el will advance into the sea on dry ground” (Ex. 14:16).

A separate tradition tells us that while the immobilized Israelites feared the worst, one inspired Israelite, Nahshon ben Aminidav, leapt expectantly into the water. In order to save this faithful Israeli, God told Moshe to raise his staff over the sea. As a reward for Nahshon’s trust in God’s sovereignty, David, his descendant, would become king of Israel (Mekhilta deRabbi Yishmael, Beshalah, Mesekhta deVayhi 5).

With Pharaoh’s army in hot in pursuit, Rashi’s commentary suggests that Moshe was too engrossed with lengthy prayers. Meanwhile, the Angel of the Lord, who had been leading Israel as a great pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, turned back to place himself in front of the advancing Egyptians. Rashi says that the cloud descended as darkness on the enemy, and kept both the Israelites and Egyptians separated through the night.

A close reading of the biblical account provides details with hidden meaning. The powerful east wind which causes the waters to part appears numerous times in Scripture as a means to bring God’s punishment on the wicked, including Jer. 18:17, Ezek. 27:26, and Is. 27:8. The reference to the “morning watch” approximately between 2 and 6 a.m., just prior to the first light of dawn, is the traditional time when armies attack (v. 24). Using this detail, the text provides an almost cinematic tableau as the Egyptian chariots and cavalry pursue Israel into the sea, and God chooses this hour to deliver judgment.

As the enemy rushes forward, God within the pillar of cloud and fire descends into their midst. “Adonai looked out on the Egyptians and threw them into a panic” (v. 24). In Scripture, when those intent on evil receive this “look,” God is about to unleash lightning and thunder (see Amos 9:4; Ps. 104:32). Now it is the hardhearted warriors who reel in panic as chariot wheels and axles are locked in mud and shattered. Confused and blinded as if in a hurricane they cry out, “Adonai is fighting for Israel . . . Let’s get away from them!” (v. 25). It is too late, and the psalmist makes the fury of God’s power explicit: “Your thunder was in the whirlwind, the lightning flashes lit up the world, the earth trembled and shook.  . . . You led your people like a flock under the care of Moshe and Aaron” (Ps. 77:19).

From the safety of the far shore, God commands Moshe: “Reach your hand out over the sea, and the water will return . . .” (Ex. 14:26). This is the ultimate blow to Pharaoh’s power, a devastation that none will survive. According to the rabbis, God takes no joy in their suffering and when the angels raise their voices to celebrate, they are admonished, “My creatures are perishing, and you are ready to sing.”  Did Pharaoh escape the fate of his army? Not all the rabbis agree, but in the Great Hallel, Ps. 136: 15, the psalmist says that he, too, was swept into the sea.

Although the next chapter has Moshe and Miriam leading Israel in songs of triumph, by the end of the parasha, in chapter 17, we learn that freedom, even freedom under God, brings no guarantee of security or peace. Even as Moshe builds an altar to mark their victory, we learn: “Adonai will fight Amalek generation after generation” (Ex. 17:16).

As history has told us, the universal impact of this story is far greater than a story about God’s power to do the miraculous.  In the modern world, no text has spoken more profoundly to people about their potential to achieve freedom. Martin Luther King, Jr., framed this biblical truth as a principle that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” The message to Israel for all time is clear. The God who has raised you up in fulfillment of his word to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob will not forget his promises to you.

All Scripture quotes are taken from the Complete Jewish Bible.

Tradition!

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1-13:16

Jennifer C., Kol Mashiach Messianic Synagogue, Melbourne, FL

Who is not familiar with the repeated refrain of Tevye the milkman from the opening song of Fiddler on the Roof?—“Tradition!” It is part of the fabric of Jewish life. You cannot be Jewish without knowing about and participating in the various traditions of Judaism. In the words of Tevye, “Here in Anatevka we have traditions for everything . . . how to sleep, how to eat, how to work, how to wear clothes.”

The story of Tevye and his family navigating tradition in the fictional village of Anatevka set in the Pale of Settlement in 1905 is one snapshot of what has been a part of our lives since our birth as a people. Some of our traditions go back to the time of the Torah but have seen changes in how they are implemented, like the wearing of tzitzit, based on clothing styles and cultural nuances. Other traditions are rooted in the experiences of a subset of the Jewish people and their lived experience, as is often the case with traditional foods connected to Jewish holidays. But the presence and importance of tradition in Jewish culture, religion, and experience is undeniable.

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, tradition is “an inherited, established, or customary pattern of thought, action, or behavior.” Tevye may be puzzled as to how traditions get started, but he definitely understands their purpose: “You may ask, why did this tradition get started? I'll tell you why—I don't know. But it's a tradition, and because of our traditions, everyone knows who he is and what God expects him to do.” Tevye expresses what science knows, that tradition helps you to understand who you are in the world you inhabit. It grounds you in a cultural system that existed before you and will continue after you and extends your reach to a community of people larger than you can see. This is how the Jewish people have maintained a shared identity across such extensive space and time—shared tradition. Moroccan Jews, Ethiopian Jews, Jews of Eastern European descent, Sephardic and Mizrachi Jews—we all share traditions that connect us. It is something that is found in the collective community and its continuity is dependent on passing it down to the next generation.

God created us to be people that attach memories and experiences to our senses. Traditions, more often than not, are primarily expressed as things that engage the senses. When I mention Thanksgiving dinner you can see the table heaped with turkey, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie, while practically tasting your favorite dishes as you think of them. Celebrations of the 4th of July seem hollow if we haven’t heard fireworks or had something to eat that was barbecued.

This is no less the case in Judaism. The boundaries of each Shabbat are guarded by traditions that engage the senses. The glow of candles and the sweetness of wine and rich challah mark Shabbat’s beginning on Friday night, while the smell of the havdalah spices and the hissing sound of the braided candle as it is extinguished in the wine signal its end. The emergence of menorahs covered in last year’s melted wax and the smell of frying food alert us to Chanukah’s arrival. Even as I have shared this short list, I’m sure you were thinking of these same traditions or others unique to your experience that run like a thread through your memories, engaging the senses and connecting you to the past.

Tradition may teach us about ourselves and what God expects us to do, as Tevye expressed, but in Judaism it also teaches us theological lessons about who God is and what he has done for us, the Jewish people. In this week’s parasha, God commands us to do something that has become expressed in a tradition that you might be unaware of.

We begin with the opening verses of Exodus 10: 

Then the LORD said to Moses, “Go to Pharaoh, for I have hardened his heart and the heart of his servants, that I may perform these signs of Mine among them, and that you may tell in the hearing of your son, and of your grandson, how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I performed My signs among them, that you may know that I am the LORD.” (Exodus 10:1-2)

God tells Moses that he is performing the signs of the plagues on the Egyptians so that the story can be told to the sons and the grandsons, l’dor v’dor—from generation to generation. After this opening directive, we see three other instances in which God specifically directs dialogue between father and son related to the Passover experience: Exodus 12:26–27, Exodus 13:8, and Exodus 13:14–15. A fourth instance is found in Deuteronomy 6:20–25.

How did the sages determine that we should fulfill this mitzvah? The Jerusalem Talmud (Pesachim 10:4) tells us “Rebbi Ḥiyya stated ‘The Torah spoke about Four Children’” often translated as the Four Sons in our Passover Haggadah. The discussion of the Four Sons helps us tell the story of the Exodus and fulfills the command that is given four times to speak to our children about the Passover. The Wise Son corresponds to Deuteronomy 6:20. The Wicked Son is found in Exodus 12:26. The Simple Son corresponds to Exodus 13:14, and the Son who does not know how to ask is addressed by the parent in Exodus 13:8. What may seem to some (and honestly, to me for many years) as an odd part of the haggadah is actually a tradition that fulfills the mitzvah to speak to our children about Passover. It is a tradition that engages the sense of hearing through story-telling about the Four Sons.

Connected to the Four Sons is a tradition that engages the visual learning centers of our memories. Two of these passages about the sons (Exodus 13:8,14) come right before the command to wear tefilin:

And it shall serve as a sign to you on your hand, and as a reminder on your forehead, that the law of the Lord may be in your mouth; for with a powerful hand the Lord brought you out of Egypt. (Exodus 13:9)

So it shall serve as a sign on your hand and as phylacteries on your forehead, for with a powerful hand the Lord brought us out of Egypt. (Exodus 13:16)

To the outside world, placing a leather box on your head and arm and winding leather straps tightly down your arm seems incredibly odd—much like telling a story about four sons in the middle of a commemoration of the Exodus. The tradition of how we fulfill this mitzvah is enumerated in various religious texts, but the “why” is what is important here.

The practice of “wrapping tefilin” almost always raises questions if you are doing it anywhere that is not in private or in a synagogue. But the first people to ask a man why he is putting on tefilin are his children. “Why do you do this, dad? What does it mean?” Putting on tefilin every day is an opportunity to teach the next generation that our existence is inextricably linked to our deliverance from Egypt by the powerful hand of God. The picture of seeing your father beginning his day in obedience to God through prayer and practice is a powerful lesson for a child and a visible sign of distinction, separation, and commitment to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

In Parashat Bo, a portion filled with plagues, Pharaoh, and Passover instructions, we are reminded that woven into the fabric of our history, God has provided tangible, sensory traditions that remind us of who he is and who he has called us to be. By practicing our traditions in our homes and our communities, passing down the practice of what it means to live as a Jew, we strengthen each generation’s connection to Judaism and to the God of Israel.

The Ransomed Life

“Next year in Jerusalem” Photo credit: Passover Haggadah by BiblioArchives / LibraryArchives

Parashat Va’era, Exodus 6:2–9:35
Chaim Dauermann, Brooklyn, NY

Perhaps you, like I, have noticed that this week’s parasha feels like somewhat of a mirror of this week’s events. As the Iranian people struggle for something better after years of tyrannical oppression, we find a similar motif playing out in the Torah. Here, too, the Israelites strain under tyranny, and look toward a better future. We know that freedom for the children of Israel is just a few chapters away. We can only hope that good news comes out of Iran soon.

Of course, the story of the plagues is familiar for other reasons as well. After all, we read it at least twice a year—once with the parasha cycle, and again at Pesach. But familiarity should never be confused with predictability. The ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus famously observed, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and he’s not the same man.” So too with Torah. When we return to a parasha each year, we are different, as are our circumstances, and so the Torah reveals itself anew. The plagues progress according to what seems like a pattern: Moses’s appeal, Pharaoh’s refusal, a plague inflicted; Pharaoh relents, and then he hardens again. But not all is as it seems. Upon a close reading when we get to the fourth plague—flies—something new emerges. It is now that Moses quietly draws our attention to a detail that has implications that reach far beyond the Exodus narrative.

First, God says, “I will set apart the land of Goshen, where My people are dwelling” (8:18) so that no flies will be there. And then he says something that sounds similar to this, but is distinct: Ve-samti pedut bein ammi u-vein amekha.  “I will make a distinction between My people and your people” (8:19). Of particular interest here is pedut, the noun translated as “a distinction,” but with a more literal rendering would be “ransom” or “redemption.” The verbal root padah carries the same meaning, with an emphasis on the ransom having an exchange of value, or a substitution. This mention in Exodus is the first appearance of the padah root in the Tanakh, but it goes on to appear repeatedly throughout the text. Significantly, it features prominently in mentions of both the redemption from Egypt, and a greater redemption to come, when the whole of Israel is regathered at the time of the Messiah. As the prophet Zechariah writes, “I will signal for them and gather them. Surely I will redeem (padah) them” (10:8).

The symmetry between redemption from Egypt and the redemption in and through the Messiah is a common motif in the Brit Chadashah, but Yeshua’s emissaries were not innovators in this area. The parallel between redemption from Egypt and redemption to come in the Messiah, and the sense of expectation it fosters, finds its first expression the Tanakh, but Jewish tradition has carried it forward through time and ensured its continued prominence.

For example: the Babylonian Talmud records an exchange between second-century contemporaries and frequent debaters Eliezer ben Hyrcanus and Yehoshua ben Hananiah. Their conversation casts some light onto the parallel between the redemption in the past and the one to come. In discussing the timing of the Messiah’s coming, Rabbi Eliezer observes, “in Nisan the Jewish people were redeemed from Egypt; and in Tishrei in the future the Jewish people will be redeemed in the final redemption with the coming of the Messiah.” Rabbi Yehoshua counters with his own suggestion, that “in Nisan in the future the Jewish people will be redeemed in the final redemption” (Rosh Hashanah 11a). While they disagree on the timing, the two rabbis agree on the expectation and the association: There is a final redemption in Messiah, and it echoes the redemption from Egypt. A more familiar carrier of this tradition is this: At the end of every Passover seder, we sing “L’Shana Haba’ah B’Yerushalayim!” Next year in Jerusalem. This doesn’t speak of a casual visit, but rather the end of a long sojourn for the people of Israel, a return home at the anticipated time of regathering.

In Isaiah 11, the prophet writes of the Root of Jesse—the Messiah—who “will stand as a banner for the peoples. The nations will seek for Him, and His resting place will be glorious. It will also come about in that day that my Lord will again redeem—a second time with His hand—the remnant of His people who remain” (Isaiah 11:10–11a). For those of us who trust in Yeshua and follow his teachings, this future regathering is neither mysterious nor distant. Like the Israelites who experienced an initial pedut amidst the plague of flies while they were yet slaves, so we, too, get a foretaste of the great redemption foreseen by the prophets when we look to Yeshua, “who gave Himself as a ransom for all” (1 Tim 2:6). The experience of being Yeshua’s disciple is to live within a redemption that is both already, and not yet. As John writes: “Loved ones, now we are God’s children; and it has not yet been revealed what we will be” (1 John 3:2).

As we go about our walk of faith, we need not limit ourselves to taking the long view, looking only to what is to come once Messiah returns. Though we—and all creation—groan with this expectation, the Scriptures remind us that redemption does not begin at the end. Just as Israel experienced an initial pedut in Egypt, made distinct by redemption even while still enslaved, so we, too, are invited to live within the redemption God has already enacted in Messiah. The disciple’s life is shaped not only by anticipation, but by participation: learning to recognize what God has done, what he is doing now, and how we are to live as his redeemed people today. Our ransomed life is now.

All scripture quotations taken from the TLV.

From Hearing to Attentive Listening

Parashat Shemot, Exodus 1:1–6:1

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

Our parasha this week contains the famous scene of Moses at the burning bush:

Now Moses, tending the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, the priest of Midian, drove the flock into the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God. A messenger of Adonai appeared to him in a blazing fire out of a bush. He gazed, and there was a bush all aflame, yet the bush was not consumed. Moses said, “I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight; why doesn’t the bush burn up?” When Adonai saw that he had turned aside to look, God called to him out of the bush: “Moses! Moses!” He answered, “Here I am.” (Exodus 3:1–4 The Contemporary Torah, JPS, 2006)

Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish (also known as Reish Lakish), in Shemot Rabbah 2:6, reads this moment as a test of character. God does not immediately speak to Moses; instead, God waits to see whether Moses will notice and turn aside. Moses’ attentiveness—his willingness to pause and look closely—is what marks him as fit to lead Israel.

It is only after Moses turns aside that God speaks. The text thus draws a subtle but important distinction between hearing and attentive listening. Moses first hears God through the miracle of the bush that burns without being consumed. Only then does he truly listen—by pausing, turning, and giving his full attention to what is unfolding before him.

Another verse in Tanakh sharpens this distinction.

The second half of 1 Samuel 15:22 is commonly translated as, “To obey is better than sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams” (NIV). Yet the Hebrew suggests something more layered:

שְׁמוֹעַ מִזֶּבַח טוֹב, לְהַקְשִׁיב מֵחֵלֶב אֵילִים

She-mo-a mi-ze-vach tov, le-hak-shiv meh-cheh-lev ai-lim

She-mo-a, the first key word, based on the root Shama, is often rendered as “to obey,” but at its core it simply means “to hear.” Le-hak-shiv, the second term, based on the root Kashav, goes further. It implies focused, intentional listening—an inward act of attention and presence, not mere compliance.

In other words, Scripture distinguishes between sound that reaches the ear and a word that is truly received.

Spiritual Direction

I have served as a spiritual director for many decades helping my clients discern God’s voice in the midst of their daily lives.

This deeper understanding of these words leads naturally into the work of spiritual direction, where the central question is not “What should I do?” but rather, “What is God saying to me in this experience?” In spiritual direction—and in my own life—I encourage people to attend to God’s voice as it emerges within ordinary, lived experience. I believe that God speaks through many channels: nature, art, sermons, Scripture, music, film, conversation, and even silence. While people often expect God’s voice to appear only in explicitly religious settings, it may also arise in a sunset that arrests us, the smile of a child, a line from a movie, a conversation with a friend, or a story in the news.

For example, a close friend of mine, a self‑avowed atheist, once described an early‑morning walk so suffused with beauty that it briefly unsettled his certainty and opened him—if only for a moment—to the possibility of God.

Another example: a spiritual‑direction client of mine once described pausing before a tank of tropical fish in her dentist’s office. As she gazed at it, she was suddenly struck by the thought that God has entire oceans of such beauty to delight in. This realization opened her to a deeper awareness of God.

Sinai, Silence, and Attentiveness

The Rabbis note that the first letter of the Ten Commandments is an aleph (א), a silent letter. They teach that God’s voice continues to radiate from Sinai, calling to us in every generation. Yet that voice is not loud or coercive; it is quiet, subtle, easily missed. To hear it, one must become attentive.

Likewise, in the scene of Elijah at Mount Horeb God did not appear in the loud wind, the shaking of the earth, or the raging fire, but in what the text calls kol de-ma-mah da-kah, a thin, quiet murmuring voice.

Yeshua as Listener

This pattern appears again in the life of Yeshua. The Gospels repeatedly show him withdrawing into silence—into the wilderness, onto hillsides, or into prayer—before speaking or acting. These moments are not escapes from mission but expressions of kashav: deep, attentive listening. Before choosing the Twelve, before confronting opposition, before going to Jerusalem, Yeshua listens first.

Again and again he urges his listeners, “If you have ears, then hear!” (Matt 11:15 CJB). This is not a call for obedience in the narrow sense, but an invitation to the same interior attentiveness Moses shows at the bush. Yeshua models a life rooted not in merely hearing God’s voice, but in listening for it—turning aside, making space, and receiving the word before responding in action.

Practicing Kashav

1 Samuel 15:22 hints at the work before us: first to discern God’s voice (She-mo-a), and then to remain with it in attentive, receptive listening (le-hak-shiv). God’s voice wells up in both our joys and our struggles, in pain as well as in consolation. Our task is to pause, to notice, and to listen in silence. This kind of listening is not necessarily momentary; it may unfold over hours, days, or even weeks. We can return to it again and again, sitting with it and allowing deeper insight to emerge. In this way, listening itself becomes prayer: “God, I sense your voice in this—am I hearing rightly? What do you have for me here?”

This approach has the added benefit of shifting us away from despair in hard times—from questions like, “Why is this happening to me?” or “I don’t deserve this”—toward a different posture altogether: “What might I receive from this painful experience that could draw me closer to love of God, self, and others?”

From Performance to Presence

In the end, the movement from shama to kashav invites a shift from spiritual performance to spiritual presence. We are called not only to hear God’s word or to act upon it, but to cultivate the attentiveness that makes such hearing possible. When we learn to listen with patience, humility, and openness, we discover that God’s voice is not distant or rare, but quietly present within the texture of everyday life. Attentive listening does not replace obedience; it grounds it. It is here, in this gentle and sustained posture of kashav, that our lives are slowly shaped into lives of deeper faith, compassion, and love.

If we adopt this life stance, we will indeed have something better than a choice sacrifice or the fat of rams! And we will be like Moshe who turned to listen at a quietly burning bush, and Yeshua Rabbeinu who lived a perfect life of Kashav!

A Parent-Shaped Hole

Parashat Vayechi, Genesis 47:28–50:26

Matt Absolon, Beth T’filah, Miramar, FL

When Jacob finished commanding his sons, he drew up his feet into the bed and breathed his last and was gathered to his people. Then Joseph fell on his father's face and wept over him and kissed him. And Joseph commanded his servants the physicians to embalm his father. So the physicians embalmed Israel. (Genesis 49:33–50:2)

Among the many lessons to digest from the story of Jacob’s life is the critical importance of the relationship between parents and their children. More pointedly between a father and his son; and in Jacob‘s case between a father and his sons, plural. Nothing, it seems, is unidimensional in Jacob‘s life. 

At Jacob‘s death, we see the text uniquely focus on Joseph’s emotional response as he weeps over the loss of his father. Curiously, the Torah only records Joseph weeping at Jacob’s death. The brothers' responses are omitted. 

This passage and the curious omission regarding the brother’s responses is addressed in both the Jerusalem and Jonathan Targums. The former includes the whole gathered assembly weeping for Israel; the latter following the text more closely, only mentions Joseph weeping over his father. The 11th century commentator Radak (Rabbi David Kimhi) also suggests the eleven brothers were weeping, Joseph being the stand-in for the collective. 

In this reflection, I’d like to follow Targum Jonathan’s approach and explore the plain sense of the text in its omission of the eleven brothers and why, in this setting, the Torah draws our attention to Joseph.

Deep in the heart of every person is a parent-shaped hole, a void that can only be filled by one's father and mother. Joseph, in rather rapid succession, loses both of his parents as a young man. We estimate Joseph to be ten to thirteen when he loses his mother Rachel at Benjamin’s birth; and he was seventeen when he was sold as a slave to Midianite slave traders (Gen 37:2). He would not see his father again until his 39th year. 

It takes little imagination to empathize with the emotional trauma this must have been to Joseph. 

Torn from home, torn from family, torn from that paternal guidance of his father Jacob; Joseph was thrust into a strange land, with strange gods and even stranger customs. That vital chain of l’dor v’dor was in danger of being severed, endangering the birthright promise from Abraham to his great-grandson, Joseph. 

But, somehow, some way, Joseph was able to hold fast to the God of his father Jacob, such that his first words to Pharaoh were to witness of the power of God to interpret dreams (Gen 41:16). In the absence of his father Jacob, Joseph was able to develop the character of his Heavenly Father, and (if I may be anachronistic for just a moment), embody the spirit of the Lord’s Prayer “Our Father in Heaven…”. 

As essential as it may be for us to know God as our Father, that relationship is not meant to replace our natural maternal and paternal relationships. In its most optimal expression, our relationship with our Heavenly Father is meant to deepen and strengthen our relationship with our earthly parents. 

Returning to Joseph and his brothers, the text outlines two vastly different relationships between Jacob and Joseph vs Jacob and the rest of the brothers. Judah's monologue in Gen 44 outlines twenty-two years of pain, bitterness, and regret between Jacob and his sons—the fruit of their ghastly treachery towards both Joseph and Jacob. Joseph, however, carried a very different kind of pain in his heart. 

Dragged across the sands of the desert, standing on the auction block and sold as chattel, locked in the bowels of Pharaoh's prison, Joseph yearned for the embrace of his father. The one man who had the physical and spiritual means to ransom him, the one man who could stop the pain and guide him to safety, who could end the nightmare. 

Joseph had a father-shaped hole in his heart. 

As for the rest of the brothers, the Torah does not let us in on the whys and wherefores of their “coming clean” moment to Jacob. We do not get to see Jacob’s reaction upon discovering their barbarity towards Joseph and the subsequent cover-up. But what we do have is this curious silence in the text at the moment of Jacob’s death. Silence regarding the brothers. 

But Joseph wept. 

And in that weeping I see the years of brokenness, of loneliness, of yearning to be embraced once again by the one person who had Joseph’s best interests at heart, his father. The years of life lived without the steady voice of wisdom and reason, the years of wishing that he could consult with his abba, the years of pining for the opportunity to be a son once again. 

The relationship between parent and child is so pivotal to healthy spiritual development that it is enshrined in the fifth of the Ten Commandments. Nothing can fill that father- or mother-shaped hole in each of our hearts. In turn, when we become parents, we honor God as our father, by accepting just how important we are to the spiritual stability of our children. 

Joseph’s life, in both his grief and his virtuous example, offers a pathway forward for those among us who live with the parent-shaped hole in their hearts. To honor God as our father, to strive to embody the spirit of fatherhood in all its gentleness and care, and to find moments of redemption to turn that which is meant for evil into good. 

Joseph, himself knowing the pain of being fatherless, tells his brothers that God has made him a father to Pharaoh (45:8). In this way, Joseph embraces the path of redemption, as he embodies the character of his Heavenly Father and becomes a father to the fatherless. 

Like Joseph, we often have little say over the circumstances that can rob us of these important relationships; but like Joseph we can also strive to heal the breach by being a loving mother or father to those whom God has placed in our care.

Joseph: Instant Gratification vs Forgiveness

Parashat Vayigash, Genesis 44:18 - 47:27

Rachel Martins, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

What is true forgiveness? What does forgiveness look like and how can it bring about reconciliation?

As a mother to two small boys, teaching empathy and forgiveness can be a challenge when their sweet little minds are fueled by the need for instant gratification. “I want that toy now!” “I want cookies for dinner!” “That’s mine—give it back now!” No matter the circumstance, they want what they want, now.

But how much more do we as adults wrestle with this same selfish drive for instant gratification?

In today’s world, everything demands instant gratification. How can we detach from this mindset when every piece of technology, from television ads to social media, is designed to make us crave and obtain what we want immediately (or with two-day free shipping)?

The idea of a long process toward a distant goal feels daunting unless we’re rewarded along the way. What happened to perseverance—to enduring hardship so that, when we look back, we can see how much stronger we’ve become because of it? Why do we run from the internal struggles that surface as we push toward a goal? We tell ourselves, “It’s not worth it unless I get it right now. Why can’t it just be easy?”

In last week’s parasha, Miketz, we saw the end of Joseph’s trials and persecution in prison. Through perseverance, he rose to become second to Pharaoh, preparing Egypt for the coming famine. One can only imagine the thoughts that plagued Joseph’s mind during those long years behind bars. Yet Hashem was faithful to him, granting him favor in the eyes of the prison commander. Even so, he was forgotten by his fellow prisoners the cupbearer and the baker after interpreting their dreams.

Now, standing before his brothers in this week’s parasha, Joseph faced a choice. What instant gratification could Joseph have gotten in avenging his pain now? Joseph could have retaliated against his brothers for hating him, throwing him into an abandoned well, and selling him into slavery. And yet, he chose the opposite. How quickly this story could have changed had Joseph allowed anger and hatred to poison his heart. Instead of giving in to the temptation of revenge, he looked upon his brothers with compassion and empathy, because he had learned to fully trust Hashem and His ultimate plan.

In resisting the Now gratification Joseph responded to his brothers and said;

“I am Joseph! Is my father still alive?” But his brothers were unable to answer him, because they were terrified at his presence. Then Joseph said to his brothers, “Come close to me.” When they had done so, he said, “I am your brother Joseph, the one you sold into Egypt! And now, do not be distressed or angry with yourselves for selling me here, because it was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you. For two years now there has been famine in the land, and for the next five years there will be no plowing or reaping. But God sent me ahead of you to preserve for you a remnant on earth and to save your lives by a great deliverance. So then, it was not you who sent me here, but God. He made me father to Pharaoh, lord of his entire household and ruler of all Egypt.” (Gen  45:3–8)

What a powerful, selfless act—shown by a man who had every reason to return the rejection his brothers once showed him. Instead of the Now gratification of revenge, Joseph saw Hashem’s greater plan.

The Apostle Paul reminds us of this plan in Romans 8:28:

Now we know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to His purpose.

The plan that Joseph’s brothers had to destroy him, Hashem used for His greater plan and purpose. How can we not also wait to see and trust in the Lord and persevere through the hardship to see His perfect plan? Yeshua also physically displayed this empathy as He hung on the cross, paying the price for our sins with love and compassion. He prayed: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34).

Instead of instant gratification of the Now, how can we step back and trust in Hashem as He instructs us? 

Trust in Adonai with all your heart, lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight. (Prov 3:5-6)

May we find rest in Hashem’s perfect timing, His restoration, and His purpose for our lives through Yeshua the Messiah. And may we learn to respond to others with empathy and love—choosing forgiveness over the fleeting satisfaction of Now.

All Scripture references are from the Tree of Life Version, TLV.

Suffering with Character, Rising with Hope

Parashat Miketz, Genesis 41:1–44:17
Benjamin Juster, Elim Messianic Congregation, Saint Johns, FL

Parashat Miketz—meaning “at the end”—opens with the words “At the end of two full years. . .” referring to the final stretch of Joseph’s imprisonment following the false accusations from Potiphar’s wife. But behind those two years lies a far longer story of waiting, injustice, disappointment, and perseverance.

Joseph was only seventeen when his brothers sold him into slavery. He spent years serving faithfully in Potiphar’s house before being falsely accused and sent to prison. Scholars estimate that by the time Pharaoh’s cupbearer remembered him (Gen 41:9-13)  Joseph had been imprisoned for up to twelve years.

Think of that: twelve years of suffering for righteousness. Twelve years of being forgotten. Twelve years with no guarantee of release.

And yet, what do we consistently see in Joseph’s response?

Integrity. Service. Faithfulness.

Not bitterness. Not self-pity. Not revenge.

Most of us don’t respond that way. When we’re mistreated, blamed unfairly, or overlooked, the first instinct is often anger, self-defense, or despair.

But Yeshua calls us to a different way:

• “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you . . . on account of Me.” (Matt. 5:11–12) 

• “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matt. 5:44)

• “Love your enemies . . . do good . . . expecting nothing in return.” (Luke 6:35)

Our response to suffering is not just an emotional reaction—it is a revelation of character. And it is precisely in these moments that the world sees what kind of followers of Yeshua or disciples we truly are.

There is a legendary oral tradition about the Chafetz Chaim, the influential Lithuanian Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan, who was once called to testify in a Polish courtroom. Before he spoke, the defense attorney offered an elaborate description of the rabbi’s righteousness through numerous accounts of mitzvot and wise counsel. The judge, unimpressed, assumed the stories must have been exaggerated to give the rabbi greater credibility. 

Sensing the judge’s doubt, the lawyer responded, “It may be that not every detail is perfectly accurate. But tell me, your honor—do people tell stories like this about you and me?”

The room was silent.

A person’s character, consistently lived out, leaves an unmistakable impression. Joseph had that kind of character. Yeshua embodied it perfectly. And we are called to walk in it. These are a few qualities that mark the disciples of Messiah:

1.   A Disciple Suffers with Character

Joseph’s life foreshadows the humility and obedience of Messiah:

“He humbled Himself—becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross” (Phil 2:8).

Yeshua’s path to exaltation passed through suffering. Joseph’s path to authority passed through suffering. Our path to spiritual maturity does the same.

2.   A Disciple Is Ready When God Calls

After two more years of waiting, Pharaoh dreams. The cupbearer remembers. Joseph is summoned. And what does Joseph say? “It is not in me; God will give Pharaoh the interpretation.”

That single sentence demonstrated such honesty and humility that Pharaoh trusted him with the entire nation. As Rabbi Chaim Shmuelevitz of the last century explained, Pharaoh saw one moment of integrity and extrapolated a lifetime of trustworthiness (Sichos Mussar, Ma’amar 11).

This is our calling: “Always be ready to give an answer . . . with humility and reverence . . . keeping a clear conscience” (1 Pet 3:15–16).

When God opens a door, character—not charisma—is what makes us ready.

3.   A Disciple Has Eternal Hope

Joseph never knew when—or if—freedom would come. He had no countdown clock on the wall of his cell. His hope was not in circumstances but in God’s promises.

Paul echoes this truth: “suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope” (Rom 5:3–4).

Hope comes after character is formed in adversity. Many of us know what it’s like to live through seasons that feel unjust:

• Losing a job.

• A medical crisis draining our savings.

• Broken relationships.

• Faithfulness met with hardship.

We cry out, “Why now? I’m doing everything right!” Joseph teaches us to see God’s hand even when nothing makes sense.

In a moment, everything can change. The Chofetz Chaim noted that when the moment of redemption came, Joseph wasn’t slowly transferred out of prison—he was rushed out in an instant. This, he said, is how final redemption will come: suddenly, decisively, in God’s perfect timing.

You may feel like you’re in the pit, the plantation, or the prison—but in one moment, God can move you closer to His promise.

What do we look for in the character of others? Pharaoh saw one small act of honesty and elevated Joseph. We often do the opposite—we see one flaw in someone and write them off. Look for small strengths in those around you, not small weaknesses. Encourage the good you see in them, and people will grow into it.

Later in the narrative, Joseph tests his brothers by recreating the original conditions of their sin. Would they betray a favored brother again? Instead, they prove they had changed. They were no longer envious, no longer driven by hatred. Not only did they demonstrate teshuvah, but transformation. True teshuvah shines when we face the same temptation and choose differently.

Where are you this week? 

Pit.
Potiphar’s house.
Prison.
Palace.

Wherever you are, Joseph’s life reminds us:

• God is forming your character

• God is preparing you for a moment of purpose

• God will redeem—suddenly, at the right time

• God works all things for good for those who love Him (Romans 8:28–29)

May this Shabbat anchor your hope, refine your character, and prepare your heart for the doors God is about to open.

More than the Oil

The True Meaning of Chanukah

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

Chanukah is usually told as the story of a jar of oil. A single day’s supply—pure, undefiled—somehow burned for eight days until new oil could be procured. That image has shaped two thousand years of celebration: menorahs in windows, songs around the candles, gifts, latkes, and sufganiyot fried in bubbling oil.

Yet the oil miracle, beautiful as it is, appears only in the Talmud—recorded centuries after the Maccabean revolt. If we look more closely at the earliest sources, something surprising emerges. Chanukah was once focused not on the menorah, but on the altar.

There is a hint to this in the song Maoz Tzur—Rock of Ages. The hymn begins with triumph, praising God as the Fortress who saves Israel. But the final line shifts our attention:

אָז אֶגְמֹר בְּשִׁיר מִזְמוֹר חֲנֻכַּת הַמִּזְבֵּחַ 

Az egmor b’shir mizmor, chanukat ha-mizbeach. “Then I shall complete with a song of praise the dedication of the altar.”

The altar. Not the menorah.

Even the Torah readings during Chanukah revolve around the dedication of the Mishkan, the Temple, and its altar by Moses and the tribal leaders. Our liturgy has been quietly reminding us every year that Chanukah is, at its core, about rededication—not of the lampstand—but of the place of sacrifice.

So how did the menorah become the center?

To answer that, we have to return to the original story.

Antiochus IV did not simply oppress the Jewish people—he attempted to eradicate Judaism itself. On the 15th of Kislev, he erected an idol in the Temple. On the 25th of Kislev, he defiled the altar with pagan sacrifices. 

The Maccabees were a family of Jewish priests and the leaders of the successful revolt against him. They were led by the priest Mattathias and his son, Judas Maccabeus (whose nickname means "The Hammer"), a brilliant military strategist..

When the Maccabees reclaimed the Temple, they intentionally waited until that same date—25 Kislev—to rededicate it, reversing Antiochus’s desecration.

The Book of Maccabees (1 Maccabees 4:47, 50, and 52-53) describes their work in detail:

They took uncut stones, according to the Torah, and built a new altar like the former one. . . . They lighted the lamps on the lampstand, and these illuminated the Temple. . . . They rose early on the twenty-fifth day of the ninth month… and offered sacrifice according to the law on the new altar.

This was an altar-centered festival. But why choose eight days?

In Jewish history, eight-day dedications are not new.

• Moses dedicated the Mishkan over eight days. (Leviticus 8:33, 35; 9:1)

• Solomon dedicated the First Temple over eight days—timed with Sukkot. (2 Chronicles 7:9-10)

• Sukkot itself is an eight-day festival, originally tied to the autumn harvest and later to Israel’s wilderness journey. (Leviticus 23:36)

The Maccabees had not been able to celebrate Sukkot during the war. Once victorious, they rededicated the Temple and celebrated a delayed Sukkot.

A letter preserved in 2 Maccabees 1:18 makes this explicit:

We shall be celebrating the purification of the Temple on the twenty-fifth of Kislev . . . that you too may celebrate the Feast of Booths and of the fire that appeared in the days of Nehemiah.

Which brings us to another thread in this tapestry.

2 Maccabees 1:19-23 relates that before the destruction of the First Temple, the priests hid the sacred altar fire in a stone cistern, hoping it might someday be restored. When the returnees from Babylon sought it in Nehemiah’s day, they found only an oily residue. Nehemiah poured it onto the sacrifice—and as the sun rose, the fire leapt to life. The continuity of God’s presence was reaffirmed. 

Chanukah’s original focus on the altar fits neatly into this long arc of memory: fire preserved, found, renewed.

So why did the focus shift to oil?

One theory is elegantly simple.

Temple sacrifices can occur only at the Temple. After the destruction of the Second Temple, Jews could no longer reenact the altar’s dedication. But a menorah can be lit anywhere—even in exile.

The rabbis gave the people a way to celebrate at home. The candles symbolized the altar’s fire. The miracle story of the oil emerged later, reframing the holiday around light rather than sacrifice, devotion rather than bloodshed, hope rather than revolt.

For us Messianic Jews, Chanukah has an added resonance. It falls near the season when our Christian neighbors remember the birth of Yeshua. As we light our candles, we can recall that Messiah Yeshua is the Light of the World, the Light of Torah (John 10).

Our menorahs, however, point not only to the Temple lampstand, but also to Nehemiah’s pouring the residual oil on the altar; to sacrifice, not just light. 

Since Chanukah originally centered on the altar, another connection emerges. Yeshua is not only Light—He is also the sacrifice upon the altar, the offering whose power overcame death itself.

Just as Antiochus sought to extinguish the Jewish people, the forces of evil sought to extinguish Yeshua’s mission. Both failed. Through the resurrection, God vindicated His Son just as He restored His Temple.

In the church that our congregation used to rent from, during the Christmas season they had a cross and a manger on either side of the stage. They were proclaiming a profound truth: His birth is bound to His sacrifice. His life is one continual dedication—a personal Chanukah.

When we kindle our menorahs this year, we join a vast story stretching across millennia:

• Moses’ dedication of the Mishkan.

• Solomon’s dedication of the First Temple.

• Nehemiah’s restoration of the sacred fire.

• The Maccabees’ rededication of the altar after Antiochus’s desecration.

• Generations of Jews carrying light into exile.

• And Messiah Yeshua, whose life and death embody the ultimate dedication to God’s will.

The light we kindle is not only about the oil that burned beyond its natural limit. It is about the fire that has never gone out—not in our history, not in our Scriptures, not in the heart of God.

As we light our menorahs, we rededicate ourselves as well.

We remember our calling to bring the light of Torah into the world.

We remember Yeshua as both Light and Sacrifice.

And we remember Rav Shaul’s call that we be “living sacrifices” (Romans 12:1) — our own lives becoming small altars upon which we offer ourselves to God.

May we ponder these things in this season.

May we give thanks to the One who continues to save us in myriad ways—especially through the great salvation wrought through His Son.

And may we rededicate ourselves to His Torah, becoming not only light-bearers, but living offerings, devoted to the One who renews the altar of our hearts.

When Brothers Are Reconciled

Parashat Vayishlach, Genesis 32:3-36:43 

Lieutenant Junior Grade Jacob Landers, UMJC-Endorsed U.S. Navy Chaplain Candidate 

Kehilat Ariel Messianic Synagogue, San Diego

VaYishlach, the name of this week’s parasha, means “and he sent” and refers to the messengers that Yaakov sends to his brother, Esav, informing him that he does not want war but peace with his brother.  

As a father of two young boys, one of the most heart-wrenching moments for me is when my boys hurt each other, start a fight, take from the other, or even just have anger towards each other. I see the very best of them and get to bear witness to their moments of pure genius, joy, and enthusiasm, and I want them to see that in each other at all times. Conversely, one of the most kvelling moments I get is to see them recognize how the other is hurt, set aside their pride, hug it out, and then watch them encourage each other or share toys; an unprompted “I’m sorry, buddy” brings a joyful tear to my eye. 

In this parasha, Esav had every right to be angry with his brother, Yaakov. Yaakov bought Esav’s birthright for a bowl of pottage, deceived his father into giving him his blessing, and then made off to another land with the help of his mother. By these actions, “supplanter” seems like a worthy meaning for Yaakov’s name! 

At the same time, Yaakov had every right to be upset; his older brother, who is supposed to teach him through his actions how to be a good and noble man instead sells off his birthright for a snack; a snack that Rabbeinu Bahya tell us was the mourning meal for their grandfather, Abraham, deepening the disrespect (Rabbeinu Bahya, Bereshis 25:29:1).  Yaakov makes a mourning meal for their parents. Esav returns from hunting and, instead of caring for their parents, “gladly” sells the gift that God had given to him, so that he “spurned his birthright” (Gen 25:34 JPS). The commentators even note that “Esau committed five different sins that very day” (Bava Batra 16). In a blossoming theme by this point, the younger brother becomes more blessed than the “rightful” son. 

When the messengers returned to Yaakov, they told him that Esav was, indeed, coming to meet him but with a retinue of 400! (Gen 32:7). The Scripture explicitly tells us that Yaakov was afraid or “greatly frightened” (Gen 32:8).  Esav, it seems, was on the warpath.  Yaakov then does something that I often forget to do when about to face something terrifying; he prays. He asks Hashem for deliverance and blesses him for all the kindness (or faithfulness-חֲסָדִים) he has shown him.  “With my staff alone I crossed this Jordan, and now I have become two camps” (Gen 32:11).  So, Yaakov divided his camp, selected gifts for his brother to “propitiate him” (Gen 32:21), and sent them across the river.  

The next thing that happens I have often wondered about. The text tells us that “Jacob was left alone. And a figure wrestled with him until the break of dawn” (Gen 32:25). As perplexing as it sounds, the only real fact we are presented with is that a figure or angel, seemingly out of nowhere, simply approaches Yaakov and immediately they wrestle! But not only do they wrestle, they wrestle all night until the sun begins to dawn! Where did the figure come from? Was he lying in wait? Why, exactly, did they wrestle? It sounds both utterly confusing and, frankly, utterly hilarious, that a figure appears out of nowhere and just body-slams Yaakov to the ground where they wrestle all night. But, once the dawn breaks, the figure “wrenched Yaakov’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him” (Gen 32:26) But Yaakov did not let go.  Yaakov did not stop wrestling with the figure until he blessed him. It is here that something wonderful happens. 

The figure blesses Yaakov by telling him, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have struggled with God and with man, and have prevailed” (Gen 32:29, NKJV). Yaakov’s name is changed to Israel, a name that all of us are now under—Jews being naturally born as sons and daughters of the sons of Israel, and non-Jews being grafted into the commonwealth of Israel; adopted into the family. Equally amazing is that when Israel asked the name of the figure, the figure told him, “you must not ask my name!” (Gen 32:30). 

Finally comes my favorite part of this story: “Esav ran to greet him. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept” (Gen 33:4).  At last, the brothers are united and Esav, who was on the warpath, kisses his brother and they weep together. The images in my mind of my own toddler sons, reconciling to kiss one another, brings tears to my eyes. But in this story, there are a few lessons. 

First: Struggling with God is a holy endeavor.  We ought to be struggling with God and to continue struggling until we are blessed! In fact, as members of the family of Israel, we, most of all, ought to be struggling with God (and not against him). It is through the struggles that we truly live out our heritage and our commonwealth. 

Second, it is only after prayer and struggling with God that Yaakov/Israel is able to reconcile with his brother—not by his own efforts, but by asking God to intervene in his kindness and faithfulness. 

Finally, there is a blessed hope that is introduced later in this parasha.

Yaakov gave the site, where God had spoken to him, the name of Bethel. They set out from Bethel; but when they were still some distance short of Ephrath, Rachel was in childbirth, and she had hard labor. When her labor was at its hardest, the midwife said to her, “Have no fear, for it is another boy for you.” But as she breathed her last—for she was dying—she named him Ben-oni; but his father called him Benjamin. Thus Rachel died. She was buried on the road to Ephrath—now Bethlehem. (Gen 35:15—19)

The son of Yaakov’s favor, Benjamin (who we will see again in an important way in the story of Yosef) is born even though his mother dies. She means to call him Ben-Oni, son of my suffering, but Israel calls him Benjamin, son of my right hand; as if to say that the youngest son will become like the first-born—the highest position of honor.  Also, it is no coincidence that he was born in Beit-Lechem (or Bethlehem), the house of bread.  All these are Messianic allusions. 

We know that Messiah—in the image of Yosef—must suffer, be dropped into a pit, unrecognized by his own people, but will ascend to the right hand of the king; this is why he is called “Mashiach ben Yosef.” But this is the hope delivered through Israel: that the son that once was the son of my suffering has become the son of the right hand and his name is “salvation,” Yeshua. Born a son of Israel in Beit-Lechem, he suffered, died, and was buried, but conquered death—the ultimate struggle—and ascended to the right hand of the King of kings so that we may all be reconciled to God! As Rachel was comforted by the midwife, so may we be comforted: “have no fear, for you also will have this son!” 

Each of us will struggle with God, but hang on in your wrestling—don’t let go until you realize the blessing! Be reconciled. If you wronged someone, seek forgiveness; if you were wronged, give forgiveness freely without prompting. Finally, Pray. Pray for your leaders, for your congregation, for each other, for yourself, and for Israel to see the son of suffering and instead call him the son of the highest honor.