Do Not Forget

Megillat Esther, Scroll of Esther. theTorah.com

A D’var Torah for Tetzaveh and Zachor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Gift is More Than Giving

Parashat Terumah, Exodus 25:1-27:19

Mary Haller, Tikvat Israel Synagogue, Richmond VA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Growing New Shells

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1–24:18

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

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

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

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

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

Stress as a Signal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the Shell No Longer Fits

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vulnerability Under the Rock

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

This matters for us.

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

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

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

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

Retreat is not failure. It is preparation.

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

The Rock Beneath Us

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

Psalm 18 declares:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock of Israel, arise to the help of Israel.

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

Building on the Rock

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

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

(Just like a lobster with his new shell!)

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

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

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

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

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

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.