Parashat Re’eh: Seeing the Mystery

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

Rabbi Dr. Joshua Brumbach

Congregation Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Shabbat Shalom! 

Fuel for Righteous Living

Parashat Ekev, Deuteronomy 7:12-11:25

Mary Haller, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom! 

The Paradox of Election

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

Dave Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Build and Rebuild

Shabbat Chazon and Tisha B’Av

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 According to the great medieval Torah commentator, Abravanel:

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

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

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

And again in 1 Corinthians 6:19–20:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cut into Covenant: The Passion and Promise of Messianic Judaism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Why Pinchas? Why Here? Why Now?

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

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

And it worked.

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

Enter Pinchas.

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

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

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

And yet... God responds with affirmation.

We are left to wrestle with this.

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

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

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

Other Moments of Severe Response

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bris: A Moment of Vulnerability and Vision

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

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

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

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

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

What Are We Willing to Risk?

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

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

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

But what about the opposite danger?

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

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

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

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

Pinchas and Elijah: Zeal and Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ruth the Moabitess: A Holy Contrast

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

Her name was Ruth.

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

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

And that matters deeply.

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

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

A Vision for Messianic Judaism

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

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

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

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

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

Conclusion: Carrying the Fire

And so, we return to the bris.

The child is brought into the covenant.

Elijah is seated.

Pinchas hovers, silently.

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

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

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

May we be that people.

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

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

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

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

The Women Who Spoke What is Right

Parashat Pinchas, Numbers 25:10—30:1

Daniel Nessim, Kehilat Tsion, Vancouver, BC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which Name of God Will You Make Known?

Parashat Balak, Numbers 22:2–25:9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Besorah, Yeshua prays for his talmidim:

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

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

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

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

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

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

What name has God made known to you?

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

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

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

So I ask you:

• Have you discovered your name for God?

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

• Have you shared that name with others?

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

Bitter Water and Sweet Surrender

Parashat Chukat, Numbers 19:1–22:1

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

Parashat Chukat is one of the most enigmatic portions in the entire Torah. It seems to flow with contradiction: it begins with a mysterious ordinance, introduces a miraculous yet perplexing deliverance, and ends in what feels like a strange and tragic justice. Midrash teaches us that hidden within these paradoxes are holy lessons, if we’re willing to live with the mystery.

One way to remember the surreal themes of this portion is with a simple mnemonic: Three Children of Amram, Two Strange Cows, and a Rock with a Perpetual Stream.

Let’s begin with the two strange cows. Chukat opens with the decree of the Red Heifer—parah adumah—called not just a law of Torah, but the decree of the Torah. Why such a strange ritual? A completely red, unblemished cow, never yoked, is burned and its ashes used to purify those who have come in contact with the dead. But in a twist that reflects the whole spiritual tension of this parasha, those who prepare the waters of purification become impure themselves.

It makes no sense. And perhaps that’s the point.

The Sages tell us that this is the ultimate chok—a decree from God that defies rationality. Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, when questioned by a Roman official about this rite, offered a quasi-scientific response about removing unclean spirits. But when his own disciples questioned him, he admitted the truth: “The dead do not defile, and the ashes do not purify. It is a decree of the King of Kings. We are not to question.”

Still, the sages tried to interpret. One tradition connects the Red Heifer to the Golden Calf. Just as a mother cleans up after her child, so the red heifer atones for the sin of the golden calf. And why a female animal? Precisely because she represents care, nurture, and sacrificial purity—responding to an earlier failure with a new redemptive act.

This is not the only paradox in the portion. The Talmud in tractate Niddah reflects that just as Torah forbids blood as food, yet a mother’s blood becomes milk to nourish her child, so too the process of purification is not always clean. Sometimes, holiness requires us to step into the mess. Sometimes, like the priests who prepare the ashes, we must become defiled in order to bring healing to others.

That brings us to the three children of Amram: Moses, Aaron, and Miriam.

Numbers 20 begins with Miriam’s death and ends with the fateful moment when Moses and Aaron strike the rock at Meribah—an act that costs them entry into the Promised Land (Num 20:12). These three siblings are called parnassim tovim, good and faithful leaders. Yet their lives reflect the paradox of the Red Heifer: they endure personal loss, sacrifice, and even divine rebuke, not for their own sin alone, but also to serve as atonement for the people.

The Midrash teaches that Yocheved, their mother, outlives them all. Since her children were the spiritual parents of Israel, it’s as if she becomes the matriarch to 600,000 souls who enter the land. There’s something deeply moving in this image—of lives lived not for personal fulfillment but for national redemption.

Then we come to the rock with the perpetual stream.

The aggadic tradition tells us that in Miriam’s merit, a miraculous rock followed the Israelites, gushing fresh water throughout their journey in the wilderness. It wasn’t just a miracle—it was a companion. A symbol of divine grace, unearned and ever-present. This rock, touched by Miriam’s faith and the echo of the Nile where she placed her baby brother, flowed with twelve streams—one for each tribe. Trees and flowers grew along its banks. Wherever Israel went, it followed.

When Miriam died, the water stopped. And in their thirst, the people complained bitterly. God told Moses to speak to the rock—but instead, Moses struck it. Twice. The sages say that only a drop came out at first. And when Moses struck again, it gushed blood. The people cried, “God is no longer with us!” Even the rock cried out, “Why have you struck me?” God wept too, saying, “You were meant to speak gently and lead with compassion. You were meant to teach faith, not provoke doubt.”

And then God healed the rock and commanded it to bring forth water again. The blood on the desert sand turned into roses, and the water reflected their color.

The Apostle Paul, Rav Shaul, seems to echo this tradition when he writes: “They all drank from the same spiritual drink, for they drank from the spiritual rock that accompanied them—and that rock was Messiah” (1 Corinthians 10:4).

Just as water flowed from the rock, Paul sees in Messiah the ultimate paradox: the stone rejected becomes the source of life. God brings purification through a suffering servant, blessing through blood, resurrection through surrender.

This portion, with all its riddles, asks us to trust that God’s ways are not always meant to be deciphered. Like Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, we may give a polite answer to the world—but among ourselves, we embrace the mystery.

And yet, we are not passive. We act. We serve. We do mitzvot, even when we don’t understand them fully. Because through them, we draw near. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel put it best: “Perhaps the essential message of Judaism is that in doing the finite, we may perceive the infinite.”

It is in these strange, often small acts—kindness, service, observance, forgiveness—that we encounter the divine. We don’t have to solve the mystery to stand in awe of it. We just have to live faithfully within it.

So let us not seek only to understand. Let us also do. Let us speak to the rock rather than strike it. Let us draw sweetness from the bitter, water from stone, and light from ashes.

And may the Rock of our salvation, the One who follows us even when we forget him, continue to lead us with mystery, mercy, and grace.

Rebellion and Its Cure

Parashat Korach , Numbers 16:1-18:32

James Burling, US Navy Chaplain, Kehilat Ariel, San Diego

I'm honored to bring light through the word this week as global tensions continue to rise, particularly in Israel and the Middle East. As a chaplain in the US Navy, it's my duty to orient our warfighters toward God, despite the disorienting conditions that we face.   

This week's Torah portion opens with the Korach rebellion.

Now Korah, son of Izhar son of Kohath son of Levi, and sons of Reuben—Dathan and Abiram, sons of Eliab, and On son of Peleth—rose up against Moses and took 250 men from Bnei-Yisrael, men of renown who had been appointed to the council. They assembled against Moses and Aaron. They said to them, “You’ve gone too far! All the community is holy—all of them—and Adonai is with them! Then why do you exalt yourselves above the assembly of Adonai?” (Numbers 16:1-3)

Korach is of the priestly lineage along with Aaron, the high priest; both are Levites, sons of Levi. Korach along with some other chieftains, particularly from the tribe of Reuben, seek to confront and remove Moses from his position. This rebellious entourage of men seek to thrust themselves into positions for the sake of power, fame, and influence. From the beginning of creation, starting with Adam and Eve’s rebellion in the garden, rebellion has not yielded any positive outcomes, and this event is no exception.

It might seem rather hypocritical for an American to speak out against rebellion. After all, my nation's founding was predicated on rebellion against our British rulers. American colonists considered this justified because of undue taxation and seized the opportunity for independence. The preamble of the United States Constitution declares that such rebellion was necessary to create a more perfect union. In comparison, the Korach account shows us God's affirmation of His elect prophet Moses and disallows this rebellious action of Korach. 

A question that we should ask is this: did Korach and his rebel leaders seek or warrant a "More perfect union" with God than they already had? The early exchanges in Numbers 16 between Moses and Korach show us that the Levites, including Korach, were given a significant ministerial office as priestly laborers who regularly witnessed the interaction with the Glory of the Lord in the Tabernacle.  

We aren't told what Korach’s thoughts were that triggered his motivation for rebellion, but we can observe that he was discontented with God over what he was given. We aren't told if Korach prayed at all, but the text does indicate that he mounted accusers and accusations against Moses, so slander and gossip likely took place before the rebellious confrontation.  Note that Korach's discontentment is much like Cain's discontentment in the Genesis account in chapter 4 and how his rebellion played out.  

King David wrote in the opening of the 23rd Psalm “The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want.” Not wanting or "Lo echsar" roughly translates to not perceiving oneself as lacking or suffering a decrease. Korach found himself lacking favor from God much as Cain did, with each character trying to save face.  Whether Korach lusted after the priesthood initially, he simply felt discontented and wronged with where God had him. The pathology is that if we can rationalize that we have been wronged in any way, then we can justify nearly any retributive action as recourse. We usurp God and his order and exalt ourselves as judge and jury or lord of the situation. Whether personal or corporate, every rebellion in the history of the world has started this way. In our world, there is no lack of wrong being done but there is an extreme lack of justice and mercy.  

The narrative of early nomadic Israel in this week’s Torah portion offers us an opportunity to inspect our personal motives in any circumstance. Sin is a triunity of rebellion—against God, self, and others. Rebellion is a default human posture and attitude, and even more so, it’s our condition. We continually fall short in our deeds and thoughts.  The cure is to turn, perhaps face down first, make repentance, and reverently seek God's face for forgiveness in all directions. James explains in his writings this conception and evolution of sin:

But each one is tempted when he is dragged away and enticed by his own desire. Then when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and when sin is full grown, it brings forth death. (James 1:14-15)

Korach was caught up in his own desires. Sin clouds our world and personal perception. It arises from the Yetzer hara, the evil inclination that we all battle, and leads us to fall short, then making us enemies of God with the help of pride. Pride ensures separation from God after we have sinned.  We notice that when Moses was confronted and accused by Korah and his clan, Moses didn't hastily defend himself or his position; he didn't explain himself. Rather, “When Moses heard this, he fell on his face” (Num 16:4). This action is synonymous with worship, repentance, reverence, and sincerity.  

By prostrating himself, Moses is denying his own face (vanity and pride) to receive the favor of the Lord’s face. It's also worth noting that the Aaronic priestly blessing in Numbers 6:24-26 is regarding our orientation toward the Lord and his face shining upon us.

The Lord bless you and keep you;

the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you;

the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.

When we turn to the Lord and spend time with Him, our countenance changes. Exodus 34:29 shows us what happens to Moses’ face after interfacing with the Lord in receiving the Torah. “Moses did not know that the skin of his face was radiant, because God had spoken with him.”

The antidote to our fallen circumstance in any situation is disarming it through interfacing with God, just as Moses does in the Korach situation. Prayer must become our primary response. Unlike Korach, but like Moses, we must desire God more than any status, position, or outcome. Perhaps it's a shortfall, pun intended, that we prostrate ourselves only once a year, on Yom Kippur. We fall to the floor on behalf of our own intercession for atonement, but what about on behalf of others as Moses did for the Kohathites? Do we pray for our enemies and those that oppose us? Romans 5:10 is about this very intercession, by our permanent high priest. “For if, while we were yet enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of His Son, how much more, having been reconciled, shall we be saved by His life.”  

The Korach rebellion often reflects the voices that are in our minds in our own life circumstances. It reminds us that we cannot seize favor from God by force but through prayer, reverence, and humility towards Him. To receive favor from God requires gentle submission to him and his will, not by force, but by His spirit. The Avinu prayer that Yeshua gives us in Matthew 6:9-13 frames the ideal posture before God in dealing with our rebellion. It addresses the Father who is holy. The One who is set apart sets us apart. We must desire His Kingdom and not our own lordship or glory. We pray for His will and not our own to prevail. We ask for our sins to be forgiven as we forgive those who have offended us. We ask not to be led into testing, but if we must be tested, we pray to be delivered from the evil one. In Matthew 5:7 Yeshua commands us to be peacemakers: “blessed are the peacemakers for they will be called Bene Elohim, sons of God.”

As children of God, we are obligated not to make rebellion, but to turn from our rebellion and make peace in every circumstance. For Romans 12:18 tells us, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” May the Lord bless you in all your peacemaking endeavors. Shalom in Messiah Yeshua.

The Battle Belongs to the Lord

Jerusalem bomb shelter, June 15, 2025

Parashat Shelach L’cha, Numbers 8:1–12:16

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

These are unsettling days. The headlines speak of endless violence in the Middle East, growing instability, and a troubling resurgence of antisemitism, not just on the fringes, but in the mainstream of public discourse and politics. It can feel like we are standing on the edge of something ominous. The words of the prophets echo in our minds: “In the end of days there will be wars and rumors of wars.”

But then again—when has that not been true? When has the world not been trembling somewhere? Perhaps what Scripture is really telling us is that our so-called “last days” may stretch on for generations. The question is not when the end will come, but how we are meant to live in such a time.

Today’s Torah portion, Shelach L’cha, along with its paired haftarah from Joshua, tells the story of two generations on the edge of the Promised Land. Each sends spies to assess the enemy and the terrain. Each is on the brink of a great battle. Each must decide whether to believe in their fears or in the faithfulness of God.

In Numbers 13, Moses sends twelve tribal leaders to scout the land. They all see the same geography, the same cities, the same adversaries. But ten of them return filled with dread: “We looked like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so we appeared to them” (13:33). Their vision of themselves was so small that even the promise of God could not lift them up.

Forty years later, in the haftarah, Joshua sends two spies into Jericho. They find themselves in a precarious situation, hiding on a rooftop, pursued by the king’s men. But something surprising happens—they hear from Rahab, the Canaanite innkeeper, that the hearts of the people are already melting in fear: “We know the Lord has given you this land” (Josh 2:9). The difference is striking. The first group saw defeat, the second saw victory. Not because the situation had changed—but because they were looking through the eyes of faith, not fear.

Proverbs 21:30–31 says it clearly:

There is no wisdom, no insight, no plan that can succeed against the Lord.
The horse is made ready for the day of battle, but victory rests with the Lord.

Yes, we prepare. We advocate, we defend, we mourn, and we organize. We show up with truth and courage. But we do not place our trust in horses or headlines. We place our trust in the God who sees the whole battlefield and whose purposes cannot be overturned. The battle belongs to Hashem.

That knowledge should give us confidence—but it also raises a question: If God is the author of the outcome, what role do our choices play? The answer lies not in knowing every twist of the story, but in trusting the One who writes it with us.

Proverbs 20:24 reminds us, “A man’s steps are directed by the Lord. How then can anyone understand his own way?”

Life, as we experience it, often feels confusing or random. We can’t always trace the path, let alone control it. That can lead to discouragement, especially when we look back and see missteps, lost time, or wrong turns.

John Quincy Adams once confessed:

My life has been spent in vain and idle aspirations, and in ceaseless rejected prayers that something beneficial to my own species should be the result of my existence.

That aching desire to have made a difference—to have mattered—is something we all feel. But how we deal with that sense of regret or failure is crucial. And literature gives us two vivid examples: Oedipus and Raskolnikov.

Oedipus, the tragic king of Thebes, tries to outrun a prophecy that he will kill his father and marry his mother. Despite his efforts, he fulfills it unknowingly. When the truth emerges, he is devastated. Though he had no malicious intent, he takes full responsibility and blinds himself. His story is one of over-responsibility—bearing guilt for what he could not have prevented. It is a despairing view that leaves no room for mercy or divine grace.

On the other hand, Raskolnikov, in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, murders an old woman under the delusion that he is acting for the greater good. He then spends the entire novel trying to rationalize and deny his guilt. His is a story of under-responsibility—blaming fate, philosophy, anything to avoid owning the truth. Only when he finally confesses and repents does he begin to heal.

Oedipus is crushed by guilt for what was not truly his fault. Raskolnikov avoids guilt for what clearly was. And most of us, in our own way, oscillate between these two extremes—either taking on too much shame or trying to escape it entirely.

But Torah offers another way. A better way. It teaches us that we are not helpless victims of fate, nor are we autonomous authors of the world. Instead, we are co-authors with Hashem, responsible for our part, but never alone in shaping the story.

As Proverbs 16:33 teaches: “The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord.”

Yes, we cast the lots—we make the choices, big and small—but God determines the outcome. That means we are never without agency, and never beyond redemption. God doesn’t erase our past, but he transforms it. He can turn even the broken chapters into a part of his greater redemptive arc.

Each of us is given the opportunity to write a story worth telling. That’s why we were born. And while we write it, we must remember that history itself is really His-story. When we acknowledge his authorship—when we trust that the battle is his, and yet take responsibility for our role—then we live with both humility and hope. We no longer fear our mistakes, nor deny them. We bring them before Hashem, and he sets us free to write something better with the time we have.

So yes, the world is frightening. The forces arrayed against the Jewish people and against truth and righteousness, can feel immense. But we are not grasshoppers in our own eyes—we are the beloved children of the God of Israel. We do not walk into this battle alone. We prepare the horse, but the victory belongs to the Lord.

Let us write the next chapter not in fear, but in faith. Let us believe that even now, Hashem is at work behind the scenes. And let us live with the confident knowledge that our stories—yours and mine—are still being written. And the best pages may yet lie ahead.

Ken yehi ratzon—may this be God’s will.