The Divine Recipe

Parashat Terumah, Exodus 25:1–27:19

by Barri Cae Seif, Sar Shalom, Arlington, TX

Cooking was once one of my favorite pastimes. Years ago, in a cooking class, our team was assigned to cook breakfast, an easy endeavor for anyone. I had fixed breakfasts for years. Accidentally , however, I made chocolate milk before setting aside milk for the scrambled eggs. Imagine my surprise and horror when the instructor told that we had to take the milk that was set aside and put it in the scrambled eggs! Surprisingly, the eggs tasted great, but they looked awful. What a life lesson I had that day, learning to prepare, think ahead and read the recipe.

This week’s parshah, Terumah, begins with the instructions that God gave to Moshe about the construction of the sanctuary. Rabbi Hertz, in his commentary, noted, “As God was holy and as the sanctuary was holy, so much the Israelites make the sanctification of their lives the aim of all their endeavors.” God instructs, “From anyone whose heart compels him, you are to take my offering” (Exod 25:2). If an individual is moved to contribute, his or her offering is to be accepted. God then gives instructions for the construction of the Ark of the Covenant (Exod 25.10), with a pledge, “I will meet with you there. I will speak with you from above the atonement cover—from between the two keruvim that are on the Ark of the Testimony—about all that I will command you, for Bnei-Yisrael” (Exod 25:22).

The next piece of furniture is the table of showbread. Nothing was left to the imagination; everything had to be constructed exactly as God required. For almost 21 years, I was a manufacturer’s representative of residential roofing shingles. Your roof is like your head of hair (or lack thereof). If improperly addressed, the lack is obvious. These table directions were given by divine revelation. Moshe was told to place the table on the north side of the Holy Place. The light of the golden menorah revealed and illuminated the bread and the table. It was holy. Exodus 25:30 notes “Always set the bread of the presence (lechem ha-panim) on the table before me.” Hertz noted that the bread of the presence is “an expression of thankfulness and standing acknowledgment on the part of the children of Israel that God was the Giver of man’s daily necessities.”

God is the God of order and we see the divine recipe in Leviticus 24:7–8: “Also, you are to take fine flour, and bake twelve cakes of it, with two tenths of an ephah in each cake. Then you are to set them in two rows, six in a row, on the pure gold table before Adonai. Set pure frankincense on each row, as a memorial portion for the bread, an offering by fire to Adonai.” Fine flour is the initial ingredient for this divine recipe. This quality flour is broken and crushed into powder. Heat is applied through baking. The bread was the first fruits, the spiritual offering given to God, first. The bread was placed every Shabbat, on the day of rest and peace.

Now, in this 21st century, every Friday night, Jewish families all over the world say blessings to usher in Shabbat. Some families may say more, but at least three blessings are recited. One is giving thanks for the Sabbath and lighting the Sabbath candles, one is giving thanks to God for the fruit of the vine, and one is giving thanks to God for the bread.

 Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu melech ha-olam ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz. “Blessed are you O LORD our God, king of the universe who brings forth bread from the earth.”

When I was young, we rarely said this blessing, and I don’t know why. Perhaps my mom was too busy raising four young children to bake the wonderful challah. Yet, as we grew up, at Thanksgiving, as we gave thanks, my father would recite Ha-motzi, giving God thanks for the bread. Saying grace before meals is not a standard operating procedure in most secular Jewish homes, so this prayer was a real blessing! Knowing Yeshua adds a wonderful new dimension to this prayer.

Our Messiah Yeshua was born in Bethlehem, Beit Lechem, meaning the House of Bread. Yeshua said to his disciples and the multitude in John 6:35: “I am the Bread of Life (Lechem ha-Chaim); he who comes to me shall not hunger, and he who believes in me shall never thirst.” A couple of verses before, Yeshua rebuked the multitudes, “You seek me, not because you saw the signs, but because you ate of the loaves and were filled. Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food which endures to eternal life” (John 6:26–27).

Yeshua challenged the crowd about their motives of satisfying their appetites, instead of seeking him. Personally, this is quite convicting. How often do I look at him to satisfy temporal wants, when he is the Eternal Bread, Lechem Ha-Panim, the Bread of the Presence?

Messiah continued, “Truly truly I say to you, it is not Moses who has given you the bread out of heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the bread out of heaven” (John 6:32). Here is Yeshua, born in the House of Bread, telling them he is the always bread, the much-more bread. Manna had to be gathered daily, except for the Sabbath, and there was only enough for one day’s supply. Here, however, Yeshua is given from heaven, from God, and his supply is eternal.

We continue in Matthew 26:26. “And while they were eating, Yeshua took some bread, and after a blessing, he broke it and gave it to the disciples and said, Take, eat, this is my body.” The blessing here is the same as above, Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu melech ha-olam ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz. Blessed are you, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.

Yeshua, the Living Bread, born in the House of Bread, gives thanks to the One who brings forth the bread from the earth. Messiah Yeshua again foretells his death and resurrection in the Ha-Motzi! How blessed is God who brings forth bread from the earth. How blessed is God who brings forth Yeshua from the grave!  

Lost and Found

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1–24:18

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, PhD, Director, Interfaithfulness

Let’s start with a sore subject: losing things. Wallets. Car keys. Expensive smart phones. IPads. Computers even. And sometimes we lose something to which we feel especially attached. We look everywhere and come to the grim realization that the object is gone. What happens then? Anger. Sadness. Self-reproach. Our loss is more than financial.

But all is not dark. Sometimes the light breaks through and things that we have lost are returned to us. I’ve had that happen with an iPad and a cell phone. O happy day!

Torah deals extensively with the ethics and boundaries of our responsibility for the things that we find which belong to another person.

In today’s parashah we read: “If you come upon your enemy’s ox or donkey straying, you must return it to him” (Exod 23:4).

Notice the ethical concern here; even if that object belongs to our enemy, we must take it back to him.

But there’s more.

In Parashat Ki Teitze, the Torah further explores this issue as it relates to the lost property of our friend, our fellow Israelite:

You are not to watch your brother's ox or sheep straying and behave as if you hadn't seen it; you must bring them back to your brother. If your brother is not close by, or you don't know who the owner is, you are to bring it home to your house; and it will remain with you until your brother asks for it; then you are to give it back to him. You are to do the same with his donkey, his coat or anything else of your brother's that he loses. If you find something he lost, you must not ignore it. (Deut 22:1–3)

Notice especially what is said in verse three, “you must not ignore it” (the lost item of your brother/sister). The Hebrew verb translated here as “not ignore (it),” is hit’alem, which is the hitpa’el form of the verb alam. It is used only three times in the Torah, in this precise context. 

The verb means literally that we should not hide our eyes from this lost property. We should not make like we did not see it. We should not say within ourselves, “I don’t want to know about this—I don’t need this responsibility.” 

Can you relate?

Instead, the Torah makes clear that indeed we are responsible to see that our friend, fellow, countryman, and even our enemy is reunited to what he or she has lost.

This doesn’t apply to, say, finding a twenty dollar bill in the street, because it is not possible to identify to whom it actually belonged when dropped. Such anonymous items are deemed legally hefker, ownerless property. But when the property can be identified as belonging to someone in particular we must take care of it and facilitate its return. 

Therefore, our first point is this. We are responsible to care for and then facilitate the return of lost items to their owner if they are identifiably linked to the person claiming them.  

But there is a related second lesson for us, drawn from some related parables of Yeshua.

When Yeshua addresses the issue of lost objects in two parables in Luke 15 he takes us more deeply into the implications of this responsibility to return what has been lost. 

Yeshua tells about the shepherd who leaves behind his ninety-nine sheep to go and look for one lost sheep. When he finds it, “he joyfully hoists it onto his shoulders; and when he gets home, he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Come, celebrate with me, because I have found my lost sheep!’” Yeshua then compares this to how heaven rejoices when even one sinner is returned to his owner, God.

He doubles down on the lesson, speaking of a woman who has ten valuable coins of which she loses one, and then lights a lamp, sweeps the house and searches until she finds it. As with the shepherd, she gathers her friends to celebrate with her. Yeshua makes the application: “In the same way, I tell you, there is joy among God's angels when one sinner repents.”

Our Messiah’s point should not be forgotten, and it our second one for this drash: that in the end we are not talking simply about sheep or coins—we are talking about people, sinners returned to their rightful owner, God himself. Even as sinners, they bear his image, identifiably his.

One more lesson remains, based on a consideration of the impact of the first two. That is this: Are we responsible to see that sinners are returned to God, reunited with him, their owner? There can only be one answer, and that answer is, “Yes, we are responsible.”

The Apostle Paul strengthens this interpretation:

In the Torah of Moshe it is written, "You are not to put a muzzle on an ox when it is treading out the grain." If God is concerned about cattle, all the more does he say this for our sakes. Yes, it was written for us, meaning that he who plows and he who threshes should work expecting to get a share of the crop. (1 Cor 9:9–10, CJB)

Paul is saying that the principle of not muzzling the ox, preventing him from eating while he does his work treading the grain, enshrines a principle for human welfare—that people should be paid for the work that they do.

And in terms of our lesson today we must make sure to make the same transfer: Is it with lost sheep and lost coins that God is concerned? Does he not speak here about our responsibility for people? Does he not certainly say this for our sakes? Yes he does.

A few verses later Paul speaks of his own attitude toward finding lost people: “For I can’t boast merely because I proclaim the Good News—this I do from inner compulsion: woe is me if I don’t proclaim the Good News!” (1 Cor 9:16).

So let’s bring this home. Do we, like Paul, have an inner compulsion about people who need to be returned to God their rightful owner? Do we feel “woe is me if I don’t do this”? Are we to permit ourselves to hide our eyes from truly seeing this lost property of our Lord and Master? Is it right for us to say to ourselves, “I don’t want to know about this—I don’t need this responsibility”?

Or are we called to do what we can to bring lost people back to God and particularly to do all that we can to take care of and return to him the lost sheep of the house of Israel?

The answer is clear, and the responsibility is ours.

Let’s us not be among the multitudes who prefer to hide their eyes. Let’s not be among the ranks of those who would rather not see and would rather not know.

If we care about the shepherd, the good shepherd, the weeping shepherd, let’s do all we can to take care of his wandering sheep wherever we find them, and to bring them back to him.

Or will we pretend we don’t see?  

The Uproar Within Our Hearts

Parshat Yitro, Exodus 18:1–20:23

Rabbi Isaac Roussel, Congregation Zera Avraham

The parasha this week contains that momentous occasion when our people received the Torah at Mount Sinai. Due to the centrality of this pivotal moment in Jewish history, the rabbis have scrutinized, pondered, and debated every minute detail. One of the questions that they asked was, “How did they know that it was God speaking to them?” This seems like a fair and good question. We tend to just accept the story at face value. But our sages express their love of the text by taking nothing for granted. They put the text into a metaphorical olive press, seeking to squeeze out every drop of spiritual insight. I greatly admire this approach.

I particularly resonate with the answers to this question provided out of the Hasidic world. They speak of the divine spark within each one of us reaching out, seeking to connect to its Creator. Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin wrote that when it says there were sounds at Mount Sinai (Exod 20:18) it was “the beginning of the uproar in a person’s heart to become attached to God, blessed is he.”

Another expression of this thought is based on the tradition that at Sinai God only spoke the first letter (Aleph) of the first word (Anochi, which means “I”). The first words of the Ten Commandments are, “I am Adonai, your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt.” With just the utterance of the silent Aleph, Israel was so infused by God’s divine radiance that they finished the Decalogue. The Ropshitzer Rebbe wrote, “The souls of Israel awakened and their inner holiness awakened, and they yelled at the top of their lungs: ‘I am Adonai, your God!’ For the [divine] part extends out from its source.”

Some streams of religious thought emphasize the sinfulness of humanity, sometimes almost to the point of forgetting that we are created in God’s image. Yes, we are tainted and sinful creatures, but at our core there is goodness. This is the part of us that God’s voice reaches out to. It is the uproar in our hearts, responding to that Voice.

Our tradition speaks of the wrestling of two inclinations in each of us; yetzer ha-tov and yetzer ha-ra; the good inclination and evil inclination. We tend to think of this as two equal forces warring with one another. But I contend that, in reality, we are yetzer ha-tov at our core, and it is the invading force of sinfulness that is yetzer ha-ra which seeks to attack and subdue it. (Sadly, it all too often wins.)

This is why Yeshua loved and reached out to such people as tax collectors and prostitutes. He saw through the sin and saw the image of God hidden within them. They were lost lambs, but still lambs nonetheless. His lost lambs. And he was willing to go to great lengths to recover them.

This is why God says in Sefer Devarim (Deuteronomy) that the Torah is not beyond the sea or in the heavens, but in our mouths and in our hearts.

This is why Rav Shaul writes that there are those who have obeyed the ethical principles of Torah, without knowing it (Rom 2).

We often think of Hashem’s voice calling out to us from afar. But I contend that he speaks from deep within us. He speaks to that core which is created in his image. His words well up inside of us, if we let them.

In Pirke Avot, it states that every day God’s voice radiates out from Mount Sinai. It is that original silent aleph, still reverberating throughout the cosmos. How do we hear it? The Hasidic masters say that “if one purifies himself with Torah and mitzvot, one constantly hears the voice of God, as during the revelation at Mount Sinai.”

They also point out that it doesn’t say “Moses said” but instead it says, “Moses would say.” Why? Because Moses “is destined to speak in every generation to anyone that is willing to purify himself and to take upon himself the yoke of Torah.”

We are indeed sinful creatures. We indeed are constantly under attack by our yetzer ha-ra. But at our core we are created in God’s image.

May we hear that silent aleph radiating out daily from Sinai.

May we hear that Voice welling up from deep within.

May our hearts ignite in uproar in response.

May we live a life dedicated to Torah and mitzvot, so that our souls will join in with that heavenly chorus declaring that God is indeed Adonai!

Shabbat Shalom.

God is in the Neighborhood

Parashat b’Shalach, Exodus 13:17–17:16

By Rabbi Russ Resnik

Imitatio Dei, the imitation of God, is an idea with a long history in both the Jewish and Christian worlds (it’s a Latin phrase after all), and with surprising relevance today.

From a Jewish perspective Imitatio Dei sounds like real chutzpah—which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. How can we imitate Hashem, the God whose name we can’t even utter? How can we in any way be like the sovereign Creator and Sustainer of the universe, the one who redeemed us from Egypt and appeared amid the glory-cloud on Mount Sinai to give us the Torah? In that same Torah, however, God himself tells us to imitate him: “You shall be holy, for I Hashem your God am holy” (Lev 19:2).

Now, “holy” can sound rather vague and other-worldly, but Leviticus 19 doesn’t let us off the hook. After this initial command, it goes on to provide practical details that govern how we earn our living, how we handle our property, how we talk about others, how we treat the disadvantaged people around us, and so on. All of these holiness details provide real-time opportunities to imitate God. The charge to be holy—other-worldly as it might sound—lands right in the neighborhood: “Don’t take vengeance on or bear a grudge against any of your people; rather, love your neighbor as yourself; I am Adonai” (Lev 19:17–18, CJB).

The imitation of God is clear enough Leviticus 19, and our sages discovered it even earlier in the Torah, in this week’s parasha. Moses has led the Israelites on dry ground across Yam Suf, most often translated as the Red Sea, after Hashem divided its waters. The Israelites break out in song:

I will sing to Adonai, for he is highly exalted:
the horse and its rider he threw in the sea.

Yah is my strength and my song,
and he has become my salvation.
This is my God: I will glorify him;
my father’s God: I will exalt him. (Exod 15:2, CJB)

The word translated “glorify” here is an’vehu, an unusual word that some translations render as “enshrine” or “adorn” him. The Talmudic sage Abba Saul interprets it as two words, ani (I) and hu (he), “I and he”, meaning, “Be thou like him: just as he is gracious and compassionate, so be thou gracious and compassionate” (b.Shabbat 133b, Soncino trans.).

“Be thou like him” means imitation of God, and Abba Saul provides a tremendous insight into what that imitation means. The Israelites—and the Egyptians too!—have just seen Hashem in all his power and forcefulness. When they say “this is my God,” they could easily recall the qualities they’ve just sung about, namely his strength and salvation. This God just threw Egypt’s “horse and its rider” into the sea, in case anyone was wondering who was in charge around there. But Abba Saul claims that we’re to be like God, not in this sort of power and triumph, but in grace and compassion. Or, to use a term that’s even more relevant to our daily lives, in kindness.

Another Talmudic discussion of imitatio dei (b.Sotah 14a) arrives at the same point:

What does it mean, “You shall walk after the Lord your God”? Is it possible for a person to walk and follow in God’s presence? Does not the Torah also say “For the Lord your God is a consuming fire”? (Deut. 4:24)

The Torah commands the imitation of God—walking after him, in the words of Deuteronomy. But how is it possible to imitate a deity who is so far beyond us that that he’s like a consuming fire? The Talmud goes on to explain:

It means to walk after the attributes of the Holy One, Blessed be He. Just as He clothed the naked, so you too clothe the naked, as it says “And the Lord made the man and his wife leather coverings and clothed them” (Gen. 3:21). The Holy One, Blessed be He, visits the ill, as it says, “And God visited him in Elonei Mamreh” (Gen. 18:1); so you shall visit the ill. The Holy One, Blessed be He, comforts the bereaved, as it says, “And it was after Abraham died that God blessed his son Isaac . . .” (Gen. 25:11), so too shall you comfort the bereaved.

The attributes of the Holy One here are all attributes of kindness. As Abba Saul noted, imitating God doesn’t focus on God’s power and transcendence; it tries to emulate his compassion and mercy. Imitating God means being kind . . . even when we think the other person doesn’t deserve it. It means smiling at the really slow young woman behind the check-out counter, and giving her a good word. It means doing the same for the customer ahead of you, who unloaded 37 items at the counter marked “Express check-out; 10 items or less.” It means saying it gently when you have to ask your wife how the checking account got overdrawn or your husband why the trash can in the kitchen is overflowing onto the floor. Or how about being kind with your Facebook friends who have the wrong opinions politically?

I’m listing these admittedly minor examples because they’re the sort of thing we can actually do every day, just like the examples of holiness in Leviticus 19. They’re virtues of the neighborhood, and they help us find God in the neighborhood. Plus, they’re the sort of thing we tend to overlook because we’re holding out for that rare chance to be dazzlingly spiritual. But opportunities to imitate God are all around us, as our Messiah demonstrates:

Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Messiah forgave you. Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Messiah loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. (Eph 4:32–5:2)

Wearing Redemption

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1–13:16
by Rabbi Aaron Allsbrook

“Bo knows.” About 20 years ago, Bo Jackson was a superstar athlete who played both baseball and football, and played them well. Nike picked him up and marketed his talent and prestige with the slogan that he knew what was going on. And so, this parasha, Bo, knows what’s going on.

Parashat Bo informs us that God is going to finalize his wrath upon Pharaoh and bring his people out of the slavery and oppression of Egypt, so that they may go out to worship God. This is the foundational parasha to the Jewish people’s identity. The event of the exodus is mentioned throughout Scripture, and the month in which it occurred is to be the first of the months for this newly created nation. It is also going to be the time in which Israel’s Messiah pays the ultimate price for our freedom, thus bringing us into the first fruits of our final redemption.

Beginning in last week’s parasha, we saw that God does some awesome things against Pharaoh and Egypt. God makes it very clear to Moses that he is doing these things for all to know. Egyptian and Hebrew, alive and unborn, will know that he is supreme and no one ought to dare try to say otherwise (Exod 7:5; 9:14; 10:1–2; 12:12). He also illumines the fact that he is the God of the Hebrews, that he will protect his people, and that he will bless them by sending these plagues solely upon the Egyptians (e.g. Exod 9:4). Perhaps it is more fitting at this point to acknowledge that God knows.

The people of Israel are set free at the price of the death of the firstborn males of Egypt, of men and beast, from Pharaoh’s household to the imprisoned and the poor. The cost of Israel’s redemption was huge—such horrific death and loss for the sake of freedom for God’s people. God wants his people to remember this. He institutes that every firstborn male of man and beast of Israel is to be redeemed upon entering into the land of Canaan. God took no delight at the death of Egyptians’ firstborn (cf. Ezek 18:23; 33:11), however, it had to be done. God wants Israel to remember the price it cost to free them. Each male child of man and animal was to be redeemed and purchased.          

Likewise, Israel is to “wear” his redemption on the hand and between the eyes, that is, on the forehead. This is commanded in Exodus 13:9, “And it shall be for a sign unto you upon your hand, and for a memorial between your eyes, so that the Torah of the Lord may be in your mouth; for with a strong hand did the Lord bring you out of Egypt.” Exodus 13:16 uses the word טוטפות (totafot), frontlets, in place of זיכרון (zikaron), a memorial (see Targum Yonatan to 2 Sam 1:10 for an interpretation of totafot). This is the basis for the later injunction of tefillin, or phylacteries, which are worn today predominantly by Jewish men during morning prayers. There were some rabbis who didn’t believe the p’shat (simple, literal interpretation) of these texts meant physical boxes containing Scripture (see Rashbam on Exod 13:9 and his reference to Song of Songs 8:6), nonetheless a point can be drawn from this commandment.

Whether we put on leather boxes containing little pieces of Scripture or we take Exodus 13:9 as solely figurative, there is something greater to be learned. The reason for “wearing” such signs and memorial/frontlets upon ourselves is “so that the Torah of the Lord will be in [our] mouths” (Exod 13:9). We are to wear something to remind us to talk about something. Talk about it to whom? Each other, as a reminder, as a reason to celebrate and to build faith, and to the nations, that Hashem, the Lord, the God of Israel, is the one and only God. We are to be a people who talks, who shares, who proclaims what God has done for us and for his great Name’s sake.

Yeshua tells us that our mouth speaks from what is in our hearts (Luke 6:45). For us to speak the works of God to the fullest effect, it has to come from our hearts. This was made possible during a Passover many years after the first one, when another firstborn died for Israel. Instead of a disobedience being met with the punishment of God, it was obedience that took the vengeance of God willingly from upon us. While we may have worn signs and memorials as commanded in Exodus, they really never made their way to our hearts, thus the abundance of signs and warnings brought to us by the prophets. With this final price paid—and a greater cost this was than the first—the Torah of God would truly be in our mouths because it was now in our hearts (cf. Jer 31:33).

And what does Yeshua tell us to do with this? Proclaim the truth, let our light shine, set the captives free, heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, drive out demons, raise the dead (Matt 5:13–16; 10:7–8)! We have a mission: to go out and tell the world, beginning with our own people, that God is supreme, Yeshua has been raised, the Spirit has been poured out, and the kingdom, the reign of God is at hand! We are a people who don’t just argue, we make the clear, plain truth of God and his kingdom known to Israel and the nations. We must wear redemption in what we do and how we are seen, and we must speak out the mighty acts of God. God knows, so we know, and we have to make others know.

The Name that Doesn't Change

Parashat Va’era, Exodus 6:2 – 9:35

by David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name. . . .

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other word would smell as sweet.

Shakespeare’s famous soliloquy has Juliet asking why Romeo has to be called by that name, by that family. “Gee, if that Romeo could just get rid of his name, and go by Stanley Smith or something, all our problems would be solved!” Perhaps. But what’s in a name, indeed? Why do we call people or things by a particular name? Is the name of that thing something you can just change out for something else, or is the name of something integral to the identity of that thing? If a rose were called a “gurglemoosh” would it still smell as sweet, as Juliet suggests?

Unlike the philosophy of the Bard, in Hebraic thought the name and the identity are linked; hence, the word שם, shem, is name, reputation, and identity. When we refer to Hashem, THE Name, the Tetragrammaton name of God, we are referring to the God of Israel, specifically revealed in this week’s parasha:

God spoke to Moshe; he said to him, “I am Adonai. I appeared to Avraham, Yitz’chak and Ya‘akov as El Shaddai, although I did not make myself known to them by my name, Yud-Heh-Vav-Heh [Adonai]. Also with them I established my covenant to give them the land of Kena‘an, the land where they wandered about and lived as foreigners. Moreover, I have heard the groaning of the people of Isra’el, whom the Egyptians are keeping in slavery; and I have remembered my covenant. (Exod 6:2–5, CJB)

All of the times Adonai appears in this text it signifies the Name, which is specifically referenced here as a new kind of revelation about the identity of Hashem in the narrative of Moses. This would imply that Hashem’s very essence is wrapped up in covenant with Israel, and with the redemptive act of rescuing Israel from Egypt, and that these two are linked together. Consider the opening of the Ten Instructions, the framework for the Torah:

I am Adonai your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the abode of slavery. (Exod 20:2, CJB)

That is, before the Ten Instructions are listed, this reminder of redemption appears. The covenant-redemption connection is brought up multiple times in the Torah, always linked with the Name as well. In Leviticus: “Don’t defile yourself with a creature that swarms on the ground, because I am Hashem, who brought you up out of Egypt” (Lev 11:44–45). “Use an honest balance, because I am Hashem who brought you up out of Egypt” (Lev 19:36). Why do we follow Torah? One valid response is because we were rescued out of Egypt and became God’s people. Somewhat akin to: “Mom, why do I have to clean my room?” “Because I carried you for nine months!” But more profound, of course.

Following the opening of the parasha, we find the verses from which we get the four cups during Passover:

Therefore, say to the people of Isra’el: “I am Adonai. I will free you from the forced labor of the Egyptians, rescue you from their oppression, and redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgments. I will take you as my people, and I will be your God. Then you will know that I am Adonai your God, who freed you from the forced labor of the Egyptians. I will bring you into the land which I swore to give to Avraham, Yitz’chak and Ya‘akov—I will give it to you as your inheritance. I am Adonai.” (Exod 6:6–8, CJB, emphasis added)

The third statement, corresponding to the third cup, uses the root word גאל, ga’al, redemption, recorded here for the first time from Hashem’s mouth. The only earlier example comes from the mouth of Jacob while blessing Ephraim and Menashe:

“The God in whose presence my fathers Avraham and Yitz’chak lived, the God who has been my own shepherd all my life long to this day, the angel who has rescued me from all harm, bless these boys” (Gen 48:15–16, CJB, emphasis added).

The redemption/rescuing (ga’al) in the life of Jacob implies that Hashem plays the long game with redemptive narratives. This is the Redeemer God with whom Jacob wrestled (hence the angel reference), who brought reconciliation and saved him from the wrath of his brother, Esau, and who brought Joseph back to him from death (as it were) and even enabled him to bless Joseph’s sons. The Redeemer God rescues not from suffering but through suffering.

Thus, the name and identity of the God revealed in Scripture are integral to the redemption narrative of Exodus.

Yeshua, whose name/identity means “salvation,” fits into this redemption narrative perfectly. When the sh’lichim begin to share the narrative of Yeshua in Acts 4, Kefa puts it like this: “There is salvation in no one else! For there is no other name under heaven given to mankind by whom we must be saved!” (Acts 4:12, CJB).

The Greek word here for salvation is “soteria,” the word often translated from yeshuah (with a final “heh”) in the Greek Septuagint. Besides the obvious link to the name of the Messiah, there is a definitional link between salvation and redemption, both of which are used to describe the Exodus. 

So, in a sense, Yeshua’s name must therefore carry the name/identity of the Name, along with the connotations of deliverance and redemption through suffering. Yeshua is the fullness of the Name of God made manifest, and therefore his name and identity can be above every other name and identity. 

So yes, Juliet, names do matter.

What's in a Name?

Parashat Shemot, Exodus 1:1-6:1

by David Friedman, UMJC rabbi, Jerusalem

This week’s parasha, Shemot (“names”) is the beginning of the story of Israel’s redemption from Egypt. When we finished Genesis, Jacob and his descendants were in Egypt. They were cared for by the royal family, and prospered in a time of economic woes. The book of Shemot (Exodus) opens with the identity of the people of Israel in Egypt:

These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt: the man Jacob and his family came.

Reuven, Shimon, Levi and Yehudah,

Issachar, Zevulun and Binyamin,

Dan, Naftali, Gad and Asher.

So it was that all of Jacob’s descendants were 70 people, as Joseph was already in Egypt. (Exod 1:1–5, author’s translation)

The Egyptian ruling dynasty underwent a drastic change towards Israel, and, “A new king arose in Egypt, one who did not know about Joseph” (Exod 1:8, author’s translation).

We are unsure which Pharaonic dynasty this may have been. Some scholars guess that this was the Hyksos dynasty, with their origins not in Egypt, but further east. Others maintain that it was a native Egyptian dynasty that simply began a new policy toward the foreign presence, the monotheistic descendants of Jacob. This Egyptian dynasty remains nameless, in the very book of Names.

In 1:15, we learn about two more names: “And the king of Egypt told the Hebrew midwives, one named Shifrah and the other named Puah . . .” (author’s translation).

These two heroic, humane, God-fearing midwives are known to us by their names. Outside of Jacob and his sons, these two women are the first persons mentioned by their names in Exodus, the book of Names.

Israel’s hero of the liberation, Moses, was known by his name, which was Egyptian in its root. Years ago I attended a fascinating seminar on the Exodus from Egypt, given by renowned archaeologist Gavriel Barkai. He insisted that many names from the Exodus narrative are Egyptian in their origin. For example, “Mosay” was a common Egyptian name; “Hur”, who held up Moses’ arms (cf. Ex. 17:12) was a name that came from the idol “Horace”. Miriam’s name probably came from “Miri-amon”, an Egyptian deity. Barkai concluded that the use of these Egyptian names proves that the people of Israel were indeed once resident in Egypt. 

Moses’ name is explained in a midrashic pun as meaning “drawn out”:

And the boy grew up, so she [Yocheved] brought him to Pharaoh’s daughter. Then he became her son, and she named him “Moses,” saying, “Because I drew him [Hebrew, meshitihu], from the water.” (2:10, author’s translation)

Israel’s leader and prophet is known to us by his name. Moses is chosen by God to be active in his purposes, and in a covenant relationship with him. Yet Pharaoh’s daughter, a princess, remains nameless in this verse, in the very book of Names. 

Our narrative’s Pharaoh is quoted five times in chapter 1, but he also remains nameless. Scholars have guessed him to be it Ahmose I, Merneptah, Ramses II, Tutmoses III, Amenhotep II, or Ramses III. But we do not know his identity from our text itself. He has no name, only an ugly legacy.

When personal names are used at the beginning of the book of Exodus, let us ask why they are known to us? What may the Torah be telling us? I do not know conclusively, but I have some thoughts on this interesting question. When I read a name here, I am drawn to pay attention to the person named, who no doubt is in a covenant relationship with God, or who has done what Paul describes in Romans 11:17ff—drawing close to the people of Israel, and no doubt to the God of Israel. As it is written: “the midwives feared God” (Ex. 1:15).

The midwives are called meyaldot ha’ivriot in Exodus 1:15, which can be translated either “Hebrew midwives” or “midwives designated for the Hebrews.” In this chapter, after the introduction of Joseph’s family, we are furnished with no individual names up until this verse, which supplies the names Shifrah and Puah. This is significant because these women feared God, and he “gave them houses” (1:21). This is another phrase with a number of possible translations. It can mean that the midwives were taken in by the tribes of Israel (that is, “adopted” by the people), with the Hebrew word bayt (“house”) understood as a “home” they were given among the people of Israel. Or, bayt can be interpreted as a “family,” meaning that the midwives became fruitful and bore their own children, as a reward for their saving of Israel’s babies. Often in the Bible, the word bayt has such a meaning, as in the “House of David,” which doesn’t mean just the king’s palace, but his extended family (cf. Zech 12:7–8; 2 Sam 2:4, 6:5, 9:1; Ezek 20:5).

People who are named in the beginning of the book of Exodus have something to teach us—those who are not named have no enduring legacy by which they positively impacted the Kingdom of God, or the world around them. In 2:10 we learn of Moses’ actual name. Moses, the man who was “pulled out of the water” has a name to live up to. And indeed, he helps pull Israel out of the water (the Sea of Reeds) later on in his life, further on in our book. 

The identified persons, by name, in our parasha include the descendants of Jacob (1:1–6), then Shifrah and Puah (1:15), Moses (2:10), Reuel (2:18), Tsipporah (2:21), Abraham, Isaac and Jacob (3:6, 15–16) and Aaron (4:14). Their names are remembered, their reputations and influences are positive, and till today each of them remains a part of the story of Israel and has an honored role in the story of redemption. The mighty, but nameless Pharaoh came to nothing, both in his lifetime and in biblical history. He is a wisp in time, a forgotten person, but for his evildoing.

So I am impressed by the significance of the revealing of names in our parasha. Nothing in our Torah is written by chance. To be known by name early on in our book is to be a person who sided with God’s purposes. And their names, their legacies, are worthy to be heard.

How Trust Can Be Restored

Parashat Vayechi, Genesis 47:28 - 50:26

by Rabbi Russ Resnik

The news stream today is filled with stories of abuse and betrayal, and we might wonder whether deeds like this can ever be forgiven. And even if they are, can the perpetrators ever be trusted again? 

The tale of Joseph and his brothers, on one of its many levels, is a story of forgiveness that ends with an unforgettable picture of trust restored.

The turning-point of the story came in last week’s parasha, when Judah offered himself in exchange for his younger brother Benjamin, and Joseph finally revealed himself. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes, “This is the first recorded moment in history in which one human being forgives another.” 

Human-to-human forgiveness frees us from the cruel, never-ending process of trying to pay for our misdeeds and getting others to pay for theirs—or resenting them if they don’t. Forgiveness allows family life and community life to continue on, despite our inevitable shortcomings and even outright sins. But, of course, forgiveness doesn’t magically fix everything. If we have done wrong, we might be forgiven, but we still have to face the consequences of our actions and make amends. Only then do we start to regain trust. If we’ve been wronged, we might forgive but that doesn’t mean we trust the offender. Forgiveness paves the way for a trust-restoration process in our families and communities, however extended it might be.

It’s likely that Joseph had forgiven his brothers even before he revealed himself to them, as Rabbi Sacks claims: “Joseph forgives his brothers without their asking for it, without their apology, and long before he tells them who he is.” But Judah, representing all the brothers, must demonstrate repentance by reversing the wrong they'd done to Joseph. Judah must be ready to pay the price by doing the right thing for Joseph's stand-in, Benjamin. Only then can Joseph begin to show his forgiveness. And only in this week’s parasha, after the death of Jacob, does the terminology of forgiveness become explicit. The brothers plead with Joseph: “Your father gave this order before he died: ‘Say to Yosef, “I beg you now, please forgive your brothers’ crime and wickedness in doing you harm.”’ So now, we beg of you, forgive the crime of the servants of the God of your father” (Gen 50:16b–17 CJB, emphasis added).

Without forgiveness, the whole story of Joseph and his brothers never could have reached this final chapter. Joseph had to forgive his brothers before he could create a way for them to prove themselves, as they did through Judah in last week’s parasha. But forgiveness alone doesn't restore trust. The offender has to earn my trust, which takes time, and forgiveness provides him the opportunity to do so. Forgiveness in itself doesn’t restore the relationship, but it makes restoration possible.

When the brothers finally ask for forgiveness after Jacob’s death, Joseph responds with words of reassurance: 

But Yosef said to them, “Don’t be afraid! Am I in the place of God? You meant to do me harm, but God meant it for good—so that it would come about as it is today, with many people’s lives being saved. So don’t be afraid—I will provide for you and your little ones.” In this way he comforted them, speaking kindly to them. (Gen 50:19–21)

Years later, and a few verses down, Joseph prepares for his own death.

Yosef said to his brothers, “I am dying. But God will surely remember you and bring you up out of this land to the land which he swore to Avraham, Yitz’chak and Ya‘akov.” Then Yosef took an oath from the sons of Isra’el: “God will surely remember you, and you are to carry my bones up from here.” So Yosef died at the age of 110, and they embalmed him and put him in a coffin in Egypt. (Gen 50:24–26)

In the end Joseph, the dominant one, the one before whom all the brothers, including Judah, have bowed down several times, becomes dependent on his brothers. And he unabashedly states his dependence: “you are to carry my bones up from here.” Joseph the leading son who saves his entire family, Joseph the ruler of Egypt who is embalmed like an Egyptian and placed in an Egyptian coffin, turns his gaze from Egypt to the land promised to his forefathers—and must depend on his brothers to get him there.

Before Jacob died, he had told Joseph, “I will lie down with my fathers and you shall carry me out of Egypt and bury me in their grave.” After his final blessing on his twelve sons, Jacob reiterated this instruction to all of them (49:29–30), and they carried out this wish promptly. Joseph’s final instructions, in contrast, provide for an intermediate period. It’s not until God brings all the children of Israel up from Egypt that Joseph’s bones are to go up with them for his final burial. Why the delay? Perhaps conditions had deteriorated in Egypt for the sons of Israel, but there’s also a deeper reason. Joseph, who was rejected and then separated from his brothers for over twenty years, will not allow himself to be separated again. For as long as his brothers remain in Egypt, he too will remain with them. There will come a time when the entire family of Abraham will be reunited in the Promised Land. Until that time, however, Joseph foregoes the privilege of being buried with his fathers. Until the brothers are able to go home, Joseph will not go home, but will remain with his brothers in solidarity. Moreover, he will trust his brothers to bear him up and carry him to his resting place when they do depart. 

The tale of Joseph and his brothers comes full circle. It began as the brothers cast Joseph into a pit and returned home without him. Now, at the end, Joseph will descend into another pit, death itself, and trust his brothers to lift him up and carry him with them when they take their journey home. Joseph dies with his mission fulfilled and his family restored at last.

The brothers had to earn Joseph’s trust, but in the end he bestows a gift of trust upon them by allowing them to reverse their old sin. Thus, the Torah reveals the boundless possibilities of forgiveness and restored trust—even in our day of betrayal and distrust. 

 Adapted from A Life of Favor: A Family Therapist Examines the Story of Joseph and His Brothers, by Rabbi Russ Resnik

Addendum: Who deserves forgiveness?

This commentary opens with a question, or two actually: “The news stream today is filled with stories of abuse and betrayal, and we might wonder whether deeds like this can ever be forgiven. And even if they are, can the perpetrators ever be trusted again?” Because it doesn't answer these questions directly, it could create the impression that victims of the sort of sexual harassment and abuse that have been demanding our attention lately just need to forgive and move on. And worse, that the onus of forgiving and restoring trust is on the victim. That’s not at all what I intend, so allow me to provide a few points of clarification:

1.      Forgiveness can never be demanded or coerced—especially not by the perpetrator or anyone advocating for him/her. This ban includes those who are advising or counseling the victim—they are not to pressure the victim to forgive in any way. It must be a free choice.

2.      If one chooses to forgive, he or she is personally dropping the charges against the perpetrator, not declaring him innocent or excusing or minimizing the behavior.  

3.      Dropping the charges in this specific sense does not preclude taking appropriate action. If a relative abused you as a child, make sure that he or she doesn’t get the opportunity to abuse someone else. If you were sexually harassed at work, report that to the proper authorities. Forgiving does not leave you powerless.

4.      You don’t forgive to benefit the perpetrator, but to benefit yourself and your own well-being. The perpetrator’s sins can bind the victim emotionally and spiritually; forgiveness breaks that tie. This is especially relevant when the perpetrator is unrepentant or unavailable . . . or dead.

5.      Forgiveness takes power away from the perpetrator and gives it to the victim, who is now no longer the victim. Dr. Fred Luskin, Director of the Stanford University Forgiveness Projects says that by forgiving, we “become a hero instead of a victim in the story [we] tell.”

6.      Forgiveness in itself does not restore trust or relationship. That’s the point of the original post I’m commenting on. We can choose to forgive freely and unconditionally, but trust must be earned and proven. I can forgive the offender, but he or she will have to earn the trust that’s been destroyed, if any kind of relationship is to be restored—and often that’s just not possible.

7.      Forgiveness, especially the forgiveness of the gravest offenses, is a process, not a once-and-for-all event.

Even the worst deeds of abuse and betrayal can be forgiven by the victim, who might choose to do so, not to benefit the perpetrator, but for his or her own benefit. So, to answer the question of my title, “Who Deserves Forgiveness?” the former-victims do, because when they forgive they regain power and freedom from the offender.

Rabbi Russ

Forgiveness Forms the Future

Parashat Vayigash, Genesis 44:18–47:27

By Dr. Vered Hillel, Netanya, Israel

“I am Joseph! Is my father still alive?” (Gen 45:3). With these words, the estrangement between Joseph and his brothers that began with the words, “They hated him and could not speak a friendly word to him” (Gen 37:4), comes to an end. The narrative of Joseph and those he impacted (Gen 37–50) is the longest unbroken narrative in the Torah. We see him as the beloved, coddled child, as an adolescent dreamer hated by his brothers, as a slave, as a prisoner, and then as the second most powerful ruler in Egypt, positioned to save his family from a devastating famine. It is truly a story of “everything turns out okay in the end,” but more importantly it is a story of change, teshuvah (repentance), and forgiveness.

The narrative reaches its climax just before Joseph’s revelation. Benjamin was on the cusp of being arrested and imprisoned, and the other brothers of being sent home. They were offered an escape route; they simply had to walk away. The climax comes when Judah steps up and delivers one of the most passionate speeches in the Tanakh, offering his own freedom for that of Benjamin’s. The story has come full circle; the one responsible for selling Joseph into slavery offers to become the slave of his own victim. The emotional tension continues building; how will Joseph respond? Emotionally overwhelmed, he orders everyone but his brothers to leave the room. Judah’s pathos and repeated mention of his father (no less than 15 times) has shattered Joseph’s self-restraint. After the room is cleared, Joseph reveals his identity and inquires about his father.

The first change we encounter in the parasha is that of Judah. The man who once was willing to sell his brother Joseph into slavery was now prepared to suffer the same fate rather than see it happen to his brother Benjamin. Judah’s callousness had been replaced by compassion and concern. The turning point in Judah’s life occurred when Tamar revealed the truth about his guilt, without shaming him (Gen 38). Judah admitted his wrongdoing and proclaimed, “She was more righteous than I” (Gen 38:26). Judah’s acknowledgement of his guilt, his confession, and his subsequent change exemplifies the true meaning of teshuvah. His self-sacrifice on behalf of Benjamin before Joseph, demonstrates the depth and veracity of his teshuvah. In fact, the entire narrative from the brothers’ first arrival in Egypt to Joseph’s revelation of who he is, illustrates teshuvah.

Judah’s repentance makes way for Joseph’s forgiveness.

Joseph was no longer the overindulged little boy or the impetuous, possibly arrogant, adolescent. He had become a man who realized that everything that had happened to him was somehow God’s plan. Not only had Joseph changed, but he had not allowed any root of bitterness to grow in him (Heb 12:15). Instead of letting the events of his life harden his heart, and turn him away from Hashem, thereby allowing a root bearing poisonous and bitter fruit to grow (Deut 29:17 [28:18]), he made the choice to walk after him with all of his heart, soul, and strength. Like Joseph, we too have a choice; will we walk in forgiveness and choose to believe that Hashem has a plan, even when we don’t see it, or will we let circumstances cause us to become bitter? We all work and plan, get hurt, struggle, and face difficulties that can embitter us—what will we choose?

We would do well to imitate Joseph by retelling the stories of our own personal past. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks calls this “reframing the past.” Joseph no longer saw himself as a person wronged by his brothers, but as a man on a life-saving mission of God, to save Egypt from starvation, and provide for his family, the family of Jacob. By forgiving and reframing his past, Joseph could live free of anger and a sense of injustice. Such choices changed his negative feelings about the past to see a hopeful future. None of us can change the past, but each of us can change how we think about the past, and this in turn changes the future. The past is not predestined to be repeated. No matter the situation in which you or I may find ourselves, we can change our future by forgiving and reshaping our responses. Our immediate circumstances may not change, but we will gain the strength, courage and hope to continue on until, like Joseph, everything becomes clear.

Our parasha not only brings the saga of Joseph and his brothers to an end, it brings the patriarchal period of history full-circle and almost to an end. Genesis 46:1–47:10 sums up the past and prepares for a new beginning, the redemption of Israel from Egypt and the birth of the nation. Abraham fled to Egypt because of a famine (Gen 12:10), and Jacob does likewise (Gen 46:5); Abraham’s calling began with a divine revelation (Gen 12:1–3), and Jacob’s finishes with a similar experience (Gen 46:2); Jacob began his journey at Beersheva (Gen 28:10), and has his final revelation in the same place (Gen 46:1–4). This is the last time Hashem’s voice will be heard until he speaks to Moses. Hashem’s promise to Abraham to make him a great nation (Gen 12:2) is reiterated to Jacob (Gen 46:3), but now it is explained that the divine promise of peoplehood will take place in Egypt.

Joseph’s and Judah’s actions brought about the restoration of family unity and the collective ingathering of Jacob’s offspring in Egypt. This led to their enslavement, redemption, establishment as a nation, and covenant with the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The Haftarah (Ezek 37:15–28) presents a future redeemed and reunited nation and the reestablishment of the covenant between God and Israel. The reconciliation of the brothers is a portent of the prophecy in Ezekiel.

May we heed the words of Nachmanides, “all that occurred to the forebears is a sign for their descendants” (Commentary on Genesis 12:6), and emulate our ancestors as we work and wait for the national redemption of Israel and the salvation of the world.

Illustration by Elhanan ben Avraham

What Happened to the Maccabees?

by Rabbi Elliot Klayman, Kehilat Ariel - San Diego, CA 

Rabbi Elliot Klayman

The origin of Hanukkah dates back over 2100 years, when a fearless and faithful Jewish family known as the Maccabees stood up against a powerful sovereign bent on eradicating the Jewish way of life. The rest is history.

The Jewish people enjoyed a good relationship with their Greek-Syrian rulers under the reign of Antiochus the Great, beginning in the late 3rd century BCE.  His son Antiochus Epiphanes ascended to the realm in 175 BCE, and that relationship deteriorated to the worst of times seven years later.  Antiochus desired to raise taxes, and to consolidate his realm by hellenizing the kingdom. This required that the unique Jewish practices be subordinated in favor of Greek culture, which was steeped in paganism. Antiochus installed high priest puppets who best mirrored his desire, and whose ultimate aim was to turn Jerusalem, the capital of Judea, into a model Greek polis (state).

Antiochus’s vision required a cultural shift from the oddity of Jewish temple life and praxis to the customary Greek institutions and environment. One of the bulwarks he instituted against Jewish temple life was the introduction of the gymnasium, a center for sport. The priests and the elite Jews were attracted to it, thus changing their focus from the Temple to the Gymnasium. One puppet high priest, Menelaus, who was not from the high priestly lineage, won Antiochus’s approval when he promised more money for the crown, derived from extortion of higher taxes, and from plundering the temple treasury. Antiochus also settled foreigners into areas contiguous to Jerusalem, which increased tensions and conflicts between the Jewish people and their pagan neighbors. Many Jews fled Jerusalem and found freedom from hellenism in the surrounding deserts, villages and countryside towns.     

In 167 BCE, Antiochus issued a decree imposing a death sentence on those who observed the Sabbath or circumcised their children. The Temple was rededicated to the Olympian god, Zeus. Swine was sacrificed on the altar and Jews were required to eat pork. Apparently, Antiochus saw militant monotheism as a great threat against his strong-handed rule and desired a more homologous rule and allegiance that would unite his kingdom against his Egyptian southern enemy, the Ptolemies.     

Antiochus underestimated the resolve of the bulk of Jewry. The Jewish upper crust and the corrupt high priesthood cult did remain loyal to Antiochus and his hellenization plan. But the masses of Jewry adhered sharply to their Jewish faith and practices. For the Jews, martyrdom was better than surrendering their faith in the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. While Antiochus clamped down harder with his hellenistic program, biblical yearnings and hope arose among the faithful, as they looked toward the “end of days.”     

When the king’s forces came to the town of Mod’in to compel the Jews there to engage in pagan ritual, the priest Mattathias, and his five sons, Jochanan, Simeon, Eleazar, Jonathan, and Judah, led a rebellion against Antiochus. It started with Mattathias killing first, a Jew who approached the pagan altar to sacrifice, and then the Greek soldier who was there to enforce the king’s decree.

The Maccabean army of peasants fights the armored elephants of the Seleucid-Greeks

Along with his sons, Mattathias and the faithful followers fled to the hills to continue the revolt and many gathered around them. Importantly, Mattathias ruled that the Jews could take up arms on the Sabbath to repulse the king’s army. The insurgents actually fought a war on two fronts; first, against Antiochus’s army, and second against the Jewish collaborators whose hellenistic practices dominated their culture to the extent that they would not circumcise their males or keep the Sabbath.     

Upon Mattathias’s death, Judah the Hammer (Maccabee) took the leadership and repeatedly defeated the Syrians, establishing himself as a worthy successor and a respected military leader. Then in the month of Kislev (December) 164 BCE, after Antiochus’s death, Judah and the rebels entered Jerusalem, where the Temple was in ruins, defaced with pagan statues. They purified the Temple and rededicated it, reestablishing the  priesthood.       

Judah successfully warded off the challenges to Judaism with fidelity to Torah, One God, and Jewish customs. Jewish militant manpower was now centralized around Judah and the Maccabees, increasing their stature, reputation, and number of followers. Judea was in the hands of the Jews and Judah’s might was essential in rescuing many of its people from gentile violence in surrounding regions. Upon the death of Judah a series of Maccabean descendants, known as the Hasmoneans, followed, beginning with Judah’s surviving brothers and then their descendants. Their rule was fraught with successes and failures.

After enjoying relative independence for 103 years, the Hasmonean dynasty started to spiritually and physically decline through a series of family rivalries, political ambition, greed, debauchery and interference by foreign powers, mainly Rome. In 63 BCE, the Roman general Pompey conquered the land of Israel, thus ending the Hasmonean sovereignty over the Land, and annexing the territory into the Roman Empire.

The trial of Mariamne I, the last member of the Hasmonean dynasty

The last touch of Hasmonean presence was Mariamne, the second wife of Herod the Great, who ruled Judea from 37 to 4 BCE.  Ultimately, Herod, sick with paranoia and illusions, caused Mariamne to be put on trial for alleged disloyalty. She was convicted and executed in 29 BCE. So ended the Hasmonean dynastic power.

Six decades later, Yeshua appeared in the Temple on the Feast of Hanukkah and responded to questions and accusations about his claim to be Messiah. He was there to celebrate the victory of the Maccabees and the preservation of the Jewish people. Although he did not come in the warlike might of Mattathias and Judah, like them, he did come to liberate his people.