Jacob's Blessing

Parashat Vay’chi, Genesis 47:28-50:26

David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

He blessed them that day and said, “In your name will Israel pronounce this blessing: ‘May God make you like Ephraim and Manasseh.’” So he put Ephraim ahead of Manasseh. Genesis 48:20

Every week at shul we bless the sons in our community with this blessing, as Jacob instructed us to do. (We also bless the daughters, of course, that they would be like Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah.) It’s always an encouragement to look from the bima and see fathers and mothers blessing their children. But why do we do this, aside from following the instruction that Jacob gives us? And why Ephraim and Manasseh?

To answer this, let’s look back at the life of Jacob, for these parashiyot are his story as much as they are Joseph’s. Specifically, let’s look at the narrative of the blessings of Jacob.

The first blessing that Jacob receives is stolen, usurped, from Esau. Notice the parallels between this blessing and the one in this week’s parasha. In both cases, the father is dying, nearly blind, and blessing his descendants. In the first, Jacob impersonates his elder brother, reversing the expectation that the elder brother would receive the blessing. As befits his name, Jacob supplants his brother to obtain the blessing.

By contrast, in the narrative of this week’s parasha, Jacob, now the father and grandfather of the story, crosses his hands in the blessing. Again, the younger brother, Ephraim, will be set above the older brother, Manashe. But this time there is no supplanting going on, none of the trickery and fraternal rivalry that we’ve seen in Jacob’s narrative (or in the greater narrative of the patriarchs in Genesis). We remember Cain and Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, Joseph and his brothers. Even the “sister wives” conflicts can be seen this way: Sarah and Hagar, Rachel and Leah.

But Ephraim and Manasseh are different. There is no record of their rivalry in the text. This seems to be a break from the cycle of brother against brother, pointing toward humility, harmony, and preferring the other to themselves. So when we bless our children with this blessing, we are proclaiming a break in the cycle of contention between brothers. We are declaring a vision of shalom among natural and spiritual brothers and sisters, the fullness of which comes through the prince of shalom, Yeshua the Messiah.

The next blessing of Jacob is the blessing that he wrestles from the Angel. Trickery has given way to godly gumption, holy chutzpah. This is the part of Jacob’s character that we admire. Jacob values the blessing of God, and is willing to wrestle for it. And he is henceforth known as Israel. And the Israelites (b’nei Yisrael) are identified by his name from this point on—we are those who wrestle it out with Hashem. We are the children of holy chutzpah.

As he lays dying, Jacob confers this value of blessing onto his grandchildren. He is setting forth an edict from generation to generation, from parents to their children, to speak and value God’s blessing throughout all generations. And this we do every Shabbat until the present day.

The third blessing of Jacob is the one that he gives to Pharaoh, just before this week’s parasha:

Then Joseph brought his father Jacob in and presented him before Pharaoh. After Jacob blessed Pharaoh, Pharaoh asked him, “How old are you?” And Jacob said to Pharaoh, “The years of my pilgrimage are a hundred and thirty. My years have been few and difficult, and they do not equal the years of the pilgrimage of my fathers.” Then Jacob blessed Pharaoh and went out from his presence. (Genesis 47:7-10)

Maybe it seems like a minor detail, but it is mentioned twice in the above verses that Jacob blessed Pharaoh, drawing it to our attention. The principle in Scripture is that the greater person, the one in authority, bestows blessing (Hebrews 7:7). Jacob is blessed by Isaac, his father, and the angel of the Lord. Jacob, in turn, blesses his grandchildren and Pharaoh. But how could this man, who has had “few and difficult” years on earth, somehow be greater than Pharaoh?

Stepping back to see the larger narrative, we know that Israel is called to be a blessing to the nations. This was the charge given to Abraham, and continues until today. And here we see the namesake of Israel, Jacob, blessing the king of the mightiest nation of the known ancient world. Hashem’s kingdom gives authority differently than earthly kingdoms. What kind of authority would a man have if he has no earthly kingship? A man who suffers, whose days are few and difficult, who brings blessing to all the nations of the earth with the true authority of heavenly kingship. Perhaps you know of someone else who fits this narrative besides Jacob.

Moreover, at this point Jacob is walking in his identity as the one who blesses instead of just the one who receives blessing. That is why he is able to bless his grandchildren from the right place. He has learned the value of blessing, his character shaped by suffering, and he is ready to pass this on to Joseph and to Joseph’s sons.

So why do we bless our children that God may make them as Ephraim and Menashe? Because in this blessing we see all the values of Jacob’s life come together: the values of blessing, humility, identity, and hope. Hebrews 11:21 looks back on this episode with this comment:

By faith Jacob, when he was dying, blessed each of Joseph’s sons, and worshiped as he leaned on the top of his staff.

David Wein

Jacob’s faith was now a prophetic prayer, trusting in the promises of God. Joseph, rather than being only one of the twelve tribes, is now counted as two. From the tribe of Ephraim came Joshua. From the tribe of Manasseh arose Gideon. When we pray this over our children, as Jacob instructed, we are conferring not only blessing but also prophetic hope. We are looking forward to Yeshua’s total and complete kingship over our children, and all the children of Jacob, to bring the hope of Jacob’s blessing to fruition.

Beneath the Disguise

Parashat Miketz, Genesis 41:1-44: 17

by Jared Eaton, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

In this week’s parasha, following a long and eventful separation from his family, Joseph is finally reunited with his brothers after a famine forces them to travel to Egypt in search of provisions. However, in a case of dramatic irony, Joseph’s brothers are completely unaware of how momentous this meeting is, since they fail to recognize Joseph, now an Egyptian viceroy, as their own long lost sibling.

I have the same complaint about this story as I do with every Superman comic ever written; Why don’t Clark Kent’s friends realize that he’s Superman? He’s not even wearing a mask! I think I’d recognize one of my co-workers, even if he took off his glasses and slicked back his hair, and I’m certain that I would recognize my own brother, even if it had been a few years and he was wearing one of those funny Egyptian hats. And yet when Joseph meets his brothers, not one of them recognizes him.

It does seem unlikely, but the brother’s obliviousness is not that strange if you look at it within the context of the greater story of Genesis. Torah has a way of drawing attention to important ideas through the use of recursive themes. Throughout the Torah, and especially in Genesis, we see the same stories being played out again and again.

On three separate occasions, a patriarch will leave home during a famine and disguise his wife as his sister to avoid being killed in a strange land.  On three separate occasions, Isaac, Jacob, and Moses will all find their future brides at a well, watering their animals. And here in Mikeitz, we see the fourth occasion that someone uses a disguise to achieve their ends.

The first was Jacob tricking his father by wearing his brother Esau’s clothing. The second was Laban tricking Jacob into marrying Leah by disguising her as Rachel. The third was Tamar, disguising herself as a prostitute to sleep with Judah. And now, Joseph disguises himself to his brothers in order to test them.

In each case, the disguise seems exceedingly flimsy. Isaac may have been blind, but he still should have been able to tell his sons apart. Jacob didn’t even disguise his voice. And Jacob spent seven years longing after Rachel, yet spent an entire intimate night with Leah before realizing he’d been tricked. These are not brilliant disguises here! How is it that these people were blind to the true identities of those closest to them?

The answer may lie in the book of Isaiah. When God gives the prophet his commission he tells Isaiah:

Render the hearts of this people insensitive, their ears dull, and their eyes dim. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts, and return and be healed. Isaiah 6:10

Verse 44:18 tells us something similar: “They have not known nor understood: for He has shut their eyes, that they cannot see; and their hearts, that they cannot understand.”

In these verses, we see that God sometimes works by closing the eyes of his people to the truth, in order for something greater to be fulfilled.

In this context, perhaps it’s not so strange that so many people were fooled by such transparent disguises. Had Isaac recognized Jacob, our patriarch might never have gone on his journey of transformation. Had Jacob seen through Laban’s obvious deceit, he would never have married the woman who bore seven of his children. And if Joseph’s brothers realized who he was, true reconciliation would never had happened.

By closing their eyes, God allowed these people to see a greater truth when he opened them again. Isaac finally saw Jacob as a son who deserved to be blessed. Jacob finally saw Leah as a wife deserving of a husband. Judah finally saw Tamar as a woman deserving a child, and the sons of Israel finally saw Joseph as their true brother.

In each case, the end result of the deception was the restoration of relationship and the coming together of God’s plans for his people. Isaac, Jacob Judah and Joseph’s brothers all needed to be blind to the disguises so that when the veil was lifted they could see what God’s plan truly was.

This is an encouraging thought for Messianic Jews. In a world where the greater part of the Jewish people have failed to recognize Yeshua as the promised Messiah and the son of God, I can find hope in the knowledge that God sometimes blinds his people to the truth, but he never does it permanently.

The sons of Jacob didn’t recognize Joseph for who he was at first. But when the truth was revealed, Israel was saved and the family made whole again. And we can take comfort, knowing that the eyes of Israel have been blinded only for a short time.

The time will come when God removes the veil from his people’s eyes and all of Israel will finally see who Yeshua truly is. And just as Joseph restored his family, so too will Yeshua restore our nation, put our family back together and make our world whole again.

Human Becomings

Parashat Bereisheet: Genesis 1:1-6:8

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

In our parasha this week Hashem brings all of the animals before Adam and has him give them names (Gen. 2:19-20). We are taught to identify and categorize things. We say “This is a tree,” “That is a table,” “This is a dog.” Children do this as they learn to understand the world around them. When my daughter, Hannah, was little she saw a goat and said “Dog.” At her age everything with four legs was a dog.

This can lead us to think of these categories as unchanging. We place them in a box, well-labeled and properly stowed away. The fact is that everything and everyone is in process, ever-changing. A tree seems eternal, but if we look at it over time it grows from a seed and eventually dies. Even mountains, if watched over millennia, look more like waves, growing from tectonic collisions and shrinking from erosion.

This is supported by science. At the quantum level we are far from solid; in fact, our bodies are mostly emptiness. We are made up of particles that are in constant flux and exist in probabilities rather than fixed positions.

It is the same in Scripture. Mayim Chayim, living water, is water that flows, moves, and changes. A living body of water gives life to animals and plants. A mikveh, representing the waters of Eden, must be made from living water.

Adam is created as nishmat chayim, a living spirit (Gen. 2:7). He is not a static being, but full of potential. It is up to him to make choices that fulfill and shape that potential. He, obviously, did not always make the right choices.

This is also the genius of the Oral Torah. It allows for change and growth in the application of Written Torah as the centuries go by.

As children of Adam, so it is with us. We are not static, but a mix of potentialities. We are not really human beings, but “human becomings.” Our being is more like a snapshot or a movie still. It captures us in the moment. My son looks very different now than he did ten years ago (he is taller than me), but he is still my son. Harvard psychologist Daniel Gilbert said “Human beings are works in progress that mistakenly think they’re finished.” The choices that we make form us into who we are. They build up our attitudes, values, world views, habits, and reactions.

This is one of the reasons why our Jewish tradition is orthopraxic rather than orthodoxic. What we do forms us into who we are. Consequently, our Sages encourage us to observe the mitzvot even if we do not feel like it, because through repetition our hearts will catch up. The mitzvot shape us in holiness.

God could have sent the Messiah as a fully formed adult. But for him to be fully human he had to grow and mature and make right choices. As the author of Hebrews tells us, it was through his obedience that he became our great Kohen Gadol and perfect sacrifice (Heb. 5:8–10).

We are in a new year. During the High Holy Days we primarily looked backwards in self-examination and repentance. Now we look to the upcoming year, a year of potential. What kind of persons will we be by the next Yom Kippur? What choices will we make that will further form us? What habits might we change, eliminate, or develop?

We are “human becomings” not “human beings.” We are not static, but dynamic, ever flowing, ever changing. May we not put ourselves in a box, without hope of change. May we also not place others in carefully labeled boxes, but allow them room to be the dynamic beings that they truly are.  May we enter this new year with kavannah; intention to grow in godliness. And thus we will ever grow in the image of our Father and his Messiah!

Human Becomings

Parashat Bereisheet: Genesis 1:1-6:8

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

In our parasha this week Hashem brings all of the animals before Adam and has him give them names (Gen. 2:19-20). We are taught to identify and categorize things. We say “This is a tree,” “That is a table,” “This is a dog.” Children do this as they learn to understand the world around them. When my daughter, Hannah, was little she saw a goat and said “Dog.” At her age everything with four legs was a dog.

This can lead us to think of these categories as unchanging. We place them in a box, well-labeled and properly stowed away. The fact is that everything and everyone is in process, ever-changing. A tree seems eternal, but if we look at it over time it grows from a seed and eventually dies. Even mountains, if watched over millennia, look more like waves, growing from tectonic collisions and shrinking from erosion.

This is supported by science. At the quantum level we are far from solid; in fact, our bodies are mostly emptiness. We are made up of particles that are in constant flux and exist in probabilities rather than fixed positions.

It is the same in Scripture. Mayim Chayim, living water, is water that flows, moves, and changes. A living body of water gives life to animals and plants. A mikveh, representing the waters of Eden, must be made from living water.

Adam is created as nishmat chayim, a living spirit (Gen. 2:7). He is not a static being, but full of potential. It is up to him to make choices that fulfill and shape that potential. He, obviously, did not always make the right choices.

This is also the genius of the Oral Torah. It allows for change and growth in the application of Written Torah as the centuries go by.

As children of Adam, so it is with us. We are not static, but a mix of potentialities. We are not really human beings, but “human becomings.” Our being is more like a snapshot or a movie still. It captures us in the moment. My son looks very different now than he did ten years ago (he is taller than me), but he is still my son. Harvard psychologist Daniel Gilbert said “Human beings are works in progress that mistakenly think they’re finished.” The choices that we make form us into who we are. They build up our attitudes, values, world views, habits, and reactions.

This is one of the reasons why our Jewish tradition is orthopraxic rather than orthodoxic. What we do forms us into who we are. Consequently, our Sages encourage us to observe the mitzvot even if we do not feel like it, because through repetition our hearts will catch up. The mitzvot shape us in holiness.

God could have sent the Messiah as a fully formed adult. But for him to be fully human he had to grow and mature and make right choices. As the author of Hebrews tells us, it was through his obedience that he became our great Kohen Gadol and perfect sacrifice (Heb. 5:8–10).

We are in a new year. During the High Holy Days we primarily looked backwards in self-examination and repentance. Now we look to the upcoming year, a year of potential. What kind of persons will we be by the next Yom Kippur? What choices will we make that will further form us? What habits might we change, eliminate, or develop?

We are “human becomings” not “human beings.” We are not static, but dynamic, ever flowing, ever changing. May we not put ourselves in a box, without hope of change. May we also not place others in carefully labeled boxes, but allow them room to be the dynamic beings that they truly are.  May we enter this new year with kavannah; intention to grow in godliness. And thus we will ever grow in the image of our Father and his Messiah!

The Ultimate Etrog

by Jared Eaton, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

Chag Sameach! After the often grueling experience of Yom Kippur, it’s a wonderful change of pace to gather with our families and communities to celebrate the festival of Sukkot. We harvest tree branches, pick gourds, string up lights, and build our sukkahs, our temporary homes for this happy week.

But building sukkahs is not the only way in which we celebrate Sukkot. We also observe a few other lesser known rituals. Among these traditions is the waving of the lulav and the etrog, collectively known as the Four Species.

The etrog is a citrus fruit, similar to a lemon, which grows in the Land of Israel, and the lulav is a kind of a wand made up of palm, myrtle, and willow branches.

Talmudic tradition teaches that these four species, with their different characteristics, represent the diverse nature of all of Israel. The sages equate a good taste with Torah learning and a pleasing scent with good deeds. They argue that in order to be a complete and fulfilled Jew, one must possess both of these qualities in abundance.

The Rabbis’ distinction between Torah learning and good deeds calls to mind the distinction made by New Covenant luminaries such as the Apostle Paul and Yaakov between faith in Messiah Yeshua and the living out of that faith through good works. Some may argue that Paul emphasized faith over works—“For we maintain that a man is justified by faith apart from works of the Law” (Romans 3:28)—while Yaakov upheld the opposite opinion—“What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him?” (James 2:14). But both men would certainly agree that mature believers must have faith and works to truly live up to the example set by our Messiah Yeshua.

Recently, I had a conversation with a friend who, in a very astute allegory, compared Messiah Yeshua to “The Ultimate Etrog.” The etrog, with its pleasing scent and good taste, represents one with both Torah learning and good deeds, or in my New Covenant interpretation, Faith and Works. And indeed, who better embodied the qualities of the etrog than Yeshua, who taught and walked in perfect faith in his Father and lived a life exemplified by kindness and compassion and service to those who needed his help the most?  Yeshua truly is our Ultimate Etrog.

But if Yeshua is the Ultimate Etrog, who might be the ultimate representatives of the other three species? Consider the palm. It has a good taste (the date) but no scent, representing a person who has faith but no works to back it up.

How many Yeshua-believers fall into his category? How many of us claim to be followers of Yeshua and study the Scriptures, but don’t act out our faith in our everyday lives? How many of us have Jesus fish bumper stickers but still cut people off in traffic and curse other motorists? How many of us wear our tzitzit and our kippot out in public, but walk by without making eye contact with the hungry homeless person looking for a kind word and a little compassion?

Yaakov would not think highly of such a “palm-leaf believer.” When I think about who might be the “Ultimate Palm Leaf” Isaac comes to my mind. Loath as I am to pick on a beloved patriarch, Isaac is no one’s favorite Bible hero for a reason.

The Scriptures portray a man of great faith and spiritual merit, but have little to say about Isaac’s actions. In every story in which Isaac plays a major part, things are happening to him, not because of him. He wordlessly acquiesces to his binding. His father’s servant finds a wife for him while he stays home. He is manipulated by his sons and his wife in his old age. Rather than take an active part in his own story, Isaac remains a passive character, letting life happen around him.

Yeshua, on the other hand, was decisive and proactive. He sought out opportunities to live out his convictions and the way he lived his life was a testimony to his faith. If we are to follow him, we need to be active players in our own stories.

In contrast with the palm leaf, the myrtle branch has a good smell but no taste, representing a person with good works but no faith.

It’s entirely possible to do good, without being good. I think of the quote from the controversial central character of “The Wolf of Wall Street,” Jordan Belfort: “See money doesn’t just buy you a better life, better food, better cars . . . it also makes you a better person. You can give generously to the church or the political party of your choice.”

I can only imagine what the apostle Paul would have to say about Belfort’s idea of what makes a person “better”. What kind of a person are you if you donate $100,000 to cancer research but do it with money you made from cheating your clients? Are you really a better person if you fund an orphanage but come home and treat you own family with contempt?

These myrtle-branch believers may have a sweet smell, but anyone who gets close enough would find out that their taste is bitter.

For my example of the “Ultimate Myrtle Branch” I thought of the prophet Jonah. Jonah may be the most successful prophet in all of the Bible. Other prophets were met with scorn and persecution and saw their words fall on deaf ears, but Jonah’s message to the Ninevites was met with a city-wide call to repentance and the rescue of an entire nation. If we were to judge a man solely on the good he has done in his life, Jonah would be counted amongst the greatest in the kingdom.

And yet we read the book of Jonah as a cautionary tale. In spite all of his amazing gifts and talents, Jonah has a terrible attitude throughout his story. He scorns the task God has charged him with, he takes no responsibility for his calamity inside the fish and he repeatedly complains and wishes for death after he finally grudgingly does his job.

While his works are great, his faith in God’s plan is vanishingly small. Contrast his attitude with Messiah Yeshua’s. As much as Jonah might have disliked God’s plan, no one had a more bitter cup placed before him than Yeshua. Messiah knew that his road led to the cross, yet he went willingly and without complaint, even in the face of temptation to take an easier road. Yeshua had faith in his Father’s plan, and if we are to follow him we need to have similar trust to back up our good works.

Last and certainly least among the four species we have the willow branch. A plant with no taste and no smell, representing a person who lacks both faith and good works.

Sadly, the world seems to be full of willow branches. America has seen a dramatic decline in religious belief in recent decades, while the number of people claiming no religious affiliation or belief has risen inexorably. Indifference seems to be the default setting for humanity, as individualism is valued over community and the pursuit of material gain is valued over compassion for our brothers and sisters.

When I think of the “Ultimate Willow Branch” it’s easy to go for a traditional biblical villain. Pharaoh or Haman or Herod are all easy targets.

But I don’t think that most people who fall into the willow-branch category are inherently evil. Most willow branches just don’t know how to be any better than they are. They’ve never been given the opportunity to be anything but a plain old tasteless, odorless willow branch.

That’s why my choice for the ultimate willow branch is the tiny character of Zacchaeus. Not a great and mighty villain. Just a little, petty knave.

For those who need reminding, Zacchaeus’s story can be found in Luke 19. Zacchaeus was a tax collector who was very much disliked in his community. He was considered a sinner and a cheat and a collaborator with Rome. Truly a man with neither faith nor good works to his name.

And yet when Yeshua walks past Zacchaeus, he doesn’t see a willow branch. He sees a man who has the potential to become an etrog. Yeshua had every reason to ignore Zacchaeus, to treat him as a lost cause. But just as we don’t toss away the willow branches on Sukkot, but instead bind them together with the other four species that they all may bless each other, Yeshua saw the good that was inside of Zacchaeus and called him to become more than he was.

By the end of the story, Zacchaeus has pledged himself to make restitution for his past misdeeds and to continue to do the good works for which he has been made. Yeshua proclaims that salvation has come to Zacchaeus’ house because his faith has allowed Messiah to save that which had been lost.

This Sukkot, we are all challenged to enter our sukkahs and reflect on which of the four species we might be. But we can take comfort in the knowledge that no matter where we are in our faith walk, whether strong in works, faith, or neither of the above, Yeshua is always calling to us and giving us the opportunity to be more than we are today. With Messiah’s help, anyone can change their species.

Chag Sameach!

Note: this commentary originally appeared in October, 2016.

Jonah and the Wrong Sukkah

by Rabbi Russ Resnik

Yom Kippur can be a long day, so it’s a welcome change of pace when we turn to the Book of Jonah in the afternoon. It’s a lively story with lots of fascinating connections to Yom Kippur.

God tells Jonah to go up to Nineveh and declare its impending doom; instead Jonah goes down to Jaffa and boards a ship headed in the opposite direction. God deals with him, but also shows him great mercy, and Jonah finally does what he’s told; he warns the Ninevites, and they repent en masse. The Yom Kippur themes are all in play – repentance, God’s sovereignty over the nations as well as Israel, and his boundless mercy over all. Toward the end of the story there’s also a subtle connection with Sukkot: “Jonah left the city of Nineveh and found a place east of the city, where he made himself a sukkah and sat down under it, in its shade, to see what would happen to the city” (4:5).

There’s a sukkah in this story, but it’s the wrong kind of sukkah, which I’ll call the Sukkah of Doom. Jonah is a prophet, someone who’s supposed to represent God, but his response to Nineveh, even after it repents, is to camp out and wait for God’s wrath, which he fears won’t come. Now we learn why Jonah didn’t want to warn the Ninevites in the first place. He knows how merciful God can be, because he needed a major dose of mercy himself, so he’s convinced that God is going to let the wicked city off the hook . . . and he just can’t stand it.

The problem is that we might imagine our own sukkah to be like Jonah’s – like an escape hatch from a world that’s hopelessly lost and awaiting judgment.

But the real sukkah isn’t an escape hatch. The Torah calls Sukkot Hag ha-Asif, the Festival of Ingathering or Harvest (Ex. 34:22). Surrounded by the abundant harvest of the Promised Land, we’re to remember what God has done to bring us here: “I made the people of Israel live in sukkot when I brought them out of the land of Egypt; I am Adonai your God” (Lev. 23:43 CJB).

And so the sukkah is a simple hut – outwardly humble, even shabby – but our custom is to decorate it within, to make it glorious, so we can really dwell, and not just hang out, in it. It reminds me of Messiah Yeshua, who comes among us in humility, unimpressive on the outside, but bearing within the glory of God. Likewise the sukkah of the harvest festival is glorified within to reflect the kingdom of God that is coming. It looks forward to what God will do, as well as back at what he had done. Therefore, in the age to come, “Everyone remaining from all the nations that came to attack Jerusalem will go up every year to worship the king, Adonai-Tzva’ot, and to keep the festival of Sukkot” (Zech. 14:16).

So, the right sukkah isn’t the Sukkah of Doom, an escape hatch from a world under judgment, but the Sukkah of Hope, an advance base of the Kingdom to come. The right sukkah shows that God isn’t going to abandon this world, but redeem it. It pictures God’s mission in the world, which isn’t to get us out of here, and safely tucked away in heaven, but to reunite heaven and earth, and us along with them, in the renewed creation.

Now, I started with the title “The Wrong Sukkah,” but we should focus instead on the right sukkah, the Sukkah of Hope. So, here’s a new title: “Are you building the right sukkah?”

The Lord poses the same question from a different angle to Jonah, who we left a minute ago sitting in his sukkah. Hashem provides a quick-growing vine to cover the sukkah and shade Jonah from the blazing sun, and then he provides a worm to kill the vine, and a scorching east wind to blast down on Jonah’s head. The prophet, who was probably just beginning to calm down after seeing the evil Ninevites repent, gets upset all over again and says for the second time, “I’d be better off dead!” (4:3, 8). The Lord responds with a question that ends the whole book: “You’re concerned over this vine, which cost you no effort; you didn’t make it grow; it came up in a night and perished in a night. So shouldn’t I be concerned about the great city of Nineveh, in which there are more than 120,000 people who don’t know their right hand from their left – not to mention all the animals?” (4:11).

It’s a great ending, because it really leaves the ending up to Jonah, and up to us as well. Are we going to sit in the escape hatch, the Sukkah of Doom, or in the Sukkah of Hope?

Jonah’s problem is what Christian writer Eugene Peterson calls “a failure of imagination.” He is ready to see Nineveh destroyed because all he sees is a wicked city deserving judgment. In contrast, God desires mercy, because he sees “more than 120,000 people who don’t know their right hand from their left.” Apparently, just as Jonah got some comfort from the vine, Hashem derives comfort from humankind, even from wicked humans who are so lost they don’t even know their right hand from their left. Just as the vine is a comfort to Jonah, so is humanity a comfort to the Lord.

Failure of imagination: Jonah sees the Ninevites only as they are, an irritant to the righteous. But God sees their souls and cares about them. The moral: We need to join with God in seeking the souls of men.

I believe we Messianic Jews suffer at times from a failure of imagination. We distance ourselves from our own people, like Jonah on the edge of town. We forget about Yeshua our shepherd, who will re-gather us in the face of impending judgment. Instead, we either ignore our Jewish people (at least in practical ways) or imagine our people as totally other than us. Or we might take the opposite tack and idealize the Jewish people, forgetting that “we all like sheep have gone astray” (Isaiah 53:6), and need to be regathered.

The good news here is that I am not proposing a new program. People aren’t going to be restored through programs and methodology, but through the influence of friends and loved ones—through us.

The bad news, though, is that the longer we follow Yeshua, the less influence we seem to have on those outside his sheepfold. We reach unspoken agreements with family not to rock the religious boat, and we slowly lose touch with non-Messianic friends. Like Jonah, we build a sukkah, we try to get comfortable, we wait to see what is going to happen to this wicked world. . . and we long more for our own comfort than for the souls of men.

But there is still good news—the sign of Jonah. Yeshua said, “As Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the great fish, so will the Son of Man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth” (Mt. 12:40). Jonah announced the message God gave him, and the rest of the story unfolded. The simple message itself has power. Our message is the sign of Jonah: Yeshua the Messiah died and rose again. Our problem is that we often forget about those who need this message the most, or we adapt the message for their ears so much that we lose the simple truth of life and deliverance in Messiah.

Jonah in his sukkah reminds me of the older brother in the story of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32), the brother who is uptight because his sinning, unruly little brother has come home and gotten totally forgiven. Yeshua tells this story because some of his religious opponents criticize him for hanging out with sinners. So he tells them that he’s like a shepherd who has 100 sheep and discovers that one has gone astray. He goes after the one lost sheep and rejoices when it’s found. He’s like a woman who has ten silver coins and loses one. She drops everything else and searches for that coin until she finds it. And then the punch line: “There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents” (Luke 15:10).

The religious folk who argue with Yeshua probably figure that if you’re righteous, you’re going to get away from sinners as fast as Jonah got out of Nineveh. That idea is still popular today, but Yeshua teaches that salvation isn’t just about escaping the judgment that is hanging over this world. Don’t get me wrong, there is a reality of God’s wrath and Messiah Yeshua is the way of escape – but salvation is far bigger than that. The Sukkah of Hope isn’t an escape hatch; it’s an advance camp of the age to come, which has already broken into this age. In it we abandon any judgmental, get-me-outa-here approach to the world, and get ready to serve and prepare the way for the kingdom to come.

These stories make another point. God values people and counts each one as precious, even people who think he doesn’t exist, like the atheist who lives down the street, or people who might think God exists, but live like they wish he didn’t, like the latest high-profile adulterer to show up on the evening news, or the thief who broke in and stole your TV to pawn it for drug money. We’re to share not only God’s compassion for such folks, but also his desire to gather them in as something precious, to harvest the bounty that belongs to him.

So, as we conclude Yom Kippur and enter Sukkot, let’s be sure we build the right sukkah, the Sukkah of Hope. From there we can imagine the age to come, and get ready to go out and serve it in this age. 

Facing Our Other Side

Facing Our Other Side

Parashat B’reisheet, Genesis 1:1-6:8

Rabbi Paul L. Saal

Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, Bloomfield, CT

As we begin to explore the story of humankind outside the Garden of Eden, we should be uncomfortable with our first encounter being fratricidal murder. Yet if we are honest with ourselves, we need to admit that we walk away with less emotional investment into this narrative than we have into the average Super Bowl.  Lamentably, those of us who are most committed to the inspiration and historicity of the Genesis accounts often  accept a pale one-dimensional rendering of these stories that strips away the great complexity of human drama.

Why then does the inspired writer force us at the outset of the human journey to confront such a violent account of sibling rivalry?  I believe that the answer lies between the lines of the terse narrative found in Genesis 4. The sages engaged in a homiletic enterprise called midrash, which comes from a word that means “to search.”  By developing stories that filled in the missing details of the biblical narratives, they confronted the unanswered questions that arose. Far more important than the static details of the stories are the challenges that they pose to the hearer, and the lessons they teach about the divine-human encounter. If this form of exposition sounds familiar, it should.  The inspired authors of the Brit Chadashah, including Yeshua himself, used midrash, and engaged the existing midrash of their day.

If we read Genesis four with this approach, we’ll be challenged by some perplexing questions. What is the nature of Cain and Abel’s relationship? Why does God accept Abel’s offering but not Cain’s? What happened when the brothers confronted one another at the climax of the story?  Does Cain ever regret the killing of his brother? And does he ever experience the forgiveness and peace of Hashem? Tantalizing questions such as these invite us to respond personally to what is in many ways our own story.

Bonding with another bonds us to Hashem

Even the opening words beckon us to be immersed in the narrative.  V’ha’adam yada et-chavah ishto, “Now the man had known his wife Chavah (Eve).”  The verb yada, to know, is more than a mere idiom for sexual relations; rather it expresses a genuine intimacy that joins companionship with procreation. Only through such a relationship between man and woman can there be true reverence for the mystery, dignity, and sacredness of life.  Companionship is the primary end of the male-female relationship.  The Torah declares, “Hashem created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.” This expression of primacy suggests that male and female are distinct, unique, and equal halves in the design of human totality.

One Midrash suggests that the first person was created androgynous, with a male and a female side, two faced and unable to see one another. According to Rabbi Samuel b. Nachman, Hashem severed the two sides so they might face one another and the one person might come to truly be able to truly come to “know” his/her other side. Torah states, “Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and cleaves to his wife, and they become one flesh.” This midrash illustrates that a wife is a man’s other self, and visa-versa, all that nature demands for its completion, physically, socially, and spiritually. But the Creator is at the center of this wholeness and intimacy.

The narrative of Genesis 4 goes on to state that the woman conceived and bore Cain, saying, Kaniti ish et-Hashem, “I have acquired a man with Hashem.” What a strange expression. The great medieval commentator Rashi elaborates midrashically, “My husband and I were created by Hashem alone, but through the birth of Cain we are partners with him.”  So by this reckoning the Creator is the unseen senior partner in the intimacy, and the man and women are the junior partners in the work of sustaining creation outside the garden.  This is even illustrated in the spelling of man and woman. Ish and ishah are distinct because of the yod and the hay, the two letters which form the name of the Sovereign. When we take out the letter yod from ish (man) or the letter hay from ishah (woman) we are left with aish (fire).  This is indicative of how we lose the distinctiveness of our two sides and the fullness of our humanity when Hashem is taken out of our relationship.

Finding ourselves East of Eden

The sacred narrator remarks, “And additionally she bore his brother Abel.”  The birth of Abel is almost an afterthought, an asterisk in the story of Cain. Abel seems to have little inherent value apart from Cain. In fact his Hebrew name Hevel means a wisp or a shadow. He is a shadow of his older brother in this story. Though he brings the favored sacrifice, the mention of Abel’s sacrifice seems only to illustrate the failure of Cain. Abel neither speaks nor protests until his blood spilled by Cain cries out from the ground, and obvious alliteration; the dam (blood) of adam (man) cries out from the adamah (earth).

Immediately following the birth of the brothers the narrator informs us of their occupations. Like most people today the narrator seems more interested in the roles they play than in who they are. But they are the classic herder and farmer. Abel the herder would be the traveler, the one who would transverse the land.  Cain on the other hand is tied to the land, staid and stable. But upon the murder of Abel he and his voice are permanently tied to the earth. Cain is destined to wander the earth and essentially become his brother.

Responding to Adversity

It would appear then that our brethren are destined to bring out the best or the worst in each of us. The contrast between Cain and Abel is accentuated in the offerings each made, and Hashem’s response, acceptance of one and rejection of the other. All the inspired author tells us of Cain’s reaction are these few terse words: “Cain was very angry and his face was downcast.” If only Cain could talk to us now he might have said, “I’ve been wronged; I believed this world was created in goodness, but now I can see that good deeds are not rewarded. Hashem rules this world with an arbitrary power. Why else would he respect Abel’s offering and not mine?”

There may be no adequate answer to give to Cain. Perhaps the Almighty is communicating one of the most important lessons about living outside the Garden.  This world we live in is fraught with inequalities. There is simply no guarantee that our best efforts will be rewarded or appreciated.

Hashem again confronts Cain as his brother lies dead in the dust: “Where is Abel your brother?” He responds, “I do not know.” We began with the man knowing his wife, implying a certain intimacy and bonding. Here Cain replies “lo yadati” translated either I do not know or I did not know. Cain suggests that he had knowledge neither of what transpired nor of what was expected of him in relation to his brother. So Hashem gives him a last chance to face his actions and asks, “What have you done!”

The earth, which is the symbol of his stability, is taken from Cain and he becomes a wanderer, a drifter, a wisp like his brother. In killing his brother he becomes his brother. According to another midrash, Abel’s dog became Cain’s dog, wandering the earth with him (B’Reisheet Rabbah 22:13). Still another legend suggests that Cain shared Abel’s fate and was later killed by Lamech, a blood relative five generations removed. “Cain and Abel could be compared to two trees that stood side by side; when a strong wind uprooted one, it fell upon the other and uprooted it” (Jubilees 4:31).

Perhaps Cain might reflect on the lessons learned: “My brother and I are one, I can learn from his lesson. He is not my foil, he is my complement. Truly, if I do well the Creator, blessed be he, will reward my best efforts in kind! I am my brother’s keeper!”

A Better Word

We still live with the reality of human struggle and complexity. We live with the conflict between good and evil, and we wrestle with the apparent inequalities in our world. At times we bemoan our station and our fortune, as if to wave our fist in the air, as if challenging the design of the Master Architect.  Sometimes the challenge is within ourselves, as we sense the tug of war between our God-breathed inclination and our propensity to sin. At other times our brothers cover us like a reproaching shadow, replicating our own dark side.  The Eden of our dreams at times seems like a lifetime away.

But the promise of the letter to the Hebrews is that we can live in the light of the Age to Come.

On the contrary, you have come to Mount Tziyon, that is, the city of the living God, heavenly Yerushalayim; to myriads of angels in festive assembly;  to a community of the firstborn whose names have been recorded in heaven; to a Judge who is God of everyone; to spirits of righteous people who have been brought to the goal;  to the mediator of a new covenant, Yeshua; and to the sprinkled blood that speaks better things than that of Hevel. (Hebrews 12:22-24)

Cain, the son of the first person, is every person—human, vulnerable, sinful, even potentially violent; yet he is able to grow. As he reconciles himself with his past and moves on, we are challenged to confront ourselves, and our relationships with others and with Hashem.  Are we willing to receive the grace of the Creator through the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Hevel? Do we have the courage every day to allow the Spirit of Hashem make essential changes in ourselves, so we are not destined to live out our lives as we are today? Will we move beyond the inevitable pain of disappointments and rejection, and receive the healing, wholeness and peace of our Creator?

The First and Last Wedding

THE FIRST AND LAST WEDDING

Parashat B’reisheet, Genesis 1:1-6:8by Rabbi Russ Resnik

The family is the true ecumenical experience of all humankind. Edwin H. Friedman

Parashat B’reisheet tells of the beginning of all things, including marriage, which is the first of all human relationships, the foundation of every human family. God himself brings the first woman to the first man, and the man says, “This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh.” Therefore, “For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh” (Gen. 2:23–24).

This foundational verse is loaded with real-life implications, and Messiah Yeshua himself cited it to define marriage as an inviolable life-time covenant (Matt. 19:4–5). I’ve always wondered, though, why it says the man shall leave his father and mother. After all, in the stories of betrothal in Genesis, it’s usually the woman who leaves her family and goes off to join the man and his family. That’s certainly the case in the beautiful story of the marriage of Isaac and Rebekah. And even in the story of Jacob, who has to leave his family and homeland to find a wife, the outcome is that he finally returns to his native land with his wives, and they leave “father and mother” to cleave to him. But this may be the exact point of Genesis 2:24. In the ancient world, everyone knows that the woman leaves father and mother when she marries a man. What’s less obvious, but equally, or perhaps even more, important is that the man must leave the nest as well—even if he stays put physically.

In counseling married couples (which I do both as a rabbi and also part-time as a clinical mental health counselor), I often find myself dealing with a husband who hasn’t left his father and mother. He and his wife may live a thousand miles away from the parents, but he’s still expecting from his wife the same sort of approval and support that he used to get—or couldn’t ever get—from his parents. Or, in the way he treats his wife, he’s still working out old unforgiveness and resentment against his parents. The recent Ken Burns documentary, “The Roosevelts: An Intimate History,” noted how Franklin Roosevelt, the only child of a wealthy and patrician family, was accustomed to the adoration of his mother, Sara Delano, which he never could get from his much more independently-minded wife, Eleanor. The distance between Franklin and Eleanor grew over the years and was compounded by his multiple affairs and dalliances.

In the terminology of Edwin Friedman, the rabbi and family therapist quoted above, Franklin—supremely confident leader that he was—failed to differentiate himself within his family. He hadn’t left father and mother enough to truly cleave to his wife, but kept his mother involved in what Friedman calls a “triangle” with himself and Eleanor the rest of his life.

There’s another revealing aspect to “leave and cleave,” which comes out in the letter to the Ephesians. It quotes Genesis 2:24 and then says, “This is a great mystery, and I am applying it to Messiah and the kehila. Each of you, however, should love his wife as himself, and a wife should respect her husband” (Eph. 5:32–33). Like Genesis 2:24, this brief passage has been a puzzlement to me for years. It applies “the two shall become one flesh” to Messiah and his body, but the whole chapter is talking about husband-wife relations, which seems to be a more direct application of the one-flesh terminology. Most of Ephesians 5:21-33 refers to the relationship between Messiah and the kehila to illustrate the proper relationship between husband and wife. But here, toward the end of the chapter, it seems like the opposite: the husband-wife relationship illustrates the relationship between Messiah and his kehila. To turn this verse around to match the rest of the chapter, I’d expect it to read, “This mystery is profound, and I am applying it to a man and his wife. Each of you, therefore, should love his wife as himself, and a wife should respect her husband.”

I’m sure you’ll all agree that my version of Ephesians 5 is an improvement on the original. But it misses a profound point. The one-flesh union of man and woman in the beginning is a hint of a more intimate and foundational union that came later—that of Messiah and his people. More specifically, the “mystery” of a man leaving father and mother to cleave to his wife is made fully known in Messiah Yeshua leaving his father to cleave to his people. When we see what Messiah did to accomplish this union with us, the community of his followers, and how he now nourishes and cherishes us as his own body, it shows us how marriage between man and woman was really meant to be all along. So Ephesians explores the mystery introduced in Genesis 2:24 as it applies to Messiah and his people, and then opens up that mystery to show how husband and wife are to live together in Messiah.

For those who are married, of course, the implications are manifold. For those who are not married—or feel stuck in a marriage without real intimacy or satisfaction—the implications are more indirect, but no less encouraging. In today’s fragmented society there are many reasons for remaining single, and many reasons for a marriage to fail, and it’s not cause for blame or stigma. Instead, remember that marriage between one man and one woman is a reflection of a greater intimacy, which is the birthright of every member of Messiah’s body, the body that he nourishes and tenderly cares for (Eph. 5:28-30). Marriage is secondary; Messiah-kehila is primary, and every Yeshua-follower, married or single, is included in that bond.

As we renew our cycle of Torah readings this week at Simchat Torah (Oct. 16-17), we return to intensely Messianic Jewish space. We’re in Jewish space, of course, because we share in the cycle of weekly readings along with the entire Jewish world, and join the Jewish discussion of these readings that’s been thriving for two millennia. It’s Messianic space too, because from the beginning, the Torah pictures the fulfillment to come in Messiah Yeshua. The first wedding, the origin of all human relationships and foundation of every human family, is a signpost of the greater wedding that awaits us at the end of the age.

Chag Sameach – Happy Simchat Torah!

Clothing the Naked Ape

Parashat B’reisheet, Gen. 1:1-6:8

by Rabbi Paul L. Saal

Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, Bloomfield, CT

In 2002 PETA initiated its “Holocaust on a Plate”, an advertising campaign intended to draw attention to the plight of animals raised in factory farms for the purpose of satisfying America and Europe’s insatiable appetite for meat. The campaign was tasteless and insensitive, and perceived by most to accomplish more in the way of whitewashing the particularity of the Holocaust, the targeting of one race for annihilation, than it did to raise awareness of the plight of animals. What was even more horrendous was that the leadership of PETA, which is largely Jewish, defended their indiscretions despite the ire and indignation of the Jewish community. This, of course, could be the introduction to a homily on a number of topics such as, Antisemitism, Jewish Assimilation, The Complicity of Jewish Intelligentsia in Antisemitism, or Is Another Holocaust Possible. But none of these is the issue that I wish to address here. My reason for mentioning the PETA campaign is to raise the idea that polarizing zealotry and ill-conceived approaches to concerns for the animal population has often distracted religious Jews and Christians from their ignorance of the first commandment in the Bible.

And God said, “Let the land produce living creatures according to their kinds: livestock, creatures that move along the ground, and wild animals, each according to its kind.” And it was so. God made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good.

Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, in our likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.” (Genesis 1:24-26 NIV)

Here the Divine injunctions for humanity to proliferate and to subdue the still chaotic creation cannot be separated from the pronouncement that humankind is to do so as the image bearers of the Creator in this world. Therefore how we understand and treat our “dominion” over creation and creature is directly related to how we imagine our Creator and ourselves.

In pagan cultures the pantheons of gods were understood to be selfish, cruel, and capricious, existing only to serve their own enormous appetites. Humankind was to live in fear of such gods, offering sacrifices to appease them. The scandal of the ancient world was that Israel claimed to be ruled over by a God who was the one and only Creator who cared for all of creation, and maintained loving and purposeful relationship with Israel. He was a benevolent king who served the best interests of His creation, subduing chaos and holding calamity in abeyance so long as his servants remained under His protective care. This becomes even more evident in the incarnation of Yeshua who took on the mantle of a servant king, reminiscent of the Divine purpose for humanity, which was created in God’s image.

The second divine command to humankind is to till the ground (2:15). The Hebrew word used here is l’avdah, which literally means to serve or worship. Humans were intended to image God as both kings and as servants of the creation. If Israel and by extension the Church is to be obedient to the commands and ordinances of Torah, they must image God as kings and priests, sovereigns and servants, harbingers of a renewed humanity, dedicated to God’s original purposes. Worship is our ritual performance of the primordial intention for triangulated service between God, humanity, and creation. Theologian Jon Levenson refers to this dual role as “an aristocracy of humility.” But what does this mean if those who claim to be dedicated to God ravage His creation with no regard for either Creator or creature?

In 2001 a plague of foot-and-mouth disease started in a British slaughterhouse and spread throughout Europe. Newspapers and news networks carried images of hundreds of thousands, and then millions of cattle being shot, thrown in burning pyres and bulldozed into unmarked graves. The horrifying fact though is that foot-and-mouth disease is fatal to neither animal nor human. It is a form of influenza, which is treatable with veterinary care and preventable by vaccination. Millions of these animals were not affected, but were killed rather because their trade value had been diminished and trade policies required it.

Across the country animals for market are raised in factory farms. They are held in seclusion in dark, stainless steel chambers, where they are better and more efficiently fattened for their time of slaughter.  From birth they never see the light of day, or play or run free as God created them to do. Apparently the only god that is being served by the meat industry is that of consumerism.  And yet where is the voice of outrage from the religious community?

Though insensitive and ill-conceived it is not difficult to understand how the folks at PETA were awakened to the imagery of the Holocaust. What is more difficult to understand is why those of us who claim to be God’s people seemingly care little to exhibit His mercy for His most vulnerable creatures. All too often, as a response to the “dominion” we have been given, we claimed the right to do what we wish, because we can.  The prophetic passages though evoke imagery of a time when all will be made right and justified on earth and Isaiah states that lion and the calf will lie down together. Are we to believe that when the entire world is in harmony only humankind will be the feared predators? Shouldn’t we who claim to be harbingers of a new humanity begin now to work toward this prophetic reality? Are we willing to subordinate some of our own desires in the process?

In every act of kindness we hold in our hands the mercy of our Creator, whose purposes are in life and death, whose love does not stop at us but rather surrounds us, bestowing dignity and beauty and hope on every creature that lives and suffers and perishes. Perhaps the animals’ role among us is to awaken humility, to open our hearts to that most impractical of hopes in which all creation speaks as one. For them as for us, if there is any hope at all then it is the same hope, and the same love, and the same God who shall “wipe every tear from their eyes; and there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the former things has passed away.” (Revelation 21:4)

In the Beginning

“In the beginning” 

Parashat Bereisheet, Genesis 1:1-6:8

by Jonathan Roush

This week we are reminded of many different beginnings. Earlier this week we rolled the Torah scroll all the way back to its beginning, and each passage we read this week talks about the beginning of the world in some way.

Bereisheet (Genesis) opens with the beginning of the world:

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” (Gen. 1:1 ESV)

The passage from Isaiah also hearkens back to the beginning of creation:

“Thus says God, the Lord, who created the heavens and stretched them out, who spread out the earth and what comes from it…” (Is. 42:5 ESV)

Lastly, we read where John, referring to Yeshua, openly proclaimed:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God” (John 1:1 Delitzsch Hebrew Gospels)

A few weeks ago on Rosh Hashanah we began the year 5773 and ten days later on Yom Kippur we repented of our sin and asked for a fresh start to this new year. We have been in a season of new beginnings and hopefully, this hasn’t escaped us.

So where does all of this focus on “beginnings” leave us?

Each of these beginnings is an opportunity to adjust or re-adjust the things in our lives that aren’t quite up to par. Perhaps we haven’t been treating those around us with the respect that they deserve, or maybe we haven’t been taking care of our bodies in the way we should. Maybe we haven’t been spending quality time in prayer or in reading the Scriptures.

Since we are once again beginning our yearly journey through the Torah, it’s this last point that I would like to focus on. Because we read through the Torah every year, perhaps there is a temptation to not pay as much as attention as you should. Of course, maybe it is just me, but I don’t think I am alone in this.  After all, we’ve read it before and we’ve heard it before too, right?

Let’s be honest: (meaningful) reading takes discipline. In our Technicolor world of bright lights and constant sound it can be especially difficult for us to quiet our own minds and focus.Readingdemands that you remove outside stimulus in order to really comprehend.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not kvetching. I like to read, so I don’t generally see it as a chore. I am not sure if I was born with an innate love of reading or if it was the “Read-a-thon” fundraisers at school, the Pizza Hut “Book It!” program, or the summer reading programs my parents made me and my sister sign up for every year. Regardless of the cause(s) I really love reading a good book. Even if this doesn’t describe you, we all live in an age in which it is easy to fall prey to distractions and fast transactions, an age that’s not really conducive to reading and taking time to study without making a deliberate choice. These things don’t just happen on their own.

So let’s be deliberate right now. You and I. Turn the TV off, ignore the text messages, and close Facebook. Let’s go back and read those opening verses of Genesis, and let’s not just breeze through them.

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.” (Genesis 1: 1-2 ESV)

The Jerusalem Targum translates verse 2 as:

“And the earth was vacancy and desolation, solitary of the sons of men and void of every animal, and the darkness was upon the face of the abyss; and the Spirit of Mercies from before the Lord breathed upon the face of the waters.”

Now, there is a picture! Vacant. Desolate. Cold. Things were in utter chaos until “the Spirit of Mercies” intervened. Ah, divine intervention establishing order in the midst of so much chaos. Once I read that it became much harder for me to mindlessly gloss over those verses. It made them much more alive and real to me. Are the Scriptures alive to you?

While I can’t tell you that it will ever be the easiest thing, I can tell you that, as with any discipline, deliberate reading and study of the Scripture does get easier as you carve out the time and the quiet needed. Is there a better time of the year than now to dedicate ourselves to real and life giving study of God’s word?

To study God’s word is to better know our Messiah, Yeshua, the living Word. After all he is indeed the living embodiment of the Scripture as John proclaimed in his gospel.

“He was in the beginning with God. Everything was made to exist through him, and nothing that was made to exist was made to exist except by him. There was life in him, and the life was light for the sons of men.” (John 1:2-4 Delitzsch Hebrew Gospels)

If we truly “live and move and have our being” in and through him, let’s commit ourselves to do better in our studying than we have before. As we restart our journey through the Torah let’s be careful not to squander this beginning.  Instead let’s focus with greater determination as we read, study, and learn, to follow our Messiah.

May we find God’s word more alive, vibrant and relevant than we have in the past and, through our study, may we find ourselves being transformed more and more into the likeness of Yeshua.

Jonathan Roush

Beth Messiah Congregation,Gaithersburg,MD