Learn to Listen

Parashat Ki Tisa, Exodus 30:11-34:35

Jonathan Roush, Beth Messiah Congregation, Montgomery Village, MD

People love to talk but hate to listen. Listening is not merely not talking, though even that is beyond most of our powers; it means taking a vigorous, human interest in what is being told us. You can listen like a blank wall or like a splendid auditorium where every sound comes back fuller and richer. (Alice Duer Miller)

Our portion this week opens with Exodus 30:11: “The Lord spoke to Moses saying…”

Drift down to verse 17: “The Lord spoke to Moses saying…”

Verses 22 and 34. Chapter 31:1 and 12. Chapter 32: 7 and 9.

Over and over again we see one party talking and one party listening.

Of the five senses that we have (see, smell, taste, touch and hear) hearing is, arguably, the one we have the least amount of control over. We cannot help what we hear. However, we do have incredible control over what we choose to listen to. Could the exacting details of God’s instructions have been communicated to the Israelites if Moses had not been listening?

Ours is a world that can’t stop talking. Yet at the center of Jewish faith and practice is the Shema, the call, the command to listen: “Shema Yisrael! . . . Listen Israel!” Interestingly enough, the world “listen” is an anagram of the word “silent” in English. How else can we listen unless we are silent?

It’s not for nothing that the Torah records the phrase “The Lord spoke to Moses” (or some form of this phrase) no fewer than 21 times in this parasha alone, while there are only six or so moments recorded of Moses talking to God. The emphasis is clear. Are we listeners?

Proverbs 15:28 encourages us that “The heart of the righteous ponders how to answer,” yet author Stephen Covey once noted, “Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.” This breakdown between hearing and intentional listening results in an isolating fracture. Not only between us as individuals, but also between us and God. We all need to be heard because listening is an act of engagement. It’s the foundation of relationship.

In a 2014 sermon Rabbi David Wolpe said that people unfold slowly. “They give new dimensions, different colors, different vectors, different ideas of who they are, where they’ve been and where they’re going each time we engage with them.” Obviously, this requires us to spend time, and it takes real effort.

This stands directly opposite of the world we live in. The world moves so quickly now. Nearly anything is available to us at the touch of a button. Have a question? I can have answer for you in a matter of seconds. Want to see a movie? You don’t even have to go to the theater or the video store, you can stream it on your TV. Want some food? Hop down the street to a fast food place or better yet order in. Want to see the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? Pull up a photo online. Want to talk to friend? Drop them a text.

We’ve replaced experience with expedience (pseudo-experience)!

It’s not that these things don’t have a useful place in our lives, but would anyone argue that these represent the best, most meaningful and fulfilling ways to experience life? We’ve grown accustomed to the idea that if we can’t get it done quickly, then it’s not really worth doing. Yet, as Rabbi Wolpe notes, one of the effects of this lightning-quick age of technology is that “we know ourselves less well, other people less well and the world less well. We have much more information but less insight.”

There are some things you simply cannot shortcut or shortchange.

By taking the time to listen,

we engage in a way that changes both ourselves and the people we interact with. In music, the way we listen has an immediate effect on the unfolding of what is happening in the ensemble. We are not just each playing our individual instruments at the same time, but rather we are playing together. Our listening and actions are inseparable. (What Does it Mean to Listen by Michael Gold.)

This is not just true of music. This is true of our lives, our relationships with each other and
with God. Moses was changed through the time he spent listening on the mountain.

He was there with the Lord for forty days and forty nights; he ate no bread and drank no water, and he inscribed upon the tablets the words of the Covenant, the Ten Commandments. And it came to pass when Moses descended from Mount Sinai, and the two tablets of the testimony were in Moses’ hand when he descended from the mountain and Moses did not know that the skin of his face had become radiant while God had spoken with him. Exodus 34:28-30

That fact that Moses was physically altered is a beautiful word picture of this dynamic listening.

Albert Einstein said:

A human being is part of the whole . . . limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separate from the rest—a kind of optical delusion of consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.

We may not have 40 days on a mountain, but we do have Shabbat. We stop and we work to focus our attention and intention more than any other day. On Shabbat we work harder not just to hear, but to listen. To listen to each other, to listen to creation around us, and to uncover the voice of God in it all.

Purim and the Hidden Messiah

Purim—the festival of Esther—is the most light-hearted of the Jewish holidays. Perhaps that’s what leads the sages of the Talmud to ask, “Where is there an allusion to Esther in the Torah?” (Chullin 139b). They answer with a reference to Deuteronomy 31:18, where God warns Israel of exile to come: V’anochi haster asteer panai, “And I will hide, yes hide my face.” Asteer – “hide” – sounds like Esther. So does the term hester panim, to hide the face, which describes the conditions of Israel’s long exile. Rashi wrote, “In the days of Esther there will be hester panim, hiding of the divine countenance.” Accordingly, there is no mention of God in the whole book of Esther.

Purim, then, is the festival of exile, a time when God seems hidden, which extends even to this day. Believers in Messiah, however, might not think of themselves as being in exile. If Messiah is risen and present among us, how can we say that God’s face is hidden?

Isaiah 53:1 provides a vital clue:

Who has believed our report?

And to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed?

Ironically, the phrase “arm of the Lord” normally describes the mighty and undeniable acts of God. “Arm of the Lord” reminds us of Passover, which comes just a month after Purim, when God revealed himself openly both to Israel and to Egypt by a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. “Arm of the Lord” is almost a synonym for revelation of the Lord, but Isaiah asks whether there is anyone who has seen it. We again confront hester panim, God alive and well, but hidden.

The Gospel of Mark sounds this same theme. It opens announcing, this is “the Good News of Yeshua the Messiah, the Son of God,” (1:1) and goes on to record the testimony of Yochanan the Immerser (1:7–8), and a voice from heaven: “You are my Son, whom I love; I am well pleased with you” (1:11). Even the demons recognize that Yeshua is the Son of God (1:24, 3:11, 5:7), but Yeshua silences them. Indeed, he repeatedly instructs those who experience his healing power to tell no one about it (1:44, 3:12, 5:43, 7:36, 8:26). When Yeshua visits his own hometown, the people ask, “Where did this man get all this?” (6:2-3). Rather than recognizing him as Messiah the Son of God, they take offense at him. His own disciples, when Yeshua performs the great miracle of calming a storm on the Sea of Galilee, ask “Who can this be, that even the wind and the waves obey him?” (4:41).

Mark has announced who Yeshua is, but there’s still something hidden about him, and we, the readers, get drawn into the question, “Who can this be?” If we answer too quickly, we’re bound to get it wrong, because Yeshua hides that he is Messiah to reveal what kind of Messiah he will be. He turns the normal expectations of his day, and our day, on their head. As Purim reminds us, things are not as they appear. Those who seem powerful and in control will be put in their place by outsiders, including a God who is hiding.

The turning-point in Mark comes when Yeshua takes his disciples off to a retreat, and asks them on the way, “Who do people say that I am?” Peter nails it: “You are the Messiah,” but Yeshua orders them not to tell anyone else (8:27-30).

The secret is out, but now Yeshua focuses on the suffering and crucifixion he must endure to fulfill it. Furthermore, Yeshua reveals that even after he rises from the dead there will be continuing exile and persecution—the hidden face of God—until he returns (13:33-37).

Yeshua hides his Messianic identity to ensure that his followers understand what kind of Messiah he is. But he has another purpose in remaining hidden; to prepare them for the long period between his resurrection and his return in glory, when he will often seem hidden, and his followers may be tempted to lose hope and become complacent. Instead, Yeshua warns us to stay alert, to believe actively, and to serve him before all else as we watch for his return.  The way of loyalty to a hidden Messiah is different from what we might choose for ourselves. And it’s definitely different from the way carved out by the religious consumerism of our day.

Purim reminds us of Isaiah’s question, “to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed?” And Purim provides the answer: it will be revealed to those who actively rely on him, despite the delays and disappointments of exile. In the same way Yeshua, who seems hidden to many, who fails to meet the expectations that this world cherishes, is the source of deliverance to Israel and the nations. Purim reminds us to remain faithful to Yeshua’s words and example during this time of hester panim, the hiding of God’s face.

Rabbi Russ Resnik

The Story of Us

Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20-30:10

Rabbi Isaac Roussel – Congregation Zera Avraham

Once a year the Queen of England addresses parliament. She enters through a special door, only to be used by the reigning monarch, which leads directly into the House of Lords. She sits on her throne, turns to her steward and says “Fetch the rabble.” The steward then marches down the long corridor separating the House of Lords from the House of Commons. As the ministers of the Commons see him coming they slam the door in his face. He raps on the door three times with his large staff and shouts, “The queen demands your attendance.” At that point, they open the door and process down the corridor and listen to the queen’s address.

What caused such an unusual ritual?

Well, on January 4, 1642, King Charles I stormed the House of Commons seeking to arrest four ministers of parliament that he suspected of treason. He was unable to do so because they had fled. But this intrusion eventually led to the English Civil War and ultimately Charles I’s beheading. Some years later when his son Charles II was enthroned, the ruling monarch was permanently banned from the House of Commons and this ritual evolved.

So what does this have to do with us?

This ceremony has become part of the shared story of the people of Great Britain. As Jews, we too have our shared story. The Torah is full of commands from Hashem. In recent parashiyot we have commandments for the construction of the Mishkan (Tabernacle) and the sacrifices. In today’s parasha we have commandments for how to make the vestments for the cohanim (priests). But our tradition also includes human-ordained commandments. We have rabbinic commandments such as not mixing meat and dairy, and lighting Shabbat candles 18 minutes before sundown, and definitions of what constitutes work on Shabbat. Chanukah is a holiday ordained not by God but by the Rabbis. And we have the upcoming holiday of Purim, which is a biblical holiday but is not expressly commanded by God.

Some reject these human-ordained commandments because they did not come directly from God. They do not understand that the story of Israel is not just about God, but about our covenant with God, our relationship with God. Sometimes you will hear Christians refer to history as “HIStory.” While I understand the sentiment, the fact is that it is not just HIStory but it is OURstory. It is the story of Israel and Hashem, with the Church grafted in through the agency of Yeshua.

These commandments, though, are in decreasing authority. The highest level commandments are those given by Hashem in the Written Torah. The next level is Halacha, Oral Torah, the decrees of our Sages. (I frequently use the analogy of the Written Torah being the US Constitution and the Oral Torah being the case law that plays out the practical aspects.)

Next in importance are the minhagim, customs. There are universal customs such as the lighting of Yahrzeit candles. This is not a mitzvah but a custom, and why we do not recite a blessing before doing so. But each congregation also has its own local customs. A Purim custom in our congregation seeks to honor not only Mordechai but also Esther. So when we read the Megillah we not only yell “Yay!” for Morty, but also “You go girl!” for Esther. And we have a recently developed another minhag where two of our women, whose Hebrew names are Devorah and Yael, get aliyahs for the parasha that has the story of the prophetess Devorah and the tent-peg-wielding Yael.

We also have personal customs. One of my personal minhags is based on a midrash that is especially meaningful to me. It speaks of the eternal silent Aleph that daily radiates out from Mount Sinai calling all of humanity to Hashem. During the Torah procession I always try to kiss the Torah with my tzitzit on the Aleph that is on the mantle or breastplate.

I was talking to a friend of mine recently who told me that he was very depressed last fall and was walking in the woods while it was raining. He suddenly felt God’s presence in a powerful way and felt like God was telling him that he too was crying over all the problems. This has become a part of his personal story.

But our personal stories join with our communal stories and with God’s story to become OURstory. Therefore, we do not reject rabbinic mitzvot out of hand (though we may wrestle with them) and we honor our Sages’ writings such as the Talmud. They are part of our story with God.

I would like to go a bit further, however, and say that God is really in these things, just in less obvious ways. God is not mentioned at all in the Purim story and yet he is behind the scenes working to accomplish his will. God is behind our customs. He is in our desire to honor heroic women as well as men. And God is in our personal stories of encountering him in the rain. One could dismiss all of these and say that Purim was just a matter of politicking, and that God really wasn’t there in the rain. But faith says that he was. My first spiritual director, Byron Hosmer, of blessed memory, had a plaque hanging on the wall with a Latin inscription. It said, Vocatus atque vocatus deus aderit; “Bidden or unbidden God is present.”

As we celebrate Purim this coming week, let us reflect on this. Let us reflect on the fact that it is not only HIStory but OURstory. Let us reflect on the fact that Torah, Halacha, universal customs, local customs, and even our personal customs that come from our own experiences, all make up this Grand Story. It is a story that started when God chose Israel. It is a story that continued as he gave us the Besorah of Messiah Yeshua and grafted in the Church. It is the Story of God and Us!

Building a House for the Holy One

Parashat T’rumah, Exodus 25:1–27:19

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann

The Mishkan was the place where the congregation of Israel met with God during their wilderness wanderings. It was a place they built, which God inhabited, and where they could meet with him and honor him.

Let’s think together of each of us building a mishkan—a space in the midst of our lives especially prepared to meet with God and honor him.

It is probably a big mistake to imagine we can know God in terms of colossal generalities. Knowing that God is the Lord of the Universe is nice, but you can’t wrap your arms around that. It is too general and “way out there.” When God directed the Israelites to construct the Mishkan, the Holy One knew that we needed to encounter him within the confines of predetermined circumstances.

To know God deeply is to know him in the details. To only encounter God in the universe-sized generalities is to know about him, but must not be confused with knowing him.

How did people encounter God in the Bible and grow in their relationship with him? Here are some of the specifics:

• Public worship
• Sacrifices
• Regular prayer
• Situational prayer
• Reading Scripture, study
• Rituals
• In-breaking visions, intuitive ways of learning
• Following the tradition
• The counsel and prayer of trusted elders
• Learning from the experience and counsel of one’s forbears
• Intensification practices such as fasting

What might it mean for us to clear a space and build a structure in our lives where we can meet with God and grow in our relationship with him? What will it take to build our mishkan?

1. It means recognizing that there is a need to do so.
2. It means recognizing that this will take effort and sacrifice.
3. It means taking steps to insure that the effort will be sustained—often through enlisting the aid of others.
4. It means choosing the right materials and an approach that will achieve the desired ends.
5. It means taking steps to make sure that one is not being deluded. This is one reason why it imperative to link our concepts, plans, and efforts with community and with tradition.
6. It is helpful to have a blueprint.

And speaking of tradition, what help is offered for this process by the Jewish tradition?

In his excellent book, On Being a Jew, James Kugel reminds us “The cliché about Judaism is still true: it is not so much a religion as a way of life. And the way to ‘walk through the door’ is to begin to adopt that way of life, to keep the Sabbath and our festivals and say the fixed prayers every day, to observe our laws of pure food and of proper behavior, and in all ways to try and act like a Jew.” (James Kugel, On Being a Jew. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1990, 32-33.)

This underscores the learning-by-doing aspect of Jewish spirituality as contrasted to the “learn first and then maybe do” model prevalent in American culture. For Judaism it is always na’aseh v’nishma, “We will do and thereby understand.”

For Kugel, and for Judaism, the way we build our mishkan is by employing the blueprint of practices provided in the Jewish tradition—our community across time. Seeing Jewish life as a “blueprint” is an apt metaphor. Imagine passing a beautiful home in Beverly Hills, and deciding, “I’m going to build me one of those!” You then purchase real estate and materials at great price and start building. How is that going to go? Not well!

You cannot build such a home from the outward appearance! You must have the blueprint, or you will never get the results you admire. Similarly, we need a blueprint for our mishkan—and Jewish tradition provides that blueprint. And there is perhaps nothing in life more specific than a blueprint: everything is specified and measured to the nth degree.

Kugel points out how we will learn the satisfactions of this kind of mishkan building only by doing so, just as children are brought into Jewish life through patterned practices, before they have any explanations offered them.

Long before they can properly understand, in fact, almost before they can talk, they are taught the difference between the Sabbath and the rest of the week, that certain things are done only in the one and not the other; and shortly after they speak their first words they begin to learn the words of blessing that we say before eating this or that kind of food or washing our hands before a meal. The understanding of God, if any, that may accompany these acts is, of course perfectly childish, but what does that matter? Because a place for understanding is opened up inside the children by their first doing these things, and that place will be filled with greater and greater insight as they go on. (32)

It as we first do that we come to understand.

One cannot build and inhabit this kind of mishkan simply by attending Shabbat services. Kugel rightly points out the “daily-ness” of Jewish life, the sanctification of the mundane and the habitual. The everyday, life-permeating ritual responsibilities and responses of the Jew living in community, at home, at business, in daily life, all of these become occasions for growing in awareness of God and for honoring him in the details of life. As Abraham Joshua Heschel put it, “Judaism is the theology of the common deed.”

Adapting the biblically grounded Jewish blueprint/way of life as a means of creating a meeting place with God is our way of building a mishkan. Kugel says,

This is the most basic principle of our way, to open up such a space in our lives and in our hearts. Then such a space will have the capacity to radiate outward. So the holiness of the mishkan radiated out to fill the whole camp of the Israelites during their wanderings, and the camp itself became changed as a result. And it was quite proper that the people be the ones to build God’s dwelling, because this is the way it always must be: the people create the space and then God can fill it. (36-37)

Finally, Kugel reminds us, “The space is made by human beings and can be made quickly or slowly. But when God fills the space it is always quick and never gradual” (38).

May you, may I, may all of us build our mishkan slowly and with care. And may the Holy One come quickly and fill our mishkan, our lives, and our world with his presence.

Soon, and in an acceptable time.

Shabbat Shalom.

History or Law?

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21-24

by Jared Eaton, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

This week’s parasha may contain one of the most jarring chapters in all of literature. If you were reading the Bible in order up to this point, you would have been looking at the story of God’s relationship with humankind and especially with the Jewish people.

The book of Genesis tells of the Creation, and then the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden. The tragic tale of Cain and Abel is next, followed by the great flood and Noah and his family. After recounting the many families of the earth and the trouble they got into at the Tower of Babel, the story then narrows its focus onto a single family, and we read of Abraham and Isaac, Jacob and Joseph, and the fate of their family in Egypt. The narrative then switches to Moses and his partnership with God in freeing the Hebrew nation from the clutches of slavery.

While there have been many different characters and events in this unfolding tale, the one consistent thing about the Bible is that it’s been a very human story. That is, until we get to Mishpatim.

The Bible, which had been developing very much like a history book, all of a sudden changes genres completely. The narrative structure of the book completely disappears and what had once been a riveting tale of God and men and miracles transforms into a rather dry recitation of legal statutes and strictures.

Perhaps it’s not unexpected; the word “Torah” after all, is often translated as “Law”, but it still feels incongruous. What happened to the story? It’s certainly not over yet. In just a few chapters we will read the very human account of the sin of the golden calf. The Bible isn’t finished telling our history yet, so why are these chapters about laws squeezed into the middle of the narrative? What do our laws and our history have to do with each other?

Perhaps there is not so great a division between law and history as one might think. What if the mitzvot are a response to the history of the people of God?

Consider the first mitzvot spoken of in Exodus 21; laws concerning human servitude. The Lord introduced himself to Israel at Sinai as Adonai your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Isn’t it fitting that he would first concern himself with ensuring that his chosen people never afflicted themselves with the same evil from which he had just delivered them?

Slavery was an ugly reality in the ancient world and wasn’t abolished, even in the West, until the 19th century. With just a few words, however, God took the greatest tragedy that the Jewish people had experienced until then, and used it to lay the groundwork for an entirely different system. In this system, slavery was not an existential condition but a temporary circumstance that one would be liberated from in the Sabbath year.

Slavery is given limitations; women indentured to other families have a system in place that allows them to be elevated within the household. Servants, once regarded as property, are given rights as human beings, and all of Israel are reminded that God is the true master.

God takes the painful history of his people and uses it as a guide to shape his laws so that the evils of the past need not be repeated.

After addressing slavery, the next mitzvot concern the difference between premeditated and accidental murder. The examples given once again recall the history of the Jewish people.

Compare the intentional murderer, who hunted down his prey, to Cain, who slew his brother with malice aforethought, or Esau, the hunter, who waited eagerly for the day of his father’s death so that he might kill his brother Jacob. Contrast those men with Moses himself who, in a fit a righteous anger against an Egyptian taskmaster, struck and killed a man. As with the hypothetical accidental murderer in Exodus 21:13, God grants Moses a place of refuge where he can run and hide from Pharaoh’s wrath.

Again, in Exodus 21:16 we hear echoes of the past in the prohibition against stealing a person to sell him. The reference to the traumatic kidnapping and subsequent sale of Joseph could not be more clear.

The laws in Parashat Mishpatim are not a diversion from our history, they are our history, and an antidote to the hurts we have suffered at each others’ hands.

In a world without Torah, men killed and stole and enslaved one another with no regard for the pain they inflicted on their fellow man. But now, God is showing us a better way to live, a way that allows us to reverse the downward course of history and turn ourselves upwards towards him.

The chapters about laws in Exodus may seem like a divergence from the main story of Torah, but in actuality, the Law looks back into our history and forwards towards a time when the Law will be perfectly fulfilled in Messiah Yeshua. When that day comes, the wounds of the past will be fully healed and the tale of God and men and miracles will come to its glorious conclusion.

Chosen for What?

Parashat Yitro, Exodus 18:1 – 20:23

By Rabbi Paul L. Saal

In the Broadway classic “Fiddler on the Roof” the main character, Tevye, ironically entreats God, “I know, I know. We are your chosen people. But, once in a while, can’t you choose someone else?” In his frustration, Tevye echoes 4000 years of Jewish experience. It would appear that being God’s Chosen People is not always all it is cracked up to be. Tevye’s little shtetl is continuously assailedby political violence, poverty and the unrelenting demands of modernity. But in the midst of all this, perhaps the greatest challenge to the village of Anatevka is maintaining their traditions in a world that demands conformity.

This week’s parasha contains the dramatic summit of the Exodus story, as Israel encounters the Master of the World at the base of Mt. Sinai. Here, God articulates the special bond he plans with Israel: “And now if you hearken well to me and observe my covenant, you shall be to me the most beloved treasure of all peoples, for mine is the entire world” (Ex. 19:5). This statement, though, appears to contain an internal conflict, the conflict of a “chosen people.”

How can the God of the entire universe choose just one people? Shouldn’t God love everybody equally?  Isn’t the concept of “chosenness” just a bit xenophobic? Many Jews today would argue that such a claim denigrates the rest of humanity.

But isn’t that claim central to the thesis of all of Torah, and isn’t it at the core of the entire Bible? This statement presents the context for the Ten Commandments and all the commandments that follow. In fact, uprooting this concept dilutes the biblical tradition and threatens to eradicate the importance of Scripture’s heroic figures.

How then can we square this circle, God as the loving Divinity of all humanity and the uniqueness and specialness of the Jewish people? To do so we must first come to terms with the assertion that God loves and cares about all humanity. Every person and people group is precious to the Creator who animates the human soul (Gen. 2:7). God’s ongoing care for every “tribe and tongue” is a testament to his ability to seriously multi-task. But if everyone is special, doesn’t it detract from the concept of personal and group exceptionalism? Not necessarily. God creates the world from the beginning in a process of havdil (distinction), giving every element of creation, both environment and inhabitants, a unique and special purpose. God creates and maintains the world by creating an economy of mutual blessing. We bless God by blessing each another and drawing energy from the others’ distinct gifts and experience. To try to conform others to our image does violence to this divine system of blessing.

So, what about Jewish chosenness? To some extent Jewish chosenness is a metaphorical sentence fragment. In the same way as it is incomplete and misleading to say I am the President without context (I am the president of the Messianic Jewish Rabbinical Council), so it is incomplete and prideful to state that the Jewish people are chosen of God without appropriate context. What completes the concept of Jewish chosenness is the understanding that the Jewish people were chosen to embody the value and standards of Torah and to display these values to the world. By living a life centered on God’s mitzvot we choose to be chosen. We allow the covenant to live by how we choose to live! As is the case of any love relationship we can enhance or demean that relationship. The power is in our hands to live God’s choice of us as much as it is his.

The Holy One’s purpose for Israel is stated in the sentence after he announces his unique love for Israel: “You shall be to me a kingdom of ministers and a holy nation” (Ex. 19:6). If Israel is obedient to the commands and ordinances of Torah, they will image God as kings and priests, sovereigns and servants. In this respect Israel stands as the living link between God and the rest of humanity, repairing the cosmic breach that occurred with human disobedience.

At the foot of Sinai all Israel said, “Kol asher diber adonai na’aseh v’nishma, all that the Lord has said we will do and obey” (Ex. 24:7). They accepted not only the privileges of bearing his name, but also the covenantal responsibilities associated with those privileges. Likewise, as we stand before the Aron Kodesh each week it is as though we stand in continuity before Sinai and receive Torah again, saying “all that the Lord has said we will do.”

This acceptance compels us to live lives that model God’s image in the world. Sovereignty in God’s economy is not that which is grasped but rather that which is freely given, an odd dichotomy by normal reckoning. The power of God is perfected in our weakness. Through service we attain the mark of divinely gifted aristocracy, following the model of Israel’s greatest son. Yeshua abandoned the privileges of deity and did not claim or exploit his status (Phil.2:6-8). Instead, he actively undertook the role of a servant. For Yeshua, the incarnation in itself is a position of marginality. Far more is lost when he enters the created order than we are capable of comprehending, or that the biblical authors are able to adequately convey. But we also understand intuitively that with this “chosenness” there is more to gain than the accepted politics of power can offer. It is through his sacrifice and servanthood that Yeshua is elevated to the right hand of God.

This is true of Israel as well. We learn from both the Torah and the living Torah that we are given sovereignty to care for the created order. To care for the widow and the orphan, to feed the poor and the hungry, to provide hospitality for the stranger, to protect those who have no position or power, to care for all life forms on the planet and the environment that supports all of us. We do not have the option to claim status or to be self-protective; rather we must look out for all on whom the sun rises and sets.

As we immerse ourselves in Torah and the “living Torah” Yeshua, we renew our unique relationship with God. By doing so we justify the claim that we are not God’s only love, but His first.

Song of the Two Miryams

Parashat B’shalach, Exodus 13:17-17:16

Rabbi Barry Rubin, Emmanuel Messianic Jewish Congregation, Clarksville, MD

In this week’s Torah portion, we read what happened after the deliverance of Israel from Egyptian bondage.

Of course, we know that right after Pharaoh allowed the Israelites to leave Egypt, he regretted his decision and went after them, pushing their backs up against the Yam Suf or Sea of Reeds. You might say they were between the devil and the deep blue sea. Yet, through a major miracle, orchestrated by Almighty God, through his prophet Moses, the Israelites were able to get across the sea on dry land and Pharaoh’s armies were drowned.

Well, it’s no wonder that the Israelites were overjoyed by this, so much so that Moses and all the people sang a song (Ex. 15:1-19): “I will sing unto Adonai, for he is highly exalted; the horse and rider he threw into the sea.” It was a great song of deliverance and celebration.

You’d think that that song, sung by Moses and all the people, might have sufficed. But then something surprising happened: Miryam, sister of Moses and Aaron, added to the celebration with her own song: “Sing to Adonai for he is highly exalted. The horse and rider he threw into the sea!” (Ex. 15:20-21).

But, this is odd. The words are the same, so, why would Miryam need her own private women’s celebration? Was she trying to one-up her younger brother Moses? Was she doing some sort of women’s lib thing? Did she think that she and her women dancers could just do a better job than all the men of Israel?

The Sages of the Talmud suggest an answer in Shemot Rabbah. They wondered why Miryam is introduced as “Miryam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron.” Why does Miryam being a prophetess help explain why she would add a conclusion to Moses’ Song of the Sea? And why mention that she was the sister of Aaron? She was also the sister of Moses, so why only mention Aaron here?

The Sages say that we need to understand two things: First, that Miryam was a prophetess; and second, that she had a prophecy when she was just the sister of Aaron, before Moses was born. If we understand that prophecy, we understand her song. And here is the story our sages tell to explain all this:

When Pharaoh decreed that all Jewish boys should be thrown into the Nile, immediately after birth, the man and woman who would become the parents of Moses separated from each other so they wouldn’t have any more children. Why bother procreating since the children are just going to be killed anyway? But Miryam, their daughter, had a prophecy: my mother is going to give birth to the rescuer of the Jewish people. She shared that prophecy with her parents; her parents then reunited. Moses was born.

And, we know from Exodus 2, the child’s mother hid him for three full months, and then she took a little basket, covered it with pitch, placed the child in it, and set the basket in the reeds next to the shore of the river to hide her baby boy so he wouldn’t be killed.

Now, what would we think were the chances of success of this plan? A defenseless child out there by the Nile where all the Egyptians were, as well as crocodiles and snakes, all over the place. Pharaoh has decreed that all Jewish baby boys should be thrown in the Nile. So, what were the chances that this child lives?

Given that, would we be willing to watch what happens next? It could become gruesome. Most of us couldn’t watch, but someone did watch. Miryam watched from afar. The sages say she wanted to know what would happen to her prophecy. Miryam must have had faith to believe God would rescue her baby brother.

Well, then the daughter of Pharaoh comes. Is that good or bad? She could well be the worst possible person, the daughter of the man who decreed genocide upon the Jews. But, unlike her father, the daughter had something about her that caused her to do what was right. She hesitated. Miryam, reading the uncertainty in Pharoah’s daughter’s eyes says, can I call a Jewish woman to nurse this child for you? And the daughter of Pharaoh says, yes. And Miryam, who “stood at a distance to see what would happen with him” (Exodus 2:4), actually becomes the agent of salvation.

Now, fast-forward to the Jews at the Sea of Reeds: a huge body of water and filled with reeds. Horses belonging to Pharaoh, chariots, cavalry, all converging upon the people. It’s like it’s all happening again as it did back in Exodus 2.

There, Moses was threatened by one Egyptian, Pharaoh’s daughter, by a river. And now it’s not just a river, it’s a whole sea, and now it’s not just one Jew that’s threatened, it’s an entire Jewish people that’s threatened. And not just threatened by one particular Egyptian, but by the whole army of Egypt.

“How are you going to get out of this?” Moses asks the people, “You are going to do exactly what Miryam did when I was a baby. Stand and watch what the Lord will do.” Moses would urge the people to do what Miryam did: stand and watch what the Lord would do. Have faith like Miryam did. And when they do, and when the sea splits, and everyone sings a great chorus of praise, Miryam has her own reason for doing her own song and dance. It was the fulfillment of the prophecy she once received: My mother is going to give birth to the child who will save the Jewish people.

This pattern is repeated in Israel’s history several hundred years later. The Jewish people were threatened again by a despot like Pharaoh, this time, King Herod. God revealed to another Miryam that she would have a son that would rescue his people. And, like her namesake, Moses’ sister, Yeshua’s mother knew that God would protect her people from Herod and his order that, as in the days of Pharoah, all the Jewish baby boys be killed. So Miryam sang: “My soul magnifies Adonai, and my spirit rejoices in God, my Savior . . . he has performed mighty deeds with his arm . . . brought down rulers from their thrones . . . mindful of the promise he made to our fathers, to Abraham and his seed forever” (Luke 1:46-55). It’s a repeat of the promise expressed by Miryam of old.

So, in B’shalach, we see that Moses and Aaron’s sister, Miryam, had a prophecy that her brother would rescue the children of Israel. Her faith that God would protect her baby brother was a picture of the faith all Israel would need to have at the Sea of Reeds. And, this same pattern is seen again when Yeshua’s mother, also named Miryam, had the faith to believe that God would once again rescue his covenant people, Israel, and she, like her namesake before, wrote a song about it. And it boils down to this: God keeps his promises to his people. Believe it!

Exodus and Intergenerational Connectivity

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1–13:16

Rabbi Russ Resnik

In the protracted struggle between God and Pharaoh, it’s clear that the Lord is taking this thing personally: “Let my son go that he may serve me. If you refuse to let him go, behold, I will kill your firstborn son” (Ex. 4:23). These aren’t the words of some distant Supreme Being; they’re the words of our Father, who might be in heaven, but who can tangle with the bad guys on earth.

Moses and Aaron convey this same personal demand to Pharaoh six times: “Let my people go, so that they may worship me.” Finally, when they get to number seven, Pharaoh blinks: “Go, worship the Lord your God!  . . . But which ones are to go?”

The Lord says, “Let my people go,” and Pharaoh says, “Okay! Okay! Go already! . . .  But what exactly do you mean by ‘my people’?”

We thought Pharaoh was finally broken, but he’s just negotiating. Moses, however, is in no mood to negotiate: “We will go with our young and our old; we will go with our sons and daughters, and with our flocks and herds . . .” (10:8–9). Just as the Lord’s motivation in Exodus isn’t abstract, but personal and familial, so God’s people in Exodus isn’t abstract, but a complex, young-old, male-female, critters-included, extended family—and so it is today.

I came of age when the phrase “Generation Gap” was cutting-edge, but today it’s become the Generation Grand Canyon. It’s not just the gap between tie and tattoo—our whole culture has become age-segregated. Parents go off to work somewhere, baby goes into childcare, teens and young adults have their own scenes, older folk cruise for a few years in the RV before checking into a retirement home or senior center, and everyone’s eyes are focused on the screen right in front of their noses.

The religious world has followed suit. We’ve age-defined our churches and synagogues, programs, and websites. There’s a place for such specialization, of course, but if it starts to usurp the extended family of community, the complex, young-old, male-female “people” that the Lord claimed as his own, it starts looking too much like the dysfunctional dominant culture. But, since the story of redemption is told in the language of family, it can help redeem us from today’s loss of family. Let’s consider some of its lessons.

1. God’s people is intergenerational. As we focus on leadership transition in the Messianic Jewish community, we also need to focus on intergenerational connectivity. Since we see congregation as an alternative to the dominant culture, we need to see it as a place where generational isolation and alienation are overcome, not increased. I’m writing this right after our UMJC Winter Leadership Conference, which demonstrated this connectivity, with younger leaders well represented, including on our Executive team, and older leaders contributing on all levels. Our God is One—whole, universal, non-fragmented—and our community is to reflect that wholeness. This is the community he calls “my people.”

1. Intergenerational connectivity thrives on dialogue. Instead of the isolation that’s so typical today, Exodus pictures the generations actually talking to each other. When we observe Passover year after year, the children will ask, “What do you mean by this observance?” (Ex. 12:26). And the parents get to explain: “I eat unleavened bread for seven days because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt” (Ex. 13:8). Today the generations need to break out of our isolation to interact, talk, and learn from each other. Do our congregational and family practices foster cross-fertilization or alienation?

1. Interconnected generations remain distinct. We’ve all read about the differences between Baby-Boomers and Millennials, and all those in between. Real community doesn’t obliterate the differences. I’m not trading in my cool designer tie for a tattoo. We’re not trying to get the generations to conform to each other, but to interact, as a source of strength and encouragement to each other. Furthermore, we’re not talking about two generations, but several, which I’ll call the established and the emerging generations. The emerging generations need the hard-earned wisdom of the established generations, and established generations need the “why” of the emerging generations.

1. Established generations need to not only possess the faith, but to compellingly practice the faith. They need to be able to explain it, or even better to demonstrate it, to those who are newer, who in turn need to stick around and engage with the older. This requires that our practice has substance, stands out, and is compelling. We in the Messianic Jewish world might ask: Have we created a religious practice worth sticking around for, one that stands out—in the right way—from the surrounding culture?

Our parasha opens with the Lord telling Moses:

Go in to Pharaoh, for I have hardened his heart and the heart of his servants, that I may show these signs of mine among them, and that you may tell in the hearing of your son and of your grandson how I have dealt harshly with the Egyptians and what signs I have done among them, that you [all] may know that I am the Lord.” (Ex. 10:1-2)

It’s as if God designed this whole Exodus story with the family-community in mind, so that it has intergenerational traction. There’s only one story as compelling—the life, death, and resurrection of Messiah. We retell this story not only in words but in practice, following the example of the resurrected Messiah not just in our religious life, but openly, visibly, in all that we do.

When Hashem declares that “my people” means young and old, sons and daughters, he sets the stage for the work of Messiah Yeshua, who redeems young and old, male, and female, Jew and Gentile, slave and free. Like any good parent (or really, as the source of all good parenting), the God of Exodus longs for wholeness of his family. Messiah comes to accomplish that wholeness. Let’s cooperate by building our Messianic Jewish community as an answer to the fragmented, generationally-gapped, isolated culture that surrounds us.

What's in a Name?

Parashat Va’era, Exodus 6:2-9:35

Jared Eaton, Congregation Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

In this week’s parasha, Va’era, Moses returns to God, discouraged after a disastrous start to his campaign to deliver the Jewish people from slavery.

Moses actually has the temerity to rebuke God for failing to impress Pharaoh. He tells God that not only has he brought evil on his people, but he has completely failed to deliver on his promises at all!

In response, God says to Moses:

“I am Adonai. I appeared to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob, as El Shaddai. Yet by my Name, Adonai, did I not make myself known to them.” (Exodus 6:2–3)

This response is puzzling for a couple of reasons. First, it seems to be a non-sequitur. This response doesn’t seem in any way to address Moses’ concerns, so why does God bring it up at all? Second, this statement seems to be patently false.

The patriarchs certainly knew God as El Shaddai, “God Almighty.” God introduces himself to Abraham with that name before commanding him in the covenant of circumcision. Isaac blesses Jacob before his long journey in the name of El Shaddai.

But then God says that the patriarchs didn’t know him by the name Adonai. How could that possibly be true?

The Tetragrammaton, the four-letter name of God, YHWH, traditionally substituted by “Adonai” or “HaShem,” appears over 160 times in the book of Genesis alone. On multiple occasions, all three patriarchs use the name Adonai when speaking to or about God. And God even introduces himself to both Abraham and Jacob as Adonai. How then, can he tell Moses that they didn’t know him by that name?

Rashi has an explanation that may shed some light on the matter. He paraphrases God’s words to Moses:

“I was not recognized by them with my attribute of keeping faith, by dint of which my name is called YHWH, which means that I am faithful to verify my words, for I made promises to them, but I did not fulfill them while they were alive.”

What Rashi is referring to is the context in which God uses his different names. A midrash from Exodus Rabbah tells us that each of the names of God describes a different aspect of his nature. Elohim describes his attribute of Justice. Tzva’ot is his characteristic of warring against the wicked. El Shaddai describes his forgiving nature, and finally, Adonai is his faithfulness.

In this dark moment in Moses’ life, when he doubts the ability of God to fulfill his promises and deliver his people, God teaches him something very profound and encouraging.

God tells him that while Abraham, Isaac and Jacob may have known the name Adonai, they never got to see the fullness of everything that name signifies. God introduces himself as Adonai to Abraham and Jacob, and then immediately makes a promise to each one.

To Abraham he says:

 “I am Adonai who brought you out from Ur of the Chaldeans, in order to give you this land to inherit it.” (Genesis 15:7)

And to Jacob:

“I am Adonai, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac. The land on which you lie, I will give it to you and to your seed.” (Genesis 28:13)

God tells them that his name is Adonai, and that he is a keeper of promises. But the patriarchs never got to see the promises God made fulfilled in their lifetimes. They never understood the true meaning of the name Adonai. But Moses will.

God is going to show Moses things that Abraham never saw. Moses is going to see the fulfillment of the name Adonai in ways that Isaac never imagined. God made promises to Jacob, He is going to keep them with Moses.

Moses was blessed to know the name of Adonai and the fulfillment of his promises. How much more so are we who know the name of Yeshua and the promises that he fulfilled?

To paraphrase Hebrews 11: Moses was commended for his faith, but even he did not receive the fullness of what was promised, because God had provided something even better for us in Messiah Yeshua.

Yeshua bears many names in the scriptures: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Eternal Father, Prince of Peace. He is the Lamb of God and the Light of the World. He is the First and Last, the Beginning and the End, the Root and the Offspring of David, the Bright and Morning Star.

Each name describes something different and wonderful about our Messiah. May all of Israel be as blessed as Moses was, and come to understand the true meaning of the name Yeshua!

Never Forget: A Story of Liberation

Parashat Sh’mot, Exodus 1:1–6:1

David Friedman, UMJC rabbi, Jerusalem

This week’s parasha is the beginning of the story of Israel’s redemption. When we finished the book of Bereisheet (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 Sh’mot (Exodus) describes a new situation, and our parasha opens with this description of a long period of darkness for the people of Israel:

A new king arose in Egypt, one who did not know about Yosef.

So he said to his people, ‘Look, the people of Israel are numerous and more influential than we are! Let’s devise a wise policy towards them, or they will become even more numerous and influential; so that when a war breaks out, they will join those who hate us, will fight against us, and leave the land.

So they appointed tax officials for them (for Israel), to oppress them with backbreaking work; thus they built the store cities of Pitom and Ramses for Pharaoh. . . . And there was distress because of (what was happening with) Israel.

Then Egypt enslaved Israel harshly. (Ex. 1:8–11, 12b–13)

We are unsure as to which Pharaonic dynasty this may have been. Some scholars guess that they were the Hyksos dynasty, with their origins not in Egypt, but further east. Others maintain that it was indeed a native Egyptian dynasty that began a new policy toward the “foreign” monotheistic descendants of Jacob. Regardless, this is a very common type of time period in the overall history of the Jewish people. It is looked at almost as a pattern for our ensuing history, and for our future. The main message is something like this: “Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you are with us. . .” Even though the Jewish people have had to go headlong into long periods of persecution, untold suffering and anxiety, as in Egypt, the same God who freed our ancestors from there will continue to follow that pattern. The suffering is real, and exists. But the deliverance is very real, too.

One of my early memories of life is listening to Jewish Holocaust survivors tell their stories to my parents in my boyhood home. For eight years from the end of World War II, my parents helped pursue Nazi war criminals in Germany, so after they returned to the USA they opened their home to survivors of the Shoah. With much shouting, crying and pain, these victims of the Nazi reign of terror unburdened themselves on my parents’ shoulders. Their pain was real, their agony so deep that it frightened me to hear it as a child. Yet, there they were, alive, with their new families, able to live their lives as free people, and as Jews. It was like a short version of the beginning of the book of Exodus. First there was untold suffering and slavery, then a powerful freedom. My father, of blessed memory, told me that about half of these victims became strong believers in God because of their sufferings; the other half abandoned belief in God because of their sufferings. In the Shoah, the Nazis tried to commit genocide against us. Pharaoh attempted the same in his murder of Israel’s baby boys:

So when Hebrew women give birth, look at the two birthing rocks, and if it is a son, kill him; if it is a daughter, let her live. (1:16)

Pharaoh re-issued that order a little bit later:

And so Pharaoh commanded all of his people, saying: “Every boy that is born, throw him into the Nile, but every girl will live.” (1:22)

The slavery in Egypt was the beginning of a God-ordained liberation that has given hope to the Jewish people for millennia. Still today we honor God for this act that happened some 3,400 years ago; we collectively remember it in an intimate family setting once a year at Passover.

As we read through Exodus, let us keep in mind the great importance of the liberation from Egypt, as an eternal pattern, as an expression of God’s heart toward his people, and as a challenge to all of us to be brave in serving God, as Moses was. I try to remind myself and my family of God’s liberating power with an annual visit to Auschwitz. There, we remember the liberation that God provided from the more recent attempt at genocide against us.

This past week, while in Berlin, we witnessed the flag of Israel being projected onto the Brandenburg Gate, coloring it, as an act of honoring Israeli terror victims from this past week’s attack in Jerusalem. It was the first time ever that Israel’s flag was “put onto” the Brandenburg Gate.

Our portion, Sh’mot, can serve as a reminder, as visiting Auschwitz and Berlin does for me. Parashat Sh’mot yearly reminds us that God is our Liberator from all forms of slavery and all forms of anti-Semitism. Our ancestors’ slavery, and the anti-Semitism that many of us will suffer during our own lives, are meant to be barriers to us from fulfilling our national destiny to which God has called us (cf. Ex. 19:5-6, Deut. 4:5-9, Zech. 8:23 and Isaiah 19:20-25). Calling upon him is never out of date; the entire book of Exodus will further affirm this message to all of us:

Then the tribes of Israel groaned because of their slave labor, and they cried out. So their cries for help, due to their slave labors, came up before God. And God heard and acted upon their groaning; then He remembered His covenant with Avraham, Isaac and Yakov.

So God saw the people of Israel, and God knew (all about their situation). (Ex. 2:23-25)

All biblical passages translated by Rabbi David Friedman.