God’s Reputation is at Stake

Parashat Vayakhel-Pekudei, Exodus 35:1–40:38

by Rabbi Aaron Allsbrook, Ohev Yisrael, Springfield, VA

God is a specific God. He loves details. He shares these details with his servants. His children hear his voice and they obey. This week’s parashah deals with many details of the building of the mishkan (tabernacle). It reminds me of building Legos as a kid. One saw the final product on the cover and then went through page by page, step by step, as to how to build the foreseen picture. Bezalel, Oholiab, and many unnamed others had the privilege of constructing this heavenly design here on earth. Dimensions were given, materials were specified, how to connect the parts was explained, and the people all gave of their own possessions so that this could be accomplished. It was to be an amazing structure, something praiseworthy, a true treasure to have in the midst of this newly redeemed people.

The purpose of this building was to house the presence of God and allow the people to approach him, with certain degrees of closeness for different people. It was situated in the midst of this nomadic camp. Eventually, God would specify where he wanted it to rest permanently once the Hebrews dwelled securely in the land of Canaan.

Reading through the descriptions of the exactitude and specificity of the mishkan’s materials and design, one can’t help but be impressed. The amount of gold, silver, bronze, and copper is staggering. The tapestry and craftsmanship were of the highest level. And to make it even more impressive, this was all collapsible and able to be reassembled so it could go with the people on their journeys.

This awesome transportable building eventually became the temple of Solomon, a structure made of stone and cedar, one even more ornate and grandiose than the mishkan. It was a sight that gave the people hope, pride, and security, knowing that the house of the presence of God was in their midst.

While this house was amazing in both its incarnations, one had to be of a certain level of cleanness to be able to enter into it. If someone became unclean through contact with a dead person, say on the field of battle, or being in one’s home when a relative died, that person was unable to enter God’s home. This person had to be cleansed, and, once again, God is very specific as to how one does this.

In this week’s special maftir (additional reading) for Shabbat Parah (Num 19:1–22), we read about an elaborate procedure in which a red heifer is burned outside of the camp, whose ashes, mixed with some other specific elements, would purify the impure and allow that former outcast to be welcomed back into the presence of God.

All of this, however, can go a step further. In the haftarah for this Shabbat (Ezek 36:16–38), God is quite upset with Israel. Israel is in exile, the temple is razed, and the people have done something much worse than becoming unclean: they’ve defiled the name of God in the eyes of the nations to which they have been exiled. The people did terrible things while in the land of Israel, spilt innocent blood, created and worshiped idols, and sacrificed to false gods alongside the temple service. This made the land and the people unclean, and it defamed the name of God, the worst sin of all.

The nations knew that Israel is the people of God and yet they were driven from their land (Ezek 36:20). While this embarrassed Israel for sure, it made God look really bad. The God that took his people out of mighty Egypt, destroyed the seven nations of Canaan, gave Solomon the wisdom to build his mighty empire, now must deal with the question, “What happened to the nation of Israel? Weren’t they supposed to be different?”

God won’t let his reputation become tarnished, so he tells Ezekiel about a time to come when God himself will cleanse his people so that their behavior will bring God glory, so that he may once again dwell in the midst of his people, and so that they nations may know that “the Lord, he alone is God” (1 Kings 18:39).

Yeshua teaches us to let our good works shine so that others may see them and give glory to our Father in heaven (Matt 5:16). What we do either gives God glory or makes him look bad. The good news is that now, in the new covenant, prophesied about in the haftarah, the Spirit of God guides us to walk in his way (cf. Ezek 36:27). Why? So that God is glorified! He does this for his sake (Ezek 36:22), so, starting with Israel and going out into the nations, all may know that he alone is supreme and indescribably merciful.

With this amazing work of God, we are to broadcast what he’s done. So I pose a question: who knows what God has done? Only you? Your family? Your congregation? Is God receiving glory for how he has purified you from dead works into righteousness, how he is bringing you from glory to glory, deeper into his presence, now accessible to all in boldness through the work of Messiah Yeshua? Our congregations and all our congregants are to be living billboards that market the glory of God. We cannot hide this, minimize this, or rationalize not sharing it. God went into such painstaking detail to build his earthly dwelling place and to purify those who were unable to enter it. Likewise, he guided Yeshua specifically where to go and what to say (cf. John 5:19, 8:28) so that he could bring us into a deeper intimacy with his presence, something that would transform us.

We are transformed so that we may bring him glory by our good works. More than the beauty of the mishkan, our behavior makes our Father look good. So, be specific about what you do; God’s reputation is at stake.

Signs of His Presence

Parashat Ki Tisa, Exodus 30:11–34:35

by Dr. Vered Hillel, Netanya, Israel

In Parashat Ki Tisa the Israelites are in the desert waiting for Moses to come down from the mountain (Exod 24:18). Up until this point the narrative in Exodus has moved rather rapidly: the enslavement of Israel, the events leading up to the calling of Moses, the drama of the plagues culminating in the killing of the first-born, the events of the first Pesach, the Exodus itself, the splitting of the Sea of Reeds, and traveling through the desert to Mt. Horeb. Suddenly, the fast-paced and miraculous events have stopped. Israel waits.

Israel waits and waits for Moses who is at the top of the mountain meeting with Hashem. They do not know what is transpiring on the mountaintop. All they know is that their leader is gone. We, the readers, however, know that Moses is receiving detailed information from Hashem. Over the past few Torah portions, we’ve been eavesdropping on their conversation: in Parashat Mishpatim we hear about the laws governing community life, and in Parashat Terumah and Tetsaveh about the instructions for building the Tabernacle. B’nei Israel, however, has no idea what is happening. All they know is that they are in the desert with no permanent home, no idea where they are going or what they should be doing, and to top it off, with seemingly no leader to direct them. This moment of uncertainty, anxiety, and fear precipitates the building of the Golden Calf.

The people’s demand for a “god” seems to stem from Moses’ disappearance and their want of a visible, tangible object that would recall Hashem’s presence in their midst. I say this because Hashem indicts Israel for making a molten calf, not for worshiping other gods, and he does not accuse them of turning aside from him, but of turning “aside from the way that I enjoined upon them” (Exod 32:8). No matter their intentions, B’nei Israel acted rashly, impulsively, and corruptly, and the consequences of their apostasy were dire; Moses smashes the tablets inscribed by Hashem, and Hashem sends a plague on Israel. In a tragic irony, instead of a reassuring tangible symbol of the continuing presence of Hashem in their midst, their chosen symbol, the calf, becomes the instrument of their alienation from him. Notice that Hashem tells Moshe, “Hurry down for your people, whom you brought out of the land of Egypt, have acted corruptly” (Exod 32:7). In contrast, until now in the Exodus narrative Hashem has said “my people” (Exod 3:7, 10; 5:1; 7:4, 16, 26; 8:16–19; 9:1, 13, 17; 10:3, 4; 22:24).

We are also privy to Moses’ intercession on behalf of B’nei Israel and of Aaron to turn Hashem’s anger from them. In the Torah, Israel does not learn of this matter until later, when Moses recounts the Golden Calf episode in his final address to B’nei Israel just before they cross over into the Promised Land. At this time Moses shares how it was only by his intercession that Israel and Aaron were saved from Hashem’s anger and desire to destroy them (Deut 9:12–22). Hashem listens to Moses, and by the end of our parashah the relationship between Hashem, Israel, and Moses is restored.

Like Israel, we too can find ourselves in situations where we need more than an abstract idea of God, where we need the tangible reassurance of God’s presence and of our relationship with him. This week’s parashah gives two such signs. The first is Shabbat. The last instruction Hashem gave to Moses on Mt. Sinai before he descended with the inscribed tablets was to tell Israel that they “must keep My Sabbaths, for this is a sign between Me and you throughout the ages, that you may know that I the Lord have consecrated you” (31:12–18). At the end of our parashah Moses descends from the mountain with the second set of tablets. In next week’s parashah, vaYakhel, Moses addresses the assembled community, beginning with a command to keep Shabbat (Genesis 35:1). Thus, Shabbat forms an inclusio, a set of bookends, around the Golden Calf episode, showing that Hashem had already provided a tangible sign of his presence. Though Shabbat was sanctified by God at creation for all time (Gen 2:3), Hashem called Shabbat a sign of the relationship between himself and Israel. Hashem had provided for Israel before they recognized their own need. When we find ourselves in uncertainty, anxiety, or fear, longing for some sign of Hashem’s presence, let’s not act rashly and impulsively as our ancestors did, but remember that Hashem has given Shabbat as a sign, as a reassurance of his presence and of our relationship with him.

The second tangible sign is the Tabernacle. Like Shabbat, the Tabernacle sandwiches the incident of the Golden Calf, which falls between the giving of the instructions for the Tabernacle (25:1–30:10) and its construction (35:1–40:38). Also, like Shabbat, the placement of the Tabernacle before and after the Golden Calf incident is a planned response to the people’s need of a visible sign of Hashem’s presence. It is a place wherein they could encounter Hashem and gain access to him. In his instructions to Moses, Hashem stated that he would meet with Israel between the cherubim (Exod 25:22). The Tabernacle is a tangible expression of Hashem’s presence and of the ongoing nature of the covenant between God and Israel. Today this can be expressed in Shabbat, which as Abraham Joshua Heschel has noted, is a concrete sanctuary in time (The Sabbath: Its Meaning for Modern Man [New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005], 8–10).

Looking forward in time from Mt. Sinai to Yeshua, we see another concrete sign of God’s presence. As the Word become flesh, he tabernacled among us (John 1:14), and after ascending and being seated at the right hand of the Father sent Ruach Hakodesh (John 14:26) in his stead. May we all cling to the tangible signs of his presence—Shabbat, Tabernacle, and Yeshua.

Dressing for Service

Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20–30:10

by Michael Hillel, Netanya, Israel

This week is Shabbat Zachor, the week immediately preceding Purim. In honor of the special Shabbat, the maftir (additional reading) is taken from Deuteronomy 25:17–19, which describes the attack of Amalek. Before we consider the maftir’s connection to Purim, however, let’s turn to the parashah itself.

Tetzaveh continues the instructions for the use of the terumah offering collected in last week’s parashah, specifically the oil for the menorah whose light was to burn continually, and the vestments and garments of Aaron, his sons, and his descendants. After this, Aaron, his sons, and the altar of burnt offerings are consecrated, and the regulations concerning the altar of incense are given.

A good friend writes, “Clothing is a prominent theme throughout the Bible” (Keren Hannah Pryor, A Taste of the Torah [Marshfield, MO: FFOZ, 2016] 100). Clothing is significant throughout Scripture, from the clothes God designed for Adam and Chavah in the Garden (Gen 3:21), to the wedding gown of the bride for her marriage to the Lamb (Rev 19:8). At times it provides covering against the elements, and at other times it serves as a symbol of rank or status. Using the imagery of clothing, the Psalmist describes Hashem as the one who is “robed in majesty! Adonai has robed and armed Himself with strength” (Ps 93:1). Isaiah, in his vision, saw Hashem, “sitting on a throne, high and lifted up, and the train of His robe filled the Temple” (Isa 6:1). This week’s parashah spends a substantial amount of time, 39 verses in total, describing in intricate detail the garments and vestments of Aaron, his sons, and their descendants (28:4–42). The next verse tells us the reason for such detailed information:

They [the garments and vestments] are to be worn by Aaron and his sons when they go into the Tent of Meeting or when they approach the altar to minister in the holy place, so that they do not become subject to guilt and die. It is to be a statute forever, to him and to his offspring after him. (Ex 28:43)

Practically, these garments set apart Aaron, his sons, and his descendants from the people of Israel. They were protection for them as they ministered on behalf of the people. This protective aspect of the priestly garments is reminiscent of the full armor of God that Rav Shaul encouraged the believers in Ephesus, as well as us today, to wear continually (Eph 6:10–18).

But being set apart and protected were not the only reasons for the special priestly clothing. As the parashah begins to wind down we read the words of Hashem,

“So I will sanctify the Tent of Meeting and the altar. I will also sanctify Aaron and his sons to minister to Me as kohanim. So I will dwell among Bnei-Yisrael and be their God. Then they will know that I am Adonai their God, who brought them forth out of the land of Egypt, so that I may live among them. I am Adonai their God.” (Ex 29:42–46)

These closing words bring us back to the beginning of last week’s parashah, “Have them make a Sanctuary for Me, so that I may dwell among them” (Ex 25:8), as well as to the first words of the Decalogue, “I am Adonai your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage” (Ex 20:2). The ultimate goal for the Exodus, for the Mishkan, and for the Covenant itself is restoration of Hashem’s fellowship and communion with his people, Israel.

That which was lost in the Garden is being restored, first in relationship to Israel and then through Israel to the entire world. We proclaim this goal each time we recite the Aleinu at the close of every service:

All the world’s inhabitants will realize and know that to You (Adonai) every knee must bow and every tongue swear loyalty. . . . And then it is said, Adonai will then be King over all the earth. In that day Adonai will be Echad and His Name Echad (Zech 14:9).

In that day, all the peoples of the earth will come up to Jerusalem to worship the King, Adonai-Tzva’ot. The fellowship and relationship of the Garden will be restored, and the culmination of creation will be recognized through the agency of Messiah Yeshua, as it is written, “at the name of Yeshua every knee should bow, in heaven and on the earth and under the earth, and every tongue profess that Yeshua the Messiah is Lord—to the glory of God the Father” (Phil 2:10–11).

Beginning the eve of February 28 this year, we celebrate Purim as commanded by Mordecai the Jew by the permission of King Ahasuerus (Est 9:20–22). In the special maftir this Shabbat, we read how Israel was commanded to remember the evil perpetrated against them by Amalek as they came out of Egypt (Deut 25:17–19). King Saul was commanded to eradicate the Amalekites, but sadly, he did not do as he was told (1 Sam 15:2–3). His actions not only affected him, his family (he forfeited his dynasty), and his generation, but they also laid the groundwork for the episode recorded in the book of Esther. Haman, who sought to destroy the Jewish people is identified as “son of Hammedatha the Agagite—enemy of the Jews” (Est 3:10). Agag was the king of the Amalekites, whom King Saul spared.

Let us learn from this week’s parashah that just as Aaron and his sons had to be properly attired to minister before Hashem (Ex 28:1-2), we too need to be properly attired as encouraged by Rav Shaul, “Put on the full armor of God, so that you are able to stand” (Eph 6:11), not only against the schemes of the evil one, but more so that we too may minister before the LORD in whatever capacity He chooses for us.

Shabbat Shalom!

Unless otherwise noted, all Scriptures are from the Tree of Life (TLV) translation of the Bible. Copyright © 2015 by The Messianic Jewish Family Bible Society.

The Divine Recipe

Parashat Terumah, Exodus 25:1–27:19

by Barri Cae Seif, Sar Shalom, Arlington, TX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost and Found

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1–24:18

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, PhD, Director, Interfaithfulness

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

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

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

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

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

But there’s more.

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

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

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

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

Can you relate?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Apostle Paul strengthens this interpretation:

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

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

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

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

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

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

The answer is clear, and the responsibility is ours.

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

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

Or will we pretend we don’t see?  

The Uproar Within Our Hearts

Parshat Yitro, Exodus 18:1–20:23

Rabbi Isaac Roussel, Congregation Zera Avraham

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May we hear that Voice welling up from deep within.

May our hearts ignite in uproar in response.

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

Shabbat Shalom.

God is in the Neighborhood

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

By Rabbi Russ Resnik

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wearing Redemption

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Name that Doesn't Change

Parashat Va’era, Exodus 6:2 – 9:35

by David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name. . . .

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

By any other word would smell as sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So yes, Juliet, names do matter.

What's in a Name?

Parashat Shemot, Exodus 1:1-6:1

by David Friedman, UMJC rabbi, Jerusalem

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

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

Reuven, Shimon, Levi and Yehudah,

Issachar, Zevulun and Binyamin,

Dan, Naftali, Gad and Asher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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