Who You Gonna Listen To?

Haftarat Ki Tisa, 1 Kings 18:1–39

Michael Hillel, Netanya, Israel          

 I remember being a gangly, nearsighted, almost nerdy teenager, without the academic bent, during my high school years. When I decided to go into the Marine Corps in my senior year, very few of my peers were supportive of the idea. “You will never make it in the Marines” was the comment I heard more often than not. Well, I spent twelve years in the Marines and remain a proud Marine to this day. A year after I went into the Corps, I met and rather quickly married my wife. This time, some of the comments were, “You’ll never make it a year.” This year we will celebrate our 46th wedding anniversary. Coming to Israel, I knew that I would eventually be in full-time ministry, but again I was told, “You aren’t cut out for ministry; find something else for your hand to do.” Of all the rejections, this one hurt the worst. Interestingly, Hashem opened a number of doors for me over the years to be involved in various ministry activities, which includes leading a chavurah on the Mediterranean coast. One thing these three episodes have taught me is that we should listen to what God says over what man says, especially when man says something can’t be done.

This week’s haftarah from 1 Kings 18 is best known for Elijah’s victory over the priests of Ba’al at Mount Carmel, which led to a massive return of the people of Israel (the northern kingdom) to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Often overlooked in this well-known passage is the reception Elijah received on his way to Carmel and during the interactions that occurred there.  

A little background is helpful here. For three years Israel has been in a drought brought about at the word of Elijah. 

Now Elijah the Tishbite, of Tishbe in Gilead, said to Ahab, “As the Lord the God of Israel lives, before whom I stand, there shall be neither dew nor rain these years, except by my word.” (1 Kings 17:1)

Now, three years later, Hashem sends Elijah to tell Ahab that he will send rain. Since Elijah is the source of the drought, he is persona non grata in Israel. The first person whom Elijah encounters on his way to meet Ahab is Obadiah, “who was in charge of the palace [and] . . . feared Adonai greatly” (18:3). However, instead of praising Hashem at this meeting, Obadiah becomes fearful because Elijah wants him to tell Ahab that Elijah is back. In essence Obadiah asks Elijah if he is handing him over to Ahab to be killed (18:9–14). Thus, we see that Elijah’s first reception is less than favorable. Then when Elijah does meet Ahab, instead of welcoming Elijah and possibly bringing about the end of the drought, Ahab retorts, “Is it you, you troubler of Israel?” (18:17). Ahab obviously does not accept his or his wife Jezebel’s responsibility for the drought, blaming it solely on Elijah.  

Finally, maybe the hardest reception is from the people of Israel who are gathered on Mount Carmel to see what the prophet will do. Elijah throws down the gauntlet, “How long will you go limping with two different opinions? If Adonai is God, follow him; but if Ba′al, then follow him” (18:21). And the people do not say anything. Elijah receives no encouragement from a fellow man of God, the king, or the people who are bound to Hashem in covenant relationship. Instead he receives skepticism, accusation, and unresponsiveness. With such a reception, at least in the natural, why would Elijah want to continue in his mission? 

Doubt, criticism, and apathy are not the seedbed of success and victory. Blogger Ana Erkic notes

If someone keeps criticizing you, you should stop for a moment and consider what it really means. It doesn’t have anything to do with you—it has to do with their own fears and insecurities.”[i]

Had Elijah been derailed by the reception he received, the story may well have had a much different ending. Had the king’s attitude or the people’s apathy been the motivating factor, the drought may not have ended, and the priests of Ba’al would have won by default. However, Elijah had a word from the Lord, and it was that word that motivated him, that strengthened him to accomplish what he was sent to do. In The Message paraphrase, Eugene Peterson creatively renders Proverbs 3:5–6: 

Trust God from the bottom of your heart; don’t try to figure out everything on your own. Listen for God’s voice in everything you do, everywhere you go; he’s the one who will keep you on track.

 Part of trusting God from the bottom of our heart is knowing that he desires our best and that the dream or desire of our hearts runs in tandem with his desire for our good. So the key here is first trusting Hashem and then listening to Hashem’s guidance. When we do that, we can trust that he will lead, guide, and direct the dream or goal to its successful conclusion. Trust in him and do not be swayed by those who would attempt to heap criticism and doubt upon your dreams. Rav Shaul likewise encouraged the believers in Colossae when he wrote, “And whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Yeshua, giving thanks to God the Father through him” (Col 3:17). 

Remember, the successful completion of a goal or the realization of a dream is but a stop or, better yet, a marker on the journey of life. Our eyes are not to be on the markers; rather they are to be on the one who walks with us, leading and guiding us to be the very best that we can be, wherever that journey might take us.

[i] https://www.lifehack.org/523208/others-may-doubt-you-but-you-always-have-to-believe-in-yourself, accessed on February 15, 2019.

Be Lovers of Peace

Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20–30:10

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

 Our parasha this week focuses on the making of the priestly garments, including those of the Kohen Gadol. In Exodus 19:6 God says to Israel, “You shall be for me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” So in reality we are all priests. The kohanim are just the priests to the priests. But Israel as a whole are priests to the nations of the world. Just as there were special garments for the kohanim, we have our special garments, denoting our vocation as priests; for example, tallit and tefillin.  

Aaron, our first high priest, was known as a great peacemaker. Pirke Avot 1:12 says “Be among the disciples of Aaron, a lover of peace and pursuer of peace; love all fellow creatures, and bring them near to Torah.” As priests, this is one of our most important callings. And this is why communal peace is so important to the rabbis. Time and again throughout the Talmud, we see a deep concern for peace; even adjusting rulings to engender good relationships between people. There are stories of rabbis who even allow themselves to be denigrated in the interest of peace.

It is especially important for us to be pursuers of peace in our highly polarized society. I have been troubled these last few years with how contentious elections have become, and how dismissive people have become of others’ opinions and positions on difficult social issues. It often devolves into name calling. Conservatives call liberals “libtards” and “snowflakes”. Liberals call conservatives “rednecks” and “wing nuts”. Such labels are denigrating and dehumanizing, no better than racial pejoratives.  

People also use social media to blast others, wielding “their truth” like a sledgehammer. Rabbi Nachman’s words from two centuries ago apply so well in our modern context. He says, “Even on occasion when they do meet and converse, their words are not heard due to the climate of jealousy, spite and disdain. Aggression and the desire to win arguments cannot bear the truth. The main reason why most people are far from God is strife, which has become widespread in the world as a result of our sins” (Likutey Moharan I, 27). Social media today is rife with aggression, spite, and disdain.

To be peace-loving followers of Aaron, we need to avoid getting drawn into such behavior. It behooves us to keep in mind that these are complex issues facing our society and that both sides of a question can have equally compelling arguments and valid viewpoints. 

In the Talmud Moses asks God for a clear-cut Torah. God refuses because it would be too rigid. God tells Moses to learn to argue the 49 pros and the 49 cons and then go with the majority opinion. (Why 49? No one really knows. But a possible answer comes from another story in the Talmud where Moses asks God for all 50 levels of understanding, and God tells him that humans can only handle 49.) 

Because of the great importance of learning to listen to each other’s opinions, it also says in the Talmud that one may not be appointed to the Sanhedrin unless he can argue from Scripture why reptiles are kosher! In other words, our Sages wanted judges who were not rigid and unwilling to hear all sides of an argument. This is clearly hyperbole to make the point. 

There is a story told about a discussion between Bismarck, the Chancellor of Germany, and Disraeli, the Prime Minister of England (and also a Jew). Bismarck said that he wished he could limit his ministers of parliament to only two minutes of talking each, because he already knew the right decision. Disraeli replied that if no one in parliament disagreed with him, he would go out and hire people to argue with him! Bismarck asked him, “Why would you do that?” Disraeli replied, “It’s an old family tradition.” He recognized the need for peaceful discussion and disagreement. 

In Yeshua’s day there were two main schools of Pharisees, Hillel and Shammai. They often disagreed on the application of Torah, but usually their arguments were constructive and peaceful. On the 9th of Adar in 66 CE, however, their argument erupted into violence and many people were killed, some say as many as 3000! This was such a catastrophe that the 9th of Adar became a minor fast day. In modern times, a group of rabbis formed an organization teaching people how to peacefully disagree, and they called it the 9 Adar Project (see www.9adar.org). The 9th of Adar is this week, on February 14th. 

It is hard to handle disagreements peacefully, as it requires us to be humble and admit that we may only have 49 levels of truth, not all 50. And to admit that we may have our own biases that blind us from the validity other people’s perspectives. It requires us to have respect and empathy for our opponents. It requires us to develop deep listening skills and to learn from other people. 

As lovers of peace, we are required to eliminate strife, which is defined as angry or bitter disagreement over fundamental issues. Rav Shaul lists strife along with idolatry, sexual immorality, and sorcery (Gal 5:19–21)! In his letter to the Corinthians he says, “You are involved in strife because you are spiritually immature” (1 Cor 3:3). Proverbs 6 says “There are six things Adonai hates, seven which he detests: a haughty look, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that plots wicked schemes, feet swift in running to do evil, a false witness who lies with every breath, and him who sows strife among brothers” (emphasis mine). 

Yeshua said, “Love your enemies and do good. . . . Then your reward will be great and you will be called sons of the Most High” (Luke 6:35). Sometimes our “enemies” are people that we disagree with. 

As Jewish followers of Messiah Yeshua, I urge us all to avoid strife, to avoid getting sucked into vicious arguments, denigrating those with whom we disagree, and blasting people with our “truth”. We need to set an example for the Messianic Community and the world. We are priests and should always strive to engender peaceful discussions. 

May we be “49 people,” willing to listen to all sides of an argument. 

May we have humility, awareness of our own biases, and empathy for our opponents, and be deep listeners. 

May we be followers of Aaron, lovers of peace and pursuers of peace. 

Then we will be joint-heirs with our Messiah, and called sons of the Most High!

Where Does God Dwell?

Haftarat Terumah (1 Kings 5:26–6:13 [5:12–6:13])

Dr. Vered Hillel, Netanya, Israel

As for this house that you are building, if you will walk in my statutes, obey my ordinances and keep all my commandments by walking in them, then I will establish my word with you, which I spoke to your father David. I will dwell among the children of Israel and will not forsake my people Israel. (1 Kings 6:12–13)

These words to Solomon refer to the promise Hashem gave to David, that one of David’s descendants would build a house for Hashem’s name and that he would build a permanent dynasty for David (2 Sam 7). Ultimately, these words were fulfilled in Yeshua, the King and Messiah of Israel. As we say at Pesach, dayenu, this would have been enough, but Haftarat Terumah contains so much more than a fulfillment of a promise or a litany of architectural details. It records a monumental and defining event in the history and life of the people of Israel.

Israel had grown from a family, to a tribe of liberated slaves, to a covenant people wandering through the desert, to an established nation with a king. By the time of Solomon’s reign, Israel had become a superpower in the Middle East. Egypt and Mesopotamia had both fallen from power, leaving a political vacuum that Israel filled. Israel had reached its greatest heights of political, economic and intellectual greatness, and Solomon’s building of the Temple was the pinnacle. According to Rambam in Mishneh Torah, after entering the Land, Israel was to appoint a king (Deut 17:14–15), destroy the descendants of Amalek (Deut 25:19)—both of which were completed through Saul and David—and build the Temple (Deut 12:5; cf. Exod 25:8), which Solomon was building (Hilchot Kings and Wars 1:1).

A couple of pertinent details are found in Exodus 25:8. Hashem told Moshe to tell B’nei Israel to “make me a sanctuary, so that I may dwell among them.” Notice that the verse refers to the Mishkan or Tabernacle, and states, “that I may dwell in them (plural),” and not “in it,” meaning the sanctuary. Neither the Mishkan nor the Temple was intended to house God. No physical space, no matter how large or small, temporary or permanent, can contain God. Hashem says through Isaiah, “Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool. Where is the house you will build for me?” (Isa 66:1). At the dedication of the Temple, Solomon affirmed God’s omnipresence, “But will God really dwell on earth? The heavens, even the highest heaven, cannot contain you. How much less this Temple I have built” (1 Kings 8:27). Both sanctuaries were meant to serve as a place where people could meet with God, and to enable God to dwell in the midst of B’nei Israel. God is everywhere, but we don’t sense the presence of God the same way in every place. The sanctuary was holy space where the presence of God touched the hearts of all who worshiped there. Though the Mishkan and Temple share the common purpose of providing a place for Israel and God to meet, the two institutions represent two different seasons and needs in the history and life of Israel. 

The Mishkan was the first collective house of worship for Israel. It was small and temporary, designed to travel along with Israel on their journey from Egypt to the Promised Land, and constructed from readily available materials from the animal and vegetable kingdom, of beams and hangings that could be dismantled easily and carried by the Levites. In Parashat Terumah (Exod 25:1–27:19), we read that the Mishkan was constructed by voluntary and enthusiastic participation from the whole of the Jewish people. They brought free-will offerings, gave of their time and talents, and supported the communal sacrifices through a regulated gift of a half-shekel per person. Although they were recently liberated slaves, they constructed the Mishkan with no foreign help, contributions, or labor. In contrast, the Temple was permanent, larger and more opulent. It was constructed from stones and materials obtained from foreigners, was built by conscripted labor, and was financed and supported from the king’s coffers. In short, the Mishkan was built by the people of Israel as a loving response to Hashem, while the Temple was primarily built by artisans commissioned by King Solomon and King Hiram as an extension of royal power.  

At first glance the Mishkan appears to be the work of God, thus positive, and the Temple the work of man, thus negative. This view is reinforced by the destruction of the Temple—twice. However, a look at the function of each structure demonstrates that each met the physical, cultural, and societal needs of two different seasons. The Mishkan was small and portable, suited for the needs of Israel during their wanderings, while the Temple was monumental and permanent, just as an established and powerful nation needed at that time. The two different sanctuaries provided a place for Israel and Hashem to meet in a manner appropriate for the different seasons of Israel’s life.  

The same principle applies to our lives. The manner in which Hashem meets with us may change throughout the seasons of our lives, but his presence and holiness do not change. No matter our season of life, we must guard against becoming apathetic, which happened with Temple worship and eventually led to its destruction, and actively pursue a vibrant relationship with Hashem. Remember that the Spirit of God does not dwell in buildings, but in the builders. As believers in Yeshua we are not only builders but living stones being built together into a dwelling place for the Spirit of God.

I encourage all of us to stir up our hearts to ignite or reignite a dynamic and passionate relationship with him (cf. 2 Tim 1:6), so we can be built into a sanctuary (Eph 2:22) where the presence of God may be sensed by all.

Guarding the Covenant

Haftarat Mishpatim, Jeremiah 34:8-22; 33:25-26

Dr. Patrice Fischer, Ohr Chadash, Clearwater, FL 

In the Torah portion this week we have what seems to be a whole long list of laws. This listing of rules appears to us modern readers to support the stereotype (a negative one) of the Old Testament, and therefore to be skipped over to get to the “narrative” (the story). However, if this list is skipped over, then the modern reader will miss out on several rules that still seem important today.

So, for example, the quote of “an eye for an eye” (Exod 21:24) has been cited on numerous occasions to show the ruthless and punishing nature of the God of the Old Testament, which is then compared with the loving God of the New Testament who forgives us.

May the godly person stay far, far away from this treatment of the Tenach.

This list of laws is complicated, and needs to be read within its own context.

In the haftarah for this Exodus passage, Jeremiah describes an historical example of what happened when a king of Israel attempted to strictly apply a rule in this list to a current problem of his. (Side note: Jeremiah is a sadly underappreciated prophet whose name has become an epithet for depressing tales of woe. Jeremiah is arguably the most Yeshua-like prophet, not because he says many things that the New Testament quotes, but because many circumstances in his life are mirrored in Yeshua’s.)

The story comes from the reign of Zedekiah, the last king of Judah directly related to David (597–586 BCE), at least during First Temple Judaism. After Jerusalem was destroyed Nebuchadnezzar appointed a non-royal governor, Gedaliah, to be in charge of everyone left in the city, since not every living Jew in Judea went into exile. This governor was the last leader of people in the city, before it was abandoned. Included in these Jewish “leftovers” were Jeremiah and his dear companion, Baruch, who refused to go to Babylon with the others. Instead, they stayed behind to be with these leftovers, who had not left for various reasons.

Jeremiah reports that toward the end of the 11-year siege of Jerusalem by the Babylonian army, Zedekiah made a formal covenant with “all the people of Jerusalem” to release all their Jewish slaves. The people and officials complied and let them go free (Jer 34:9–10). This covenant complied with the laws about keeping Jewish slaves found in Exodus 21 (also see Lev 25 and Deut 15). Instead of automatically accomplishing this every 7th year as prescribed by God, the Jewish people seem to have not been keeping this rule down through their history.

We may look upon this sudden reverting to ancient law by Zedekiah and think (cynically) as the ancient Judeans may have thought, “Well, Zedekiah is buying time and hoping that God will be merciful to us if we obey his law, or else he thinks that the freed slaves will help with our fight against the Babylonians.” We do not know Zechariah’s reasoning for this return to ancient laws, but we do know that the covenant was short-lived, since soon the ex-slaveholders brought back the freed slaves in order to enslave them again. This violated the covenant almost immediately after making it.

The discussion about performing the covenant should remind us of the first time we see the process of “cutting” (the literal term used in the Hebrew here) a covenant in Genesis 15, when God makes a covenant with Abraham at the very beginning of their relationship. Both in Jeremiah 34 and Genesis 15 the exact phrase “cutting a covenant” appears in the text. “Cutting a covenant” was a widely known procedure for making solemn oaths between parties in the ancient Middle East, where one or more animals were cut in two, and the two parties making the covenant walked between the animal halves to say: “May my god do this to me if I fail to keep this covenant with you.” In Genesis 15, God alone walked between the pieces, since Abraham was asleep. This has further theological implications which we cannot be continued here.

We know that the ceremony which was carried out in Zedekiah’s time was this same type (Jer 34:18), and so when everyone who freed their slaves took them back, breaking their solemn oath, then the penalty would be enacted: “May my god do this to me if I don’t keep this promise.” The nation had set itself up to reap the consequences of its broken promise (which could rightly be placed on a mountain of failed promises of the past) and was now going to receive the punishment they personally had agreed to, namely, the death of their nation and their king.

Jeremiah overtly refers to the Genesis 15 passage when God says, “their carcasses shall become food for the birds of the sky” (Jer 34:20). In Genesis 15:12 Abraham stands guard over his pieces of animals to protect them from “birds of prey.”

And, sure enough, Jerusalem was destroyed by Babylon’s army, Zedekiah and his sons were killed, and most of the Jews that were left went into exile to join up with the others who were taken into exile during the 49 prior years—a tragic story with a horrific (even if predictable) outcome.

But the haftarah reading is not over yet. A passage from Jeremiah 33 is to be read after the passage from chapter 34, to remind us of something that is an eternal concern: Even though these bad things may happen in the course of Israel’s history, he has not rejected his covenant with Israel.

There is no action the Jewish nation can perform that is so bad that God will no longer consider them his people. There is no action that the Jewish people can take that would be a reason for God to put us aside and choose a different people to inherit the promises given to Abraham. Individual people and generations of Jewish people can suffer (rightly or wrongly) but God promises, “I will restore them from their exile, and have compassion on them” (Jer 33:26 TLV).

Even as we remember our past failings as described by Jeremiah, may we also remember the final lesson of this haftarah: God has always been faithful and will always continue to be faithful to our eternal covenant with him.

An Aristocracy of Humility

Parashat Yitro, Exodus 18:1-20:23

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

With the arrival at Sinai, Israel begins to forge in earnest its national identity. It is only in covenantal relationship with the God of their forefathers, the God to whom the entire world belongs, that the shared experience of bondage and liberation begins to take on meaning. It is here at Sinai that the full transition is made from servitude to Pharaoh to the service of God and his creation.

From the inception of the covenant, Israel is called to be a “kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exod 19:6). This expression describes a careful balance of covenantal responsibilities, which reflect those of the first humans, who broke faith with God and whose disobedience caused the cosmic rift. In the first two chapters of Genesis, humankind is portrayed as having an essential participation in the creative process. God names the day and the night, the heavens and the land, the seas and the luminaries, thereby determining their essential natures and functions in the cosmic harmony. But Adam is allowed to participate in the naming process, describing the essential natures of each animal. In this respect the first man is given the original responsibility of reflecting God’s image in this world. He is also given sovereignty of the earth’s resources (Gen 1:26–28). In light of God’s benevolence, though, it is understood that the role of sovereignty requires that we care for the wellbeing of all that is put in our charge.   

The second divine command to humankind is to till (l’avdah, lit. to serve or to worship) the ground (Gen 2:15). This command is replicated in God’s promised sign to Moses, that he and the Children of Israel (God’s renewed humanity) would “serve/worship God (ta’avdun et ha-elohim) by this mountain” (Exod 3:24). While the command is very much the same as the first command, it is actualized differently.  

At Sinai the Israelites are told if they are obedient to the commands and ordinances of Torah, they will image God as kings and priests, sovereigns and servants. Worship will be their ritual performance of the primordial intention for triangulated service between God, humanity, and creation. 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. Biblical scholar Jon Levenson has referred to Israel’s dual role as “an aristocracy of humility.” 

As Israel stood at the foot of Sinai and all the people responded “kol asher diber Adonai na’aseh, all that the Lord has said we will do” (Exod 19:8), they accepted not only the privileges of bearing the name of the King of all of the Earth, 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 for the first time. As we remove the Torah from the ark it is as though we are again saying “all that the Lord has commanded we will do.”  

With this acceptance we are compelled to live lives that model God’s image in the world. It is our responsibility together with all of Israel to honor and exalt God by affecting his dignity. Sovereignty in God’s economy is not that which is grasped but rather that which is freely given. Though an odd dichotomy by normal reckoning, the power of God is perfected in our weakness. It is through service that we attain the mark of divinely gifted aristocracy. In this respect we are called follow 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). His role is not passive; rather he actively undertakes the role of a servant. So for Yeshua the incarnation in and of itself is a position of marginality. We intuit he loses far more when he enters the created order than we are capable of comprehending, or that the biblical authors can adequately convey. But we also understand intuitively that 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.

So 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.  

At his final Passover Seder Yeshua said to his disciples, “The kings of the Goyim lord it over them; and those in authority over them are given the title, ‘Benefactor.’  But not so with you! On the contrary, let the greater among you become like the younger, and one who rules like one who serves.  For who is greater? The one reclining at the table? or the one who serves? It’s the one reclining at the table, isn’t it? But I myself am among you like one who serves” (Luke 22:25–29 CJB). 

Our national identity is tied in with our obedience to God and to his Torah, and in obedience to Messiah Yeshua who gave his life in wholehearted love to his Eternal Father. This week as we stand before the open ark let’s take seriously our declaration of responsibility and pledge meaningfully that all God has said we will do. Let’s take the first steps toward truly becoming an aristocracy of humility.

The Woman of Flames

Parashat Beshalach, Judges 4:4 – 5:31 

Monique B, UMJC Executive Director

This week’s haftarah portion brings us into the tumultuous period of Israeli life following the death of Joshua. The Book of Judges reads like an action movie or a comic book, replete with heroes and villains, vivid battle scenes, quirky protagonists, and gory death scenes. In the 4th chapter of Judges, we learn that Gal Gadot is not the original Jewish Wonder Woman. Instead, the honor goes to Deborah, who precedes her by several thousand years.

Deborah’s introduction is striking: “Now Deborah, a woman, a female prophet, a woman of flames, she herself, she was judging Israel at that time.” (Judges 4:4) This is no ordinary woman, not simply a female prophet like Miriam or Huldah, nor only a judge like Gidon. Instead, she bears the unique distinction of serving as both prophet and judge. The only other biblical figure to serve in both roles simultaneously is Samuel – the man who established the Jewish monarchy and anointed its first two kings.

To be a judge in the time of the judges was not a ceremonial role. The judges of Israel were warlords, first and foremost. They prodded the Jewish people to abandon religious syncretism, destroy the altars they had built to the gods of the pagans living among them, and return to serving the only god, the god of Israel. Only in a state of repentance and covenant faithfulness could the Jewish people succeed in battle and enjoy peace in the Land.  

Except that there hasn’t been peace. Since the last judge died (Ehud), everyone has returned to worshipping foreign gods, leading God to deliver the Jewish people into the hands of a Canaanite King, Yavin. The King’s general Sisera deploys 900 iron chariots, and succeeds in terrorizing the tribes of Naphtali and Zevulun living in the northern flatlands of Israel.

Deborah isn’t intimidated by Sisera. Her command post sits in the mountains between Ramah and Bethel, where his chariots cannot reach. She summons Barak, the commander named “Lightning” to hatch a battle plan and deliver marching orders from the master of the universe: “Gather 10,000 men and march to Mount Tavor. You’re going to fight that army of chariots in the muddy banks of the Kishon River, and God will deliver Sisera into your hands.”

Barak seems overwhelmed by these orders. Surely he has already skirmished with Sisera’s army, and taken heavy losses among his men. He responds: “If you go with me, I will go, but if you won’t go with me, I won’t go.” Deborah agrees. “Yes, I will gladly go with you, but you should know that there won’t be much glory for you, as God is going to deliver Sisera into the hands of a woman.” With the matter settled, The Woman of Flames and the Man of Lightning set off to make war.

Barak succeeds in mustering 10,000 Jewish men. Together, he and Deborah hike up the mountain to survey the area below. Dawn breaks, and Deborah can see that Sisera has gathered his chariots in the valley below, just as her prophecy had foretold. She gives the rousing speech that plays in every movie before the final charge: “Get going! This is the day when God will hand Sisera over to you! God has gone out ahead of you!” The men swarm down the mountain, chasing Sisera’s troops halfway to the Mediterranean Sea. Sisera’s chariots get stuck in the mud of the Kishon river, and every single Canaanite soldier is put to the sword, “not one man was left.” Sisera makes a mad dash on foot halfway across the countryside, a trip that would have taken 18 hours at minimum.

He arrives at the tents of Hever, where he’s invited inside by the brave Canaanite woman Yael. Any woman in her right mind would steer clear of a demoralized general fresh from battle – he is more likely to perpetrate rape than accept hospitality. But Yale shows great courage, agency, and cunning. He is likely shivering from adrenal fatigue. So she wraps him in blankets. Parched, he asks for water. She gives him warm milk, and covers him with more blankets. Moments later, he’s fast asleep. Then Yael drives a tent peg through his skull, and steps outside to greet Barak (who has been hot on Sisera’s heels) to show off her war trophy. The battle went exactly as Deborah prophesied – Sisera has died at the hands of a woman, and his entire army has been soundly defeated.

For centuries, commentators have lost their minds over the roles played by Deborah and Barak in this tale. Many interpret Barak’s dialogue with Deborah as a sign of cowardice, and Yael’s glory as a suitable “punishment.” Shaming Barak helps to explain how God could possibly use a woman to do something as masculine as making war or assassinating a sleeping general: “God only uses women when there are no good men around.”  

But if Barak is really such a mouse, why does the writer of Hebrews include him in the great hall of heroes, along with Gidon, Samson, and King David? (Hebrews 11:32) If there are no good men around, how does Barak find 10,000 of them to take up arms against the fearsome army of Sisera? Only a real mensch runs into a dangerous battle knowing there will be no glory in it for him. And where is the shame in asking a prophet who is also a successful warlord to come with you? She has a direct line to God, she is the architect of the grand plan, and she’s quite experienced in battle. It would make sense to want her there on the big day, to talk strategy in real-time, offer divine input, and boost the morale of the troops.

Barak insisted that Deborah come with him to make war, and has been belittled by civilian commentators ever since. What if his ultimatum is a sign of faith, rather than cowardice? We shouldn’t forget that Barak won the war. The text suggests that he won because he brought the Woman of Flames along, not in spite of her presence. And together they brought peace to the Land for 40 years. How much more could we accomplish as a community if our men of lightning and women of flames could work together for the sanctification of God’s holy name, without giving a thought to glory, honor, shame, or credit?

The Mah Zot Principle

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1–13:16

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, Interfaithfulness

Like a pot of cool water that is gradually heated until the proverbial lobster is cooked without fully realizing what is happening, so can some cultural trends in the Messianic movement “cook” our unique calling as Jews so that we lose track of who we have been created to be, and what we have been called to value and preserve.  

This danger is especially evident in congregations where the Jews become more Christian in culture and the Gentiles become more Jewish, so that both meet somewhere in the middle. But when that middle involves leaving behind Jewish baggage packed for us by God himself, we Jews need to awaken to the bubbling in the pot. This week’s parasha comes to our aid. It enshrines for us what is called the Mah Zot (What Is This?) Principle, which states: 

There should be markers in the lives of Jews that memorialize our unique experience with God and provide occasions to proclaim and renew awareness of his saving acts among our people.

This is a principle repeatedly illustrated in our Scriptures, but most prominently in this week’s parasha where we read that Jewish householders were admonished to put blood on their doorposts as a yearly reminder of the redemption from Egypt (Exod 11:21–27); to give special treatment to first-born sons and animals as a reminder of the slaying of the first-born in Egypt (Exod 13:1, 11–15); to wear phylacteries so as to not forget these saving events (Exod 13:9–10, 16); and to eat unleavened bread during the Passover season each year as a memorial of the Exodus (Exod 13:2–6). All of these commandments (not customs!) come from this week’s parasha. And if you want another, just go and grab hold of one of the twelve stones that were removed from the midst of the Jordan to serve as a reminder of how God cut off the flow of the river that Israel might pass through (Josh 4:1–9). In each case, the behavior or artifact served as a memorial of the saving acts of God and as an occasion for inquiry (by our children but not only them) into the meaning of that artifact or ritual.  

You are right to ask, “What was the purpose of all this?” It served as an opportunity to recall and to tell the next generation of the mighty acts of God for and among the descendants of Jacob. These behaviors were tent pegs securing the particularity of that people of whom Paul will, without shame, say: “What advantage has the Jew and what is the value of circumcision? Much in every way!” (Rom 3:1–2a). He was not embarrassed by the unique calling of the children of Israel, and neither should we be.  

These texts commend Messianic Jews incorporating and in many cases restoring such traditional markers into our personal and communal lives. We must never forget that we are participants in a common identity and common history with other Jews. Our parasha expresses this clearly when, speaking of the yearly Feast of Unleavened Bread, it tells each father to explain the rite to his inquiring son, saying, “It is because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt” (Exod 13:8). Each father, though born after the events, is nevertheless to see himself as implicated in those events. It is for this reason that the Haggadah bids us all consider the Passover events as if we ourselves had come out of Egypt, for indeed we did.  

We might compare our situation to that of a pregnant woman who is temporarily in jail and doesn’t know she is pregnant. The child in her womb doesn’t know he’s in jail; but he is. And the proof that he’s in jail is that if his mother doesn’t get out soon enough, he’ll be born there! 

Similarly, if God had not delivered our ancestors out of Egypt, out of Pharaoh’s “jail house” (his “house of bondage”) we ourselves would still be enslaved in Egypt. This is an issue of corporate solidarity. We Messianic Jews are in corporate solidarity with the Jewish people, and are participants in the unique historical experience of that people. What happened to them historically is our personal history. Even if the Jewish community seeks to exclude us, ever and always, together we are family. As such, we have a common history, even if much of that history was ours while in the loins of our ancestors.  

We must not miss the crucial implications of this principle. Failure to preserve and honor our Jewish particularity means the neglect of our very own history and identity. More tellingly, such neglect means to egregiously disassociate from other Jews and to display a cavalier forgetfulness concerning God’s intentions in making us a people for his own Name. (See Micah 4:9, but also Acts 15:14 where we read that he also is making from among the Gentiles a people for his own Name.) At the very least, such forgetfulness violates the warning in Psalm 103, “Forget not all his benefits.”  

This means that the communal and personal lives of Messianic Jews ought to be different from those of the wider Body of Messiah because our history is different and because we share a corporate solidarity with other Jews which we must not ignore. It also means that those from among the nations who are traveling with us should encourage us to engage in that ritual life which is particular to ourselves, without feeling excluded. The coming of Messiah means that God intended all non-Jews in his family to be fully included, but not in a manner that erased the special history and privileges of the Jewish people, which Paul refers to as their “much in every way advantage.”  

Applying this principle in our context will also require that we Messianic Jews follow and observe the Jewish sacred calendar. The festivals found there are like family anniversaries and birthdays circled on the family calendar hanging in the family kitchen of our people. If we consider ourselves members of the family, if we are grateful for what those circled dates signify, then we will not treat these occasions just like any other day. We will mark special occasions in special ways, in ways customary among our people, our family. So shall we honor our Father in Heaven and our brother and sister Jews. And so shall we become who we really are: Messianic Jews, Messiah’s people, and the offspring of Abraham, the friend of God.

Our Inheritance is Our Task

Parashat Va'era, Exodus 6:2–9:35

Rabbi Paul L. Saal, Shuvah Yisrael, Bloomfield, CT

It has been said that the life of Moses can be seen as three distinct movements, forty years each. Moses spends the first forty years thinking he is somebody. He has fallen by providence into the royal court of Pharaoh and is raised as a prince of Egypt while his people, the Jewish people unknown to him, suffer. In the second act he discovers that he is nobody. In a rather extended midlife crisis he winds up down and out, tending sheep in the wilderness among the tribes of Midian. But it is in the third forty years of Moses’ life that he discovers what Hashem can do with somebody who accepts he is nobody.

Parashat Va’era begins as Parashat Shemot ended, with Moses returning to the presence of Hashem, pleading petulantly. Moses had been sent to Pharaoh to demand the release of the Israelite slaves. But instead of releasing them, Pharaoh takes away their straw for brick making and they are absolutely outraged. Moses asks the Holy One how he might expect Pharaoh to listen to him, when even the children of Israel seem totally uninterested in his leadership. Moses goes so far as to accuse God of being unfaithful. “My Lord, why have you done evil to this people, why have you sent me? From the time I came to Pharaoh to speak in your name he did evil to this people, but you did not rescue your people” (Exod 5:22–23).

What appears to be an absolutely audacious indictment of the Holy One by Moses may actually be a sign of his maturation as a leader and as a Hebrew. 

By most normal measurements of success, Moses would seem to be on a continual downhill spiral. He has gone from prince to outlaw, to sheep farmer, to dissident, to rejected and dejected labor leader. But something unique is happening in Moses. Instead of fleeing Egypt forever, Moses returns to the presence of Israel’s God to plead the case of a people that he has oddly identified with since his youth (2:11). As Moses is returning to Egypt to confront Pharaoh, his wife Zipporah circumcises their sons with a flint knife, a material act of identification with the covenant between God and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. This timely interruption to the narrative suggests that Moses no longer sees himself as an appointed deliverer from outside the community of faith, but now as a fully enfranchised member of the family of Israel. In other words Moses has come to recognize and appreciate his heritage and his task.

What follows is a rebuke and an encouragement from Hashem that are in some ways indistinguishable from each other. God spoke to Moses saying, “I am Hashem. I appeared to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob as El Shaddai, but with my Name Hashem (YHVH) I did not make myself known to them” (6:2–3). Prior to calling Moses into service, the Torah informs us, God remembered the covenant with the patriarchs (2:24), but now the disclosure of the divine Name establishes the covenant with Moses as part of the natural progression of the patriarchal covenant. Moses and Israel are entering into their inheritance together.

Hashem then promises that the land of Caanan will be part of the inheritance; it will be Eretz Yisrael (6:4). Then, after stating his intention to liberate Israel and take them for his people, Hashem declares again concerning the land, “And I shall give it to you as a heritage (morashah)” (6:8). This Hebrew term, morashah, inheritance or heritage, appears twice in the Torah. It is first mentioned in relation to the Land of Israel, and later in Deuteronomy 33:4, in connection with the giving of Torah. The term morashah is used in two places to teach us that the inheritance represented by the Land of Israel can remain ours only if we commit ourselves to the keeping of Torah.

In the same way that Moses the liberator, lawgiver, and teacher needed to mature into his heritage as a fully enfranchised member of Hashem’s holy nation, so we, the sons and daughters of Israel, must mature into our heritage as well. The promises of morashah—Land and Torah—are inseparable. The thrice-daily prayer Alenu declares “our inheritance is our task.” We are called to be a light to the nations, to draw all people to the service of the one true God. This is our heritage, this is our call, and it cannot be measured by any of the normal standards of this world.

This commentary, originally posted in 2016, is a fitting reminder of our calling as we enter the new year of 2019.

Unto Us a Child is Born—in Egypt!

Parashat Shemot, Exodus 1:1–6:1

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Most of the Christian world is celebrating the birth of the Messiah this week, and in the synagogue we are reading the early chapters of Exodus, which recount the birth of another deliverer, Moses. Scholars have long noted similarities between the two birth accounts, especially in the version of Messiah’s birth preserved by Matthew.  

Both narratives open in a dark time, a time of oppression for the Jewish people. Moses’ story begins as the Israelites, who have dwelt in Egypt for generations, face increasing oppression by Pharaoh because he feels threatened by their rising birthrate and strength. Finally, he decrees, “Every son that is born to the Hebrews you shall cast into the Nile” (Exod 1:22). Yeshua’s story opens in the land of Israel under Herod, a client-king of the Roman Empire, who feels threatened by a rival king born in Beit-Lechem. Failing to locate the infant king he issues an order “to kill all the boys in and around Beit-Lechem who are two years old or less” (Matt 2:16). Both Pharaoh and Herod seek to counteract birth itself, to destroy new life in order to preserve the old regime.  

Warned of Herod’s murderous plot Messiah’s family flees for safety—to Egypt! Egypt is Mordor, the evil empire, the very locus of bondage and oppression. Yosef and Miriam seek shelter for their infant Yeshua in the belly of the beast. It’s a great irony, but we shouldn’t overlook how closely this move reflects the strategy of Moses’ parents. They prepare an ark for him, a teva such as Noah built to preserve life through the Flood, and set it adrift on the Nile, the river that symbolizes Egypt itself.

Moses survives Pharaoh’s deadly scheme, flees from Egypt when he is a grown man, and finally returns at the age of 80 to bring deliverance to his people, the Hebrews. Through Moses, God sends ten plagues upon Egypt, to demonstrate his sovereignty over the gods that empower Egypt and to rescue the Hebrews. The first of all these plagues comes upon the Nile. The waters of the Nile look benign, but they are the life-source of Pharaoh’s fearsome regime. And now they’re turned into blood, a symbol of death. This plague makes it clear that it wasn’t the Nile that had saved the infant Moses but the God of Israel, who harnesses even the mighty river for his own purposes.  

Back when the infant Moses was adrift on the Nile, a daughter of Pharaoh had rescued him and unknowingly sent him to his mother to be nursed. After the baby had grown a bit, Pharaoh’s daughter took him into her own household and gave him a name. “She called him Moshe, explaining, ‘Because I pulled him out of the water’” (Exod 2:10). Scholars tell us that Moshe was actually an Egyptian name meaning, “born” or “gave birth,” as in the names of gods like Thut-mose and Rameses, the latter also the name of a Pharaoh, meaning “born of Ra [an Egyptian god]”. But Pharaoh’s daughter is apparently thinking of a Hebrew word, mashah, meaning “drawn forth.” Does she realize what she is saying? The one who is drawn forth out of the deepest holds of Egypt will draw forth his people out of Egypt itself.

In the parallel story in Matthew, the infant who is rescued from the Empire is given the name Yeshua, after an angel tells Yosef that Miriam, “will give birth to a son, and you are to name him Yeshua, [which means ‘Adonai saves,’] because he will save his people from their sins” (Matt 1:21).

Some folks might enjoy a friendly argument about the date of Messiah’s birth, but I’ll bow out. I’m not trying to contribute to that discussion one way or the other. But it does seem fitting to celebrate the birth of Messiah—“a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel” (Luke 2:32)—during the darkest season of the year. And it’s also a fitting time to recount the birth of Moses, one of the great light-bearers of history.

A passage in the Talmud explores the response of Moses’ mother to his birth: “And when she saw him that he was good . . .” (Exod 2:2). Various rabbis disagree on the implications of “good” in this verse, but a majority view emerges.

The Sages declare, At the time when Moses was born, the whole house was filled with light—it is written here, And when she saw him that he was good, and elsewhere it is written [Gen 1:4]: And God saw the light that it was good. (Sotah 12a, emphasis added)

The birth of both deliverers, Moshe and Yeshua, brings light when all is in darkness.

In the world of Scripture, deliverance isn’t a self-help project. It doesn’t come through the gradual accumulation of good deeds or positive vibes. Rather it breaks in as light amidst the darkness. Deliverance can shine into even the biggest mess and the deepest pit. Accordingly, Matthew summarizes his account of Messiah’s birth and deliverance: “This happened in order to fulfill what Adonai had said through the prophet, ‘Out of Egypt I called my son’” (Matt 2:15). “Out of the jaws of bondage I called forth the one who belongs to me.” Within the mounting oppression that opens both Parashat Shemot and Matthew God is preparing a new thing that will break into the darkness and dispel it with the light of deliverance.

So there’s a lesson for us in December, 2018—a time that seems to be growing darker. Ominous clouds are gathering over Israel and the entire Middle East. The global order is shaky. America seems unsure of its place within it and internally polarized. Ethnic, religious, and political tensions are deepening. Mass shootings continue, including the deadliest anti-Semitic attack in American history in Pittsburgh two months ago. All the while the rampant secularization of our culture and values goes on unabated. But in the midst of all this, it might be that God is preparing a new thing, as he has always done. May we have the eyes to see his light wherever it is beginning to arise, and find ways to spread that light ourselves!

Going to Meet Their Maker

Parashat Vay’chi, Genesis 47:28–50:26; Haftarah, 1 Kings 2:1–12

Dr. Patrice Fischer, Ohr Chadash, Clearwater, FL

This week’s Torah and haftarah passages show two important deathbed scenes. In Genesis 47–50 we see Jacob’s pivotal interaction with Joseph’s two sons, Ephraim and Manasseh, then his individual, personalized blessing for each of his sons and their descendants.

In the haftarah we see another deathbed scene: David giving his last instructions to just one person, his son Solomon. Instead of dealing out many blessings and good wishes for the future of all his sons and their descendants down through history, David talks alone to Solomon, one of his many sons, and advises him how to deal individually with potential enemies.

We might be forgiven if we see David’s final advice to Solomon as akin to a scene in a novel about the Mob:

Dying Don: Don’t forget what Tommy Two-Eyes did to me when I was holed up in Jersey—he killed my two best lieutenants when they didn’t do nothing wrong. You know how I want you to take care of him.

Son: Right, Pop.

Dying Don: Also, I really like Freddie the Frog because he stood up for me when your own brother turned on me. Remember to treat his family with respect and be sure that they are taken care of . . . in a good way, I mean.

Son: [sniff] Got it, Pop. Good things for the Frog’s family—we won’t forget.

Dying Don: As far as that jerk, Jerry Jump-back, I told him that I would never off him, but you’re not me, if you catch my drift. Never, never trust him.

Son: Won’t trust him, I promise, Pop.

Why are the two deathbed scenes in Scripture so intrinsically different from each other? Jacob seems to be the person acting as the magnanimous king remembering his loved ones, whereas David, the actual king, sounds like Dying Don: these personal details about unforgotten grudges are his most important legacy; his past is more real to him than the nation’s future.

To be fair, this is not the picture we see in 1 Chronicles. The Chronicler is well-understood as the apologist for the crown in general and David in particular. His portrait of David shows him praising and encouraging Solomon along the way, recognizing that Solomon is David’s, and God’s, chosen heir starting in 1 Chronicles 22. There the Chronicler explains to the public why David himself cannot build the Temple, but leaves it instead to Solomon. It’s in this chapter that we see the scene we might have been expecting to see—David affirms Solomon, who at this time is still quite young, and tells him that building the Temple will be Solomon’s job. Then follows a reverent section where David asks Solomon to dedicate himself to the Lord, encourages him, and tells him that the chief craftsmen and builders know already that Solomon is their boss, and that he can trust them.

This passage in 1 Chronicles 22 is more like Jacob’s deathbed scene in Genesis than the deathbed scene in 1 Kings, and the scene is repeated (renewed) in 1 Chronicles 29, right before David’s death. In contrast, Solomon does not even appear in the text of Samuel until he is there at David’s deathbed in 1 Kings.

There is another overlap between Jacob’s story and the haftarah—the mention of a specific town where significant encounters took place: Machanaim, meaning “Two Camps.” This site on the east side of the Jordan River, across from the eastern end of the Jezreel Valley, is named by Jacob as he is returning home, right before he meets with Esau, his brother in Genesis 32.

In David’s life story, Machaniam is the same place where those following Saul’s house in the struggle for the throne of the nation set up a “government in exile,” led by Avner (2 Sam 2:8–12). Saul’s son Ish-Bosheth was crowned king there by Avner and others loyal to Saul’s family. (He reigned as king for only two years, while David’s army was busy shoring up his support to be king, based in Hebron.) In the haftarah passage, David mentions the day when he was “on his way to Machanaim” when Shimei curses David, calls him a murderer and claims that he has no right to rule because the rule rightly belonged to Saul’s family (1 Kings 2:8; cf. 2 Sam 16:5–14). Shimei continues on that the Lord has handed the kingdom over to Absalom because David is “a man of blood.”

It’s not difficult to understand why this incident lasted in David’s mind. It would have been terribly wounding to David to be reminded of his son Absalom and the costly civil war to take David’s throne, and also of the men he killed while trying to ascend to that throne.

So, with our haftarah this week we remember two great men and the scenes of their dying wishes. With Jacob, his thoughts are about his sons and their future endeavors to make their family into a great nation. With David, his thoughts are concerning making the scales of justice balance so that his family will be able to rule this great nation based on the promises to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

Perhaps the two are not so unalike after all.