Holy Dual Loyalty

Haftarat Vayikra, Isaiah 43:21–44: 23

 Rabbi Russ Resnik

Ilhan Omar, the Democratic congresswoman from Minnesota, has maintained her high exposure in the news stream for weeks by repeatedly “using anti-Semitic clichés in her criticisms of the American-Israeli relationship” (quoting NY Times columnist Ross Douthat). The particular cliché that seems to have gotten the most attention and pushback is Omar’s recent insinuation of dual loyalty: “I want to talk about the political influence in this country that says it is okay to push for allegiance to a foreign country.” In the wider context of Omar’s rhetoric “political influence” refers to pro-Israel lobbyists and particularly AIPAC, and the “foreign country” is Israel.  

Dual loyalty. It reminds me of Haman’s slanderous charge to Ahashuerus, which we’ll be reading next week for Purim: “There is a certain people scattered and dispersed among the peoples in all the provinces of your kingdom whose laws differ from those of every other people and who do not obey the king’s laws. It is not in the king’s interest to tolerate them” (Esth 3:8).  

I’m not ranking Rep. Omar with Haman, but there is a faint echo. Jews are problematic because they have a different story and different laws (the Hebrew here is datim, which is used throughout Esther mostly to denote the imperial laws and ordinances). They just don’t fit in. In the current iteration, Jews who support the state of Israel—even if they’re critical in their support—aren’t just mistaken; they’re declaring allegiance to a different country. Their priorities differ “from those of every other people.” 

Columnist Douthat claims that those defending Rep. Omar “want and I suspect will eventually get a politics that remembers the Holocaust as one great historical tragedy among many, that judges Israel primarily on its conservative and nationalist political orientation, rather than on its status as a Jewish sanctuary, and that regards the success of American Jews as a reason for them to join white Gentiles in check-your-privilege self-criticism, ceding moral authority to minority groups who are more immediately oppressed” (https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/09/opinion/is-anti-semitism-exceptional.html). 

In other words, according to a significant segment of the American political class, Jews ought to just behave and think like everyone else. Otherwise we’re guilty of dual loyalty. 

Oddly, I encountered something similar years ago when I first became a follower of Messiah. When the Spirit of God swept into my life as a radical young drop-out in the remote mountains of New Mexico, I was surprised, shocked really, to discover that Yeshua—the Jesus of the goyim—was our Jewish Messiah. I was also surprised to discover soon after that being Jewish really mattered to God. Some of our early mentors supported this idea: Don Compton, who had an outreach based in Santa Fe that he’d named Shalom Ministries before he knew exactly what shalom meant; Pastor Limas at the local Spanish Assembly of God, where we found great encouragement and support at the beginning of our journey. But other Christians seemed concerned about our dual loyalty: “There is no longer Jew nor Greek,” and so on.  

One emphasis Don Compton and brother Limas shared was Pentecost. I’m not just talking about the Christian name for the holiday of Shavuot. I’m talking about the baptism in the Holy Spirit with evidence of speaking in tongues, and all the energy and uplift (with a dash of mishegoss, of course) that this entails. And the proof text for Pentecost was the whole book of Acts. As I spent time in this text over the years, I became impressed that it not only pictured an active, dramatic presence of the Holy Spirit, but also an active, dramatic presence of a Jewish body of Yeshua-followers living right in the midst of the Jewish people. These loyal Jewish followers of Messiah were also loyal Jews—lots of them as the Jerusalem elders tell Paul: “You see, brother, how many myriads there are among the Jewish people who have believed—and they are all zealous for the Torah” (Acts 21:20).  

Torah and Yeshua? Jewish and Messianic? These might be dual loyalties, but they’re loyalties that the Lord seems to have linked. The charge of political dual loyalty in modern America echoes historic anti-Semitic slanders. But here’s a holy dual loyalty of an entirely different order.  

Messianic Jewish scholar Mark Kinzer provides a fresh and profound interpretation of Acts in his recent book Jerusalem Crucified, Jerusalem Risen: The Resurrected Messiah, the Jewish People, and the Land of Promise. He comments on the loyalty of Jewish followers of Yeshua:  

Jerusalem in Luke and Acts is the city of God and the Messiah, with the Temple Mount at its heart. It is the holiest point in the land of promise, the most precious part that represents the whole. But Jerusalem in Luke and Acts is also the city of Torah-faithful Jews who are devoted to both Jesus the Messiah and the people of Israel. Simeon, Anna, Joseph of Arimathea, James the brother of Jesus, the “thousands . . . among the Jews” who were “all zealous for the Torah” (Acts 21:20)—these are the citizens of Jerusalem whose lives represent for Luke the city’s prophetic destiny. (pg. 265, emphasis added)

 Kinzer ably demonstrates that “the city’s prophetic destiny” in turn represents the prophetic destiny of the entire Jewish people, to be fulfilled in and through Messiah Yeshua. Messianic Jews today anticipate that destiny in our dual loyalty to Messiah and to the people of Israel.  

This week’s haftarah describes a holy dual loyalty that my wife, Jane, and I have been praying for on behalf of our family, and the wider Messianic Jewish family, for decades.  

“Do not fear, Jacob My servant,
Jeshurun, whom I have chosen.
For I will pour water on the thirsty land
and streams on the dry ground.
I will pour My Spirit on your offspring,
and My blessing on your descendants.
They will spring up among the grass
like willows by flowing streams.
This one will say, ‘I am Adonai’s.’
That one will be called by the name Jacob.
Another will write on his hand, ‘Adonai’s’
and will take the name Israel.” Isaiah 44:2b–5 TLV

 Jacob’s offspring, the Lord promises through Isaiah, will again identify themselves as belonging to Adonai—and belonging to Jacob, Israel his people. They will call themselves by the Lord’s name and by the name of Israel, and yet their loyalty will be undivided. May the Ruach, the Spirit of God, rain down upon our offspring, our children and grandchildren and their generations throughout the extended house of Israel, to produce new life and a new identity that honors him. This has been our prayer for decades and our haftarah reminds us that it’s based on a sure promise of the God of Israel.

What Do You See in the Cloud?

Haftarat Pekudei, 1 Kings 7:51–8:21

Rabbi Aaron Allsbrook, Ohev Yisrael, Springfield VA

 This week’s haftarah is a glorious one. What had begun with Moses in the desert now finds its culmination with Solomon in Jerusalem. The people were once nomads in a desert on their way to the land of promise. Now they stand before their established king in their allotted land to dedicate a secure, fixed, and beautiful house to the living God. This is a place for God to dwell among his people forever, a place wherein people may approach God through sacrifice, prayer, and worship. It is a place unique among all places because, whereas God’s presence surely fills the entire earth, he has a particular concentration of himself in this location.

Solomon builds an elaborate and baroque temple to house the presence of God. He received this idea from his father, David. David loved the presence of God and thought it was improper to have a palace of cedar for himself while God dwelt in a tent (2 Sam 7:2). So he came up with plans to construct an abode fitting to house the presence of God. God did not allow him to actualize these plans because of the blood on his hands, so the blueprints went to Solomon. And Solomon fulfilled the wishes of his father.

Solomon created a true wonder for God. It was laden with gold, silver, and bronze, and decorated with purple, blue, and scarlet, along with carvings of animals and angels—this was something to behold. When all was said and done, just as when Moses completed the tabernacle in the desert some 480 years earlier, the presence of God came and filled this building. We read,  

Now when the kohanim came out of the Holy Place, the cloud filled the House of Adonai, so that the kohanim could not stand to minister because of the cloud, for the glory of Adonai filled the House of Adonai. Then Solomon spoke: “Adonai said that he would dwell in the thick cloud.” (1 Kings 8:10–12)

Even though, to the natural eye, this temple was worthy of praise due to its architectural and artistic splendor, what truly made it a spectacle, just like the tabernacle of Moses, was the glory of the Lord that filled it.

The purpose of the tabernacle and the temple was to have a place where God could dwell among the people of Israel. God is relational and wants to be with his children. However, because he’s so awesomely radiant and we’re—well—not, he has to come in a thick, dark cloud. He must be concealed. Even when he is with us, he is hidden. Even his reflection was too much for the people (see Exod 34:30).

Ezekiel picks up on this pattern when he describes the presence of God in his vision of the temple (Ezek 10:4). But such an occurrence does not happen after Ezra, Nehemiah, and company finish the building of the second temple. The prophet Haggai, however, states that the glory of the second temple would surpass that of Solomon’s temple (Hag 2:9). Clearly the fulfillment did not happen when the physical building was complete. So when would it happen?

Hundreds of years later Yeshua the Messiah took three of his disciples, Peter, John, and Jacob, onto a mountain. While he was praying his face began to shine brightly, like the sun, and even his clothes became radiant. Moses and Elijah appear in glory and the three disciples are dumbfounded. Suddenly, a bright cloud overshadows them and they hear the voice of God, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!” (Matt 17:5b). The disciples are terrified, but Yeshua touches them and all is well. They are to share this with no one.

What have they just experienced?! They witnessed here the cloud and glory of God in the person of Yeshua. And unlike Moses and Solomon, who saw a thick, dark cloud and were unable to stand in its presence, these three fishermen saw a bright cloud and were able to stand within it! How amazing! These men had just experienced the impossible. What their forefathers yearned to experience, these men were able to witness with their own eyes and encounter with their whole being.

Luke tells us that Moses and Elijah were discussing with Yeshua his eventual sacrifice and resurrection in Jerusalem. Such an event would fulfill the words of Haggai with the glory of the second temple being greater than that of Solomon’s temple. Yeshua, the radiance of the glory of God (Heb 1:3), would enter the house meant to hold the presence of God, and he would allow that presence to go out to the ends of the earth, no longer in darkness, but now in light and accessible to all (John 8:12).

Solomon built an amazing temple. He did something good in the eyes of the Lord. God dwelt there and, to a degree, the people could approach God. Isn’t that what we want, to be able to be close to God? The tabernacle is gone, the temples are gone, yet Yeshua is alive! Through him we are able to be in the presence of God all the time, wherever we are. What our fathers yearned for, what they saw in darkness, we see now in light. While his presence is still amazing and awesome, something we should revere greatly, we are able to approach in boldness because of Yeshua (see Heb 4:16).

When we see Yeshua, we see the Father (John 14:9). God continues to want nothing more than to be with his children, for them to dwell with him in his glory, without hindrance, without hesitation. We have such access now, and it will be even more glorious when he returns to Jerusalem to dwell with us forever!

Photo by Amber Flowers

One Man Makes the Difference

Haftarat Shekalim, 2 Kings 11:17–12:17

David Friedman, UMJC rabbi, Jerusalem

This Shabbat is Shabbat Shekalim, corresponding to the season in our calendar when the half-shekel tax was assessed in ancient Israel. Our haftarah is a short history lesson, but one that carries a challenge throughout the generations. 

The times of King Joash (843–796 BCE) and the prominent kohen (priest) Jehoiada were tumultuous ones, full of betrayal, chaos in the royal family, and bloodshed. Queen Athaliah of Judah had bludgeoned her way into power. She was the daughter of King Ahab and Queen Jezebel of the kingdom of Israel, and married into the royal family of Judah. Killing in order to strengthen her political position was one of Athaliah’s trademarks. Athaliah attempted to annihilate the royal house of King David. She acted similarly to her mother, Queen Jezebel, who was known for her penchant toward violence. Drastic and righteous actions were needed to put an end to the violence, disturbances, and disorder that Athaliah brought to the throne of Judah and to the nation. This is where we enter this week’s haftarah portion. 

Wicked Queen Athaliah had suddenly fallen because Jehoiada bravely organized a coup against her. As a result of his actions, even more chaos could ensue. When a ruler fell, competing parts of a royal family could cause purges and civil war, endangering the nation’s stability. Right then and there, the kohen Jehoiada had the gumption to take swift and decisive action in the royal quarter of the city of David, ensuring the avoidance of further conflict in the government. He led the unified royal guards in a plot to overthrow Athaliah.  

The sentiment of the palace officials and guards and of the city itself was to go ahead and place the rightful Prince Joash on the throne. “And all the people of the land rejoiced, and the city quieted down” (2 Kings 11:20). 

Jehoiada seized the moment, and went ahead boldly with his actions. After setting up the seven-year old Joash as king, Jehoiada apparently stayed close to him, protecting him and advising him. In the ancient world, when a government fell, neighbors on the borders would often jump at the chance to invade, to gain territory, and flex their muscle. Jehoiada’s quick, decisive, and unifying actions did not allow this to happen.  

The record shows Jehoiada to be wise and patriotic, loyal to God and passionate. When we combine the record of 2 Kings 11 and 12 with that of 2 Chronicles 24, that is indeed the picture that emerges. 

Jehoiada then made a covenant between the Lord and the king and people, that they would be Adonai’s people. He also made a covenant between the king and the people. All the people of the land went to the temple of Baal and tore it down. (2 Kings 11:17–18a)

[On Jehoiada’s initiative] the king then took his place on the royal throne, and all the people of the land rejoiced. And the city was quiet, because Athaliah had been slain. . . . Joash (the new king) was seven years old when he began to reign. (2 Kings 11:19–21)

During the six years of Athaliah’s heavy-handed reign, Prince Joash had been hidden in order to save him from Athaliah’s sword: “He remained hidden with his nurse at the temple of Adonai for six years while Athaliah ruled the land” (2 Kings 11:3). Though this text does not explicitly say so, I assume that Jehoiada tutored the boy-king Joash and advised him closely during his boyhood. That is, he helped the king to rule justly and righteously, with the fear of God in the forefront. Indeed, the first action that Jehoiada is recorded to have taken after his successful coup was to lead a renewal of the covenant between God and the people.  

Kings who took this type of decisive action (like Hezekiah and Josiah) are considered heroes. The kohen Jehoiada was a likeminded individual in his passion for the nation to be loyal to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. His recorded actions show us his heart. He was even accorded the honor of being buried alongside the kings: “He was buried with the kings in the City of David, because of the good he had done in Israel for God and his temple” (2 Chron 24:16). 

“And Joash did that which was right in the eyes of God all the days of Jehoiada the priest” (2 Chron 2:24). This verse testifies to the influence of Jehoiada on King Joash. As long as Jehoiada was alive, he appears to have had positive influence upon the government and the very nation itself. Joash, though, had his faults, and after Jehoiada the kohen died, Joash allowed idolatry to creep back into the nation. Sadly, after Jehoiada’s death, Joash even was complicit in the murder of Jehoiada’s son: “King Joash did not remember the kindness . . . Jehoiada had shown him, but killed his son (2 Chron 24:22). 

When I stop to think about the life of Jehoiada, I see one clear lesson: one person who takes courageous action at a given time can turn history around in a good way. For the Jewish people at that time, the actions of Jehoiada reversed the trend towards idolatry, and again placed the kingdom into the hands of the faithful, living, and true God, right where it belonged. Lives were saved, security was established, and righteousness now had a chance to be manifested in the nation. Covenant faithfulness towards God had a real chance to be established for a long time. The foundation for such a legacy was created by the work of Jehoiada. Unfortunately, Joash chose another path, ending in his own death.  

This haftarah portion carries one particularly clear message. When I read it, it causes me to ask myself: can I be like Jehoiada? Will I allow God to fill me full of his courage so that I can help influence those around me, like my family, my workplace, and my community? When God opens doors for me to be the one person who can step through in order to make a big difference, will I do it? Will I muster up the courage and indeed step through? These are not rhetorical questions. As I ask them they may sound rhetorical, but they will become real for each one of us at some point in our lives.  

My prayer is that the Lord will fill you and me both with that very courage, with the foresight and wisdom of Jehoiada, with the very decisiveness and righteousness that he displayed. I cannot think of a more important challenge for any one of us. Will we rise up, take the responsibilities that we have in life, and further the kingdom of God by excelling at our task? Yehi ratzono. May it be. Amen.

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.