Tzedakah First-Class

Parashat Vayera, Genesis 18:1 - 22:24

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Our Messiah warned us, “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matt 5:20). Readers might think this sentence implies that the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees is somehow defective or inferior, but Messiah Yeshua is probably saying the opposite: “Unless your righteousness is even better than that of the scribes and Pharisees, you’ll never make it into the kingdom of heaven.” Such words must have filled the original hearers with despair. How can I be more righteous than a Pharisee—especially if I’m a simple Galilean farmer or fisherman, or wife and mother?  

But before our imagined Galileans (or we ourselves) despair, we should ask what “righteousness” means. In the Jewish classic Heshbon ha-Nefesh, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Levin provides a simple definition: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor.” This definition, in turn, is an expansion of the words of Torah, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Lev 19:18). Righteousness means acting according to this standard, treating others as we would want to be treated.  

Righteousness in Hebrew is tzedakah, a word many of us learned at an early age when we were taught to put some money in a pushke, or little box, to share with those in need. I remember my Shabbat school teacher when I was eight or ten telling us that tzedakah didn’t mean charity, but righteousness or justice. We didn’t share just because we had some extra money or an extra kind heart, but rather because it was the right thing to do, because we should treat our needy neighbor the same way we’d want to be treated ourselves. 

The first appearance of the word tzedakah in the Torah comes in the story of Abraham. (The adjective form, tzedek, is applied earlier to Noah, but the noun form, tzedakah, first appears here.) The Lord has promised Abraham the impossible; although he’s an old man already and has been childless through decades of married life with Sarah, Abraham will have offspring as great as the stars in number. “And he believed the Lord; and the Lord reckoned it to him as tzedakah— righteousness” (Gen 15:6). Rav Shaul looks back at this verse to argue that God offers righteousness as a gift to those who trust in him (Romans 4; Galatians 3). Followers of Messiah have often emphasized that this gift of righteousness is not earned through good works, but then forgotten that it’s still supposed to issue in good works. If someone is made righteous through trusting in God, he or she will behave with righteousness and practice the teaching, “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor.”  

This brings us to the second appearance of the word tzedakah, which is in this week’s parasha, Vayera—“and he appeared.” The Lord has appeared to Abraham, along with two angels, as he is sitting at the door of his tent. The visitors look like ordinary travelers to Abraham so he shows them warm hospitality, feeds them extravagantly, and then escorts them out to continue on their journey. He doesn’t know that they are on their way to nearby Sodom to see if it is deserving of destruction. As they are walking together, the Lord, who is one of the three, is debating with himself whether to let Abraham in on his plans. He decides not to hide his concerns about Sodom from Abraham: “No, for I have chosen him, that he may charge his children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord by doing righteousness and justice—tzedakah u’mishpat—so that the Lord may bring about for Abraham what he has promised him” (Gen 18:19). 

Righteousness has already been credited to Abraham, but he is still responsible to maintain it and pass it on to his children and household. Abraham is the bearer of righteousness, who will act righteously and pass on this legacy to his heirs. True to this righteousness, when Abraham learns that God intends to destroy the wicked Sodomites, he tries to talk him out of it. “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor,” or, as Yeshua put it, “Do to others as you would have them do to you” (Matt 7:12). If you wouldn’t want your neighbor to piously shake his head and say “the Lord’s will be done,” if he learned, God forbid, that you were about to drive off the cliff of divine punishment, then don’t act that way toward your neighbor. If you hear of something bad coming his way—even if he appears to deserve it—do everything in your power to help ward it off.  

Since Abraham is righteous, the Lord knows that he’ll be concerned about the fate of his neighbors in Sodom, despite their wickedness. As Abraham begins his negotiations on behalf of Sodom, he tries not to be so pushy that he aggravates the Lord, but it’s not hard to imagine that the Lord told Abraham his plans in the first place hoping that he’d try to talk him out of them . . . because that’s what a righteous person would do in such a case.  

So, when Messiah tells us that our tzedakah must be even better than that of the scribes and Pharisees, he is pointing us back to the tzedakah of our father Abraham. On the one hand, Abraham’s righteousness is better than that of the Pharisees because it is a gift from God, not something that he has produced on his own. On the other hand, his righteousness is superior because it’s not expressed in theoretical or pious terms, but in the simple act of caring about his neighbors’ fate more than his own. We don’t need to despair when Yeshua tells us we need such first-class tzedakah, because the best thing about it is its accessibility. True righteousness is a gift from God, and it’s in simple and practical action on behalf of others that it will be fulfilled in our lives.

The Mighty Seed

Parashat Lech L’cha, Genesis 12:1–17:27

David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

Tired of creation descending into chaos, murder, and hatred? Does it seem like that flood didn’t quite clean out all the trash and you just can’t bring yourself to go through another flood (and Hashem promised not to send another one, anyways)? Then try ISRAEL, a unique way of blessing the whole creation through one particular people group! 

I know what you’re thinking: But won’t that people group get all high and mighty in their chosenness? And won’t the other nations continue to question this election even up to the distant year 2019? But think about the havdalah we perform at the close of Shabbat. It slices! It dices! It separates unique identities just as in the Creation Narrative—night and Day, Israel and the Nations! This covenant is not available in stores or anywhere else. You won’t find it in ancient Ugaritic texts! You’ve never seen distinction and mutual blessing like this! The covenantal love of God to work in and through one particular people group, the descendants of Avraham, has a shekel-back guarantee, so act now! Get up off that couch, and get yourself up to the land Hashem will show you. Avraham even left his land, his family, and his father’s house for this product! If that’s not a testimonial, I don’t know what is. Angels are standing by.  

(The fine print: Some aspects of this covenant are conditional on Israel’s faithfulness to the Torah. Offer valid especially in the land of Israel; if residing in the galut, long distance fees and taxes may apply. Call now, the kingdom of God is upon you!)  

Cheesy infomercials aside, one of the foundations of Messianic Jewish theology is found here in Parashat Lech L’cha: God mediating blessing through Israel. The seed of this idea (pun intended) is found in the word zera or “seed.”  

The first time this word appears is in the Creation account, thrice in some form: 

Then God said, “Let the land sprout grass, green plants seeding seed, fruit trees bearing fruit, each according to its kind with seed in it, upon the land.” And it happened so. (Genesis 1:11, literal translation)

Notice here on day three a departure from the usual formula of Creation. On day one: Let there be light. On day two: let there be an expanse. But on day three, let the land sprout. In other words, we see for the first time the mediating blessing and fruitfulness and life through the land, instead of the usual “let there be.” The land/earth is a conduit for the seed, which is itself a microcosm of mediating blessing. Everything needed for another plant is contained within that seed, to reproduce and bear fruit after its kind. Hashem is generous with his creative power, willing to bring life through the earth, to bring life through the intimate union of husband and wife, and ultimately to bring blessing through the seed of Avraham.  

The next time we find zera, it’s a promise that has been interpreted as perhaps the first messianic reference in Scripture. God, speaking to the infamous talking serpent, declares this: 

            I will put animosity

 between you and the woman—

 between your seed and her seed.

 He will crush your head,

 and you will crush his heel. (Genesis 3:15, TLV)

This is an enigmatic text, but some things are clear. In the midst of the consequences of eating the fruit and the curse on the land, we find a glimmer of messianic hope. The seed (descendant) from Havah will crush the head of the serpent and his “seed,” but will experience a bruising in the process. The serpent has been associated with the evil inclination, the accuser, and the sea dragon in later texts and in Jewish interpretation. Clearly, we are using the word “seed” in a looser way to imply two forces at odds with one another, with the good “seed” or descendant ultimately triumphing over the serpent’s team, but not without injury. The Brit Hadashah picks up on this motif by explaining that Yeshua the Messiah, by his death on the tree, triumphs over death, sin, evil, the sea dragon, and the evil inclination.  

In the parasha itself, the Adamic charge is now solidified into a covenant with a specific people in a specific land. It is the seed (descendants) of Avraham who inherit the land/earth, which was the conduit for the seed-bearing plants in Creation. Sounds like the imagery of a garden; isn’t it the charge of humanity to garden the earth into Eden? 

When I was an elementary teacher, we had a fundraiser every year for the courtyard, and the third graders would sell potted plants of different herbs. One year, I accidentally left the plants in the trunk of my car. What can I say? These were my bachelor days. Plants, of course, need a good seed, but also water, earth, and light, none of which these poor herbs received. I opened my trunk one day and looked down in dismay at my “trunk garden” of decay. As I recall, the following year I gave the plants from the fundraiser to my dad as a present: he’s an avid gardener.  

Perhaps it is in this sense that Yeshua confronts those who put their confidence in being the “seed” of Avraham (John 8:39). Rejecting the one who is living water and the light of the world is not a good prospect for a burgeoning seed. We also notice from John’s gospel that all those who trust in Messiah have these elements within them--we are the light of the world and we have living water bubbling up within us if we are from the seed of Messiah.  

Closing our tour of this Hebrew word, let’s stop by the haftarah portion:  

But you, Israel, My servant,

Jacob whom I have chosen,

descendant (seed, zera) of Abraham, My friend—

I took hold of you from the ends of the earth,

and called from its uttermost parts,

and said to you, “You are My servant—

I have chosen you, not rejected you.” (Isaiah 41:8–9, TLV)

Hashem has promised to mediate blessing through the descendants of Avraham. The fullness of this coming in Yeshua does not let the rest of the descendants off the hook. Avraham and Sarah experience much anxiety over their descendant(s), the inheritor and conduit of the covenant. Childlessness in the ancient Near East had a powerful emotional force in the narrative of Scripture. Thankfully, the election of Israel rests solely upon the faithfulness of God to redeem our missteps and anxiety.  

In the meantime, the gardening is up to us. Through the earth, through Israel, through Messiah, and through his followers, Hashem grows his seedlings and showers the blessings of light and water. But it’s the gardeners who have to plant the seeds.

The Ark of Shabbat

Parashat Noach, Genesis 6:9–11:32

Rabbi Isaac S. Roussel, Congregation Zera Avraham

In this week’s parasha, God commands Noah to build an ark for his family and for all the land animals to avoid the coming destruction of the flood. The word used for ark is Te-vah (rhymes with “say ma”), which literally means a box or container. This word, Tevah, is also used in connection with the story of Moses. He is placed in a basket, but it is called a Tevah. 

Water in the Torah is often a symbol of the forces of chaos. The ark became Noah’s safe haven from the raging waters of chaos, storm, and sin. 

During Shabbat, we can think of ourselves as being in a Tevah. We are sheltered, in a way, from the ravages of the storms of life. As we are in worship and prayer, the world continues to swirl around us. We are free from the mundane trials and tribulations of daily life. We are free from the troubles and pressures. We don’t think about paying the bills, or getting that project done, or how mad we are at our boss. We are in a Tevah. 

I always have this sense on Shabbat, but especially when Jewish holy days fall on weekdays. As I immerse myself in the observance of the day, I forget that to the rest of the world it is just an ordinary day. Which I realize when I leave shul and head home. I am suddenly confronted with passersby that are caught up in the hectic storms of life; storms that I am free from for at least a day in my lovely Tevah. 

This image becomes even more poignant for us when we realize that while Tevah means “box” in the Torah, in the Talmud it is also used to mean “word.” Tractate Menachot discusses the proper way of writing a Torah scroll, and it refers to words as Tevot. I don’t really know why the text does this. Perhaps it is because a word acts as a container for an idea. Or perhaps it’s because a word constitutes a “box” on the page, one that has to be placed properly. Or perhaps it is because Torah scrolls are stored in an ark. We usually use the word “aron” but sometimes it is referred to as a “tevah.” 

In any event, the Baal Shem Tov uses this linguistic fact to picture God calling us into the Tevah of the word; of prayer and Torah study. This is the place where we can find refuge from the storms of life and be strengthened. I certainly experience this. When I enter the liturgy, it feels like I am easing myself into a hot tub. I get that same feeling of “Ahhh” when I enter prayer that I do when entering those warm waters of goodness. 

We certainly can draw solace from the words. From a special time with Hashem. A time to renew ourselves, our relationship with him, and with others. We are indeed in a Tevah built of our prayers and devotion to Hashem. 

But notice that Noah did not stay in the ark. When the time was right, he left. He had to go out into the world and build it anew. As much as he wanted to, he could not stay in the comfort of the Tevah. It served its purpose in protecting and preserving him, his family, and the animals, but now he had to continue with this mission. 

A midrash relates that Noah did not want to leave the ark. “Vaydaber Elohim el Noach lemor, ‘Tze min ha-tevah.’ And God said to Noah, ‘Go forth from the ark’” (Gen 8:15–16a). The midrash points out that God uses the command, “tze,” “Go!” It also points out that this is the first use in the Torah of the word davar (in vaydaber). It is similar to the word amar—both mean to speak—but davar has a harsher connotation. Thus, God had to thrust Noah out of the ark. Perhaps Noah was afraid of facing that new world. Perhaps he enjoyed the comfort of that womb-like Tevah a bit too much.  

So it is with us. Each week we enjoy our time of renewal, but we have a mission to accomplish as well. Hashem commands us to go forth out of the Tevah of Shabbat and bring the light of Torah to the world. We cannot forever dwell within the womb of prayer and Torah study. We all have our own tasks to bring about God’s mercy and justice into the world. We have been renewed and restored, and there is work to be done. 

Additionally, if we see our prayer and study as an immersion into the Tevah of the Word, then we should see that Messiah Yeshua as the Living Word is also the Living Tevah! We are sheltered from the storms of sin and death within him because of his life, death, and resurrection.  

And we should follow his example. As we recite from Philippians daily in the Aleinu, we get the sense that he eagerly left the Tevah of heaven in order to do his Father’s bidding, “Who, though existing in the form of God, did not consider being equal to God a thing to be grasped. But he emptied himself—taking on the form of a slave, becoming the likeness of men and being found in appearance as a man.”  

And he constantly declared that he had to be about his Father’s work and that he only did what his Father commanded him. We, too, should have this attitude. We go forth today from the Tevah of Shabbat into the new week, asking ourselves and God how we can properly serve him. How can we be about our Father’s work in the midst of our daily lives? 

And we are working towards another Tevah. Someday, when our work is done, we will be with Messiah Yeshua and Hashem in that Tevah of the New Jerusalem, a place where indeed our work will be done and we will have eternal rest. But until then, we must be about our Father’s work. 

May we draw strength and be renewed in the Tevah of Shabbat. May we be healed and reinvigorated. But let us not make Hashem thrust us out of this ark, unwillingly. May we instead be like Messiah Yeshua and eagerly spring forth to bring healing, mercy, and justice to our world that is often swirling waters of chaos.

Illustration: Shutterstock

Three Things We All Need

Parashat Bereisheet, Genesis 1:1–6:1

Rabbi Russ Resnik

We’ve entered a new year and a new round of Torah readings—a good time to recalibrate our lives. But what measure can we use to recalibrate? I can’t think of a better measure than the account of creation in the opening chapters of the Torah. Today’s dominant culture tempts us to measure our lives by things we think we need: self-aggrandizement, material stuff, power, entertainment, and pleasure. In contrast, the account of creation reveals three God-instilled human needs that shape our lives: the need to contribute, the need to connect, and the need to experience awe.  

Contribution

The Torah reveals a creation that’s dynamic and “very good” (Gen 1:31), not static and perfect—a creation that needs human contribution to reach its goal.

Then God said, “Let Us make man in Our image, after Our likeness! Let them rule over the fish of the sea, over the flying creatures of the sky, over the livestock, over the whole earth, and over every crawling creature that crawls on the land.” God created humankind in His image, in the image of God He created him, male and female He created them. God blessed them and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply, fill the land, and conquer it. Rule over the fish of the sea, the flying creatures of the sky, and over every animal that crawls on the land.” (Gen 1:26–28)

God makes Adam, humankind, in his own image—and the first element of divine image-bearing that’s mentioned is “rule” (1:26, repeated in 1:28). It’s a rule that must be exercised—“and conquer it.” Clearly there’s work, challenging work, for the humans in this very good creation. The search for mere happiness, so popular in our postmodern world, is a losing proposition. When the first man was placed in the Garden soon after creation, before he had time to wander from God’s purposes, he had work to do: “to cultivate and watch over it” (Gen 2:15).

One of the most influential books of the last century was Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl, a Viennese psychotherapist who survived the Nazi death camps. Frankl believed that human beings need meaning above all else, and that meaning is found in contribution. “Everyone has his own specific vocation or mission in life . . . a concrete assignment which requires fulfillment. Therein he cannot be replaced, nor can his life be repeated.” Carrying out this assignment, even in the hell of the camps, provides meaning that sustains life.  

Our need isn’t for meaning in the abstract, but for something significant to do, something to contribute, a garden to cultivate. It’s the opposite of the consumer culture of today, which gives rise to unprecedented levels of anxiety and despair. We see this theme throughout the Bible—the need not only to receive from God, but to act in response—culminating in Yeshua’s call, “Follow me.”  

Connection  

Then Adonai Elohim said, “It is not good for the man to be alone. Let Me make a well-matched helper for him.” (Gen 2:18)

 Marriage is the original “not-alone” relationship and it’s foundational to all the rest of our relationships.

Adonai Elohim built the rib, which He had taken from the man, into a woman. Then He brought her to the man. Then the man said,

“This one, at last, is bone of my bones
        and flesh from my flesh.
    This one is called woman,
        for from man was taken this one.”

This is why a man leaves his father and his mother and clings to his wife; and they become one flesh. (Gen 2:22–24)

This account pictures a primal triangle of God-man-woman, which applies to every marriage thereafter, as Messiah Yeshua intimates in his response to a question about divorce: “So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no man separate” (Matt 19:6).  

Marriage is covenantal and holy, not a means to an end, but an end in itself. But our human need for connection is even broader than marriage. The capacity for connection, intimacy, and empathy on which marriage rests is part of our divine-image-bearing humanity. We are made for relationship and community . . . even if we never marry. In fact, Messiah Yeshua pictures the greatest expression of love, not within marital union, but within friendship: “No one has greater love than this: that he lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13).  

The capacity created in “the two shall become one” isn’t limited to marital intimacy, then, but empowers true friendship, which also defines and fulfills our humanness. Friendship, like marriage, involves the discovery that we are not alone. As C.S. Lewis writes in The Four Loves, “Friendship . . . is born at the moment when one man says to another ‘What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . .’”  

Ironically, amid an expanding global population and unprecedented levels of communication and information flow, isolation is a major challenge around the world. In my own locality I counsel some guys who have no friends or close family at all, so that our hour together might be the only human connection they get all week. Such isolation often leads to (and in turn results from) depression and addiction, which some characterize as a disease of isolation.  

The good news is that God created us with not only the need but also the ability for connection . . . which leads to our third foundational need.

Awe

And they heard the sound of Adonai Elohim going to and fro in the garden in the wind of the day. So the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of Adonai Elohim in the midst of the Tree of the garden.

Then Adonai Elohim called to the man and He said to him, “Where are you?”

Then he said, “Your sound—I heard it in the garden and I was afraid.” (Gen 3:8–10a)

“Afraid”—the same Hebrew word can be translated as awe or reverence. By “awe” I mean awareness of something—or someone—so beyond ourselves that all our categories, preconceptions, and self-centered drives simply fall away. Our defenses collapse. Awe entails a sense of being in the presence of something totally other, totally beyond my little self—and a fear of transgressing this one. As Jon Levenson writes in The Love of God: 

There surely is a tinge of fear in the negative sense, even in the reverence, the awe, or the sense of being overwhelmed that one has in the presence of a superior. And if the description of God in the Bible is at all accurate, there would be something gravely wrong with someone in whom the thought of God and the sense of his immediate presence did not evoke those very feelings.

 Awe entails fear, then, but of course goes far beyond that. Still, fear is part of loving God, and is actually recommended by Messiah Yeshua.  

And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Instead, fear the One who is able to destroy both soul and body in Gehenna. (Matt 10:28)

According to the Master, the fear of God frees us from all other fears. Levenson is right when he says, “In biblical thinking, the love of God and the fear of God can, and should, coexist.” As we pray in the morning liturgy: “Unify our hearts to love and fear your name.” Our deepest need, though, isn’t for fear but for awe itself—the awareness that we live constantly in the presence of one far beyond ourselves. Adam’s fear is part of his greater awe in the presence of the Lord God who went “to and fro in the garden in the wind of the day” (Gen 3:8).

Contribution, connection, and awe. We might remember these three primal needs as the need to build, to bond, to bow. All three are instilled by God from the beginning. And all three are finally met in the God who created us.

 Based on a seminar presented at the 2018 Union family conference. All Scripture references are from Tree of Life Version (TLV).  

A More Intimate Celebration

Shemini Atzeret 5780

by Rabbi Paul L. Saal

Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, West Hartford, CT

When I was a boy growing up in New York our family gatherings were like a scene out of the Barry Levinson movie Avalon. On Thanksgiving and Chanukah our get-togethers would involve not only our immediate family, but also an extended family of grandparents, aunts and uncles, great aunts and uncles, multiple generations of cousins, and friends. Later the guest list would include our machatunom (in-laws) after my sister and I were married and beginning our own young families.    

This large ensemble of personalities would all crowd into my family’s 5½-room apartment. Our dinette table would be extended by multiple leaves as well as folding bridge tables and would continue from the dining area into the front entry and into our living room. The beds were covered with coats and discarded layers of sweaters, since the apartment was always intolerably hot due to overcrowding and large cast-iron radiators. The windows were always open in our first-floor apartment to ventilate the crowded rooms. As guests approached the front entrance of our apartment building, there was no need to guess where the party was, because our windows were directly over the entrance and the loud conversation and laughter could be heard at street level.   

What stands out in my memories of these parties is the food. Amid the excess of bodies, the excessive noise, and the excessive heat, the excess of food was the most excessively excessive. We spent days shopping, cooking, and baking in preparation for the holidays. The refrigerator in our tiny galley kitchen could never accommodate the food, so the majority was stored during the winter out on the fire escape. When the time came, the heirloom china was taken out from the back of the closets and the enormous quantities of food was laid out for consumption. We would usually begin eating in the early afternoon and would not cease until the early evening, when the leftovers would be meticulously put away. We would then wait until our guests left and we would break down the tables, clean up and vacuum, and store all of the collapsible tables and chairs in the back of closets and under beds.  

Then we did something really strange! I don’t know when or why we developed this ritual, but at about 10pm, after everyone was gone, we would take out all the food again, sit down, and begin again with our immediate family to eat, talk, laugh, and enjoy one another’s company. It was as if to say “the family’s gone, let’s have a party with the family.”  

These fond recollections help me understand the otherwise inscrutable Shemini Atzeret (celebrated October 20–21 this year), a holiday that on first blush has no apparent reason. Shemini Atzeret is like a divine afterthought, an impromptu party for the “fam.”  In Leviticus 23, which is essentially the beginners’ handbook for moedim (the prescribed sacred festivals) in the Torah, Hashem commands through Moses the keeping of Sukkot for seven days (23:33–43).  He gives terse instructions for bringing libations, building sukkot, and taking the lulav and etrog. Of course the rabbinic tradition more fully develops the instruction based upon the Torah. What is most curious, however, is that this chapter has nothing whatsoever to say regarding a supplementary eighth-day festival that we call quite unceremoniously Shemini Atzeret (approximately meaning an auxiliary eighth). It’s not until the book of Numbers that we get an indication that there is a one-day party after the party (29:35–30:1).   

Let me explain a little further. Numbers 29 gives precise instruction for the sacrifices and libations that the children of Israel are to offer throughout the fall festivals prescribed in Leviticus 23. Instructions for the Sukkot sacrifices start in verse 12. For each of the seven days the offerings of lambs, goats, grain, and wine remain the same as the other fall festivals – only the number of bulls, the sacrifice of the people, changes. And what an odd and excessive offering between the people and their God it becomes! On the first day of Sukkot thirteen bulls are offered. Twelve are offered on the second day, eleven on the third, and so on, until seven bulls are offered on the seventh day. What is so striking about the descending size of the offering is not only how large it is compared with the single bull for the other fall feasts, but the apparent statement being made with the oddly sized, yet descending quantity of bulls. Perhaps the real instruction is in the seven-day total and not the size of the offering on each individual day alone: After seven days the bull body-count is seventy.  

Even the most casual student of Torah cannot miss the repetitive heptatic structures (matrixes of sevens) throughout Torah. Seven is the magic number of Torah, the number of sanctifications, of completion; it is the number of a finished and perfect world that imagines the kingdom of God overtaking the incursion of chaos in the previously unfinished world. It is the number of shalom that anticipates all the world living in harmony, the lion lying down with the lamb, and as, Woody Allen once said, “the lamb getting up to tell about it.” Seventy is seven on steroids. It is the number that extends out beyond the family of Israel and invites the family of humanity to the party.  

In this sense Sukkot anticipates more than the agricultural harvest, the ingathering of crops, but rather it foresees the harvest of souls, the ingathering of humanity from all the nations of the world coming together to worship the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Zechariah 14, the haftarah portion for the first day of Sukkot, prophesies that after a last cataclysmic battle, God will intervene and punish those from the nations that took up arms against Israel. Then, we are told in a vivid apocalyptic picture, all the nations that remain will participate with Israel in the celebration of Sukkot. Only those from the human family who join Israel’s party will enjoy the favor of Israel’s God. The message is clear: The God of Israel is the God of the world – but one cannot worship the God of Israel apart from the people of Israel. All the people of the world come before God, but do not lose their individual and ethnic identities. They remain individually accountable and ethnically responsible. Most importantly, unless Israel is Israel the entire model collapses.

This brings us back to Numbers 29 and its description of the sacrificial system for Sukkot. This is where Hashem prescribes an eighth-day celebration through the hand of Moses: 

On the eighth day you shall hold a solemn gathering; you shall not work at your occupations. You shall present a burnt offering, a gift of pleasing odor to the LORD; one bull, one ram, seven yearling lambs, without blemish; the grain offerings and libations for the bull, the ram, and the lambs, in the quantities prescribed; and one goat for a purification of the offering, its grain offering and libation. (Num 29:35–38)

As obvious as the addition of an eighth day celebration is, so is the downsizing of the offering. The prescribed menu is back to an Israel-only buffet. So of course, this raises the questions why, and why? The Talmud attempts to answer these questions by picturing Hashem as a flesh-and-blood king who hosts an enormous party to which all in the kingdom are invited. As the party comes to an end and the other nations depart, the Holy One says to Israel, “Stay here with me a little while longer for a more intimate celebration” (BT Sukkot 55b). 

This past Sunday, on Erev Sukkot, we at Congregation Shuvah Yisrael dedicated our sukkah and ate our first meal in it as a community. As is the tradition we recited Ushpizin, an invitation to our honored guests, the matriarchs and patriarchs as well as the great heroes of the biblical Jewish faith. But as the rabbi I acknowledged that we were all the guests of one another and that we honor God by honoring each other. I especially acknowledged our friends from local churches who joined us as part of our extended family. We highlighted the anticipatory nature of such a celebration, which imagines the world God has promised where the nations of the world will come up and celebrate with Israel the feast of Sukkot.  

We have plans to expand our already very large sukkah to super-sized. It is our hope that additional churches will join us and that in years this proleptic event will grow in size, stature and acceptance, and inculcate in many churches God’s economy of mutual blessing, in which the nations draw close to the God of Israel by being in union with the people of Israel. We trust other Messianic synagogues will do likewise. But we understand this can only happen if Israel maintains its integrity as Israel, and sustains its unique, though not exclusive, relationship with God.  

As great as the party was on Erev Sukkot, on the eighth day we party alone and welcome the Holy One into the unique tents of Israel. Erev Sukkot was wonderful, large, celebratory, and loud. We hope it will grow year by year. The eighth day will be small, quieter, but no less joyful. At the beginning of the week we invited the whole family; after the family has left we will have a party with the family – a more intimate celebration.

Our Unchanging God

Parashat Ha’azinu, Deuteronomy 32:1–52

David Friedman, UMJC rabbi, Jerusalem

Parashat Ha’azinu mesmerizes me. And yet it is one of the most difficult portions to read through during our yearly reading cycle. Why? Simply because it pains my heart to read about the poor response of our people to God’s covenant love towards us. Ha’azinu is a powerful, emotional poem; one that challenges all Israel for all time to respond as the nation did in the days of Moses, as it is written, “All that the Lord has spoken we will do, and we will be obedient” (Exod 24:7). Indeed, this is the purpose of parashat Ha’azinu: to teach us to be ready to turn to God as a nation at all times in our present and future. Our pupils in Israel today memorize all of Ha’azinu by song as part of their core grade school curriculum. 

Ha’azinu portrays our ancestors as having a problematic attitude towards God: “His children are blemished . . . a crooked and twisted generation. . . . A hardened people, and not wise” (Deut 32:5, 6b; my translation).  

Thus, the beginning of our parasha lays out a problem in the covenant relationship: the people have strayed from God. Our haftarah is 2 Samuel 22:1–51, also an ancient poem-song, similar in form to the text of Ha’azinu.  

Our parasha and haftara have a very special meaning for me. Thus, I want to share an event that occurred in Jerusalem 16 years ago, during the time of parashat Ha’azinu.

At the UMJC conference that summer a Union rabbi had approached me and told me he felt compelled to share a strong feeling with me—that the bottom-line messages of parashat Ha’azinu must be brought anew to Israel, quickly.  

He spoke to me at length about his perceptions, and they gripped me. Then he encouraged me to bring the message of our parasha back home to my nation. That seemed good and right, but of course I had no idea how to even approach the subject, and I was just . . . me; one person. What could I possibly do? How could I spark the nation to turn to God in teshuva? Yet what this rabbi shared with me certainly seemed right. On the flight home I suddenly knew what I had to do. And that I needed to do it during the Shabbat of parashat Ha’azinu, which was swiftly approaching on the calendar. 

When I arrived in Jerusalem, I asked two friends of mine to join me for a special time of prayer. They agreed, and we met as close as we could get to our ancient Temple site. This was during the Yamim HaNoraim, the ten days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.  

The three of us consisted of a kohen (priest), a Levite, and one descendant of the tribe of Judah (from Israel’s ancient royal family). We were all believers in our holy Messiah Yeshua. We all agreed that our ancestors’ mistakes and poor attitudes were what helped spur on both of our dispersions. So each one of us was a link in the chain back to these three categories of leaders in ancient Israel: kings, priests, and Levites. King, priest, and Levite had all failed to lead the people correctly, and so our ancestors found themselves twice having to leave the Land, painfully and by force. So the three of us came to Jerusalem, in the spirit of the message of Ha’azinu, to humbly ask God to turn our people around towards him, back to his purposes and his calling to us.  

Our parasha is a message of the unfaithfulness of the nation, with the hope of God’s goodness undergirding his actions towards us:           

They abandoned the God who made them and rejected the Rock their Savior.

They made him jealous with their foreign gods and angered him with their detestable idols.

They sacrificed to false gods, which are not God—gods they had not known, gods that recently appeared, gods your ancestors did not fear.

You deserted the Rock, who fathered you; you forgot the God who gave you birth. (Deut 32:15b–18)

Moses our teacher, in great wisdom, taught the words of Ha’azinu to the nation so that they would internalize its message.  

Our haftara describes God as our only hope of protection, as our faithful King. Mindful of the messages of the parasha and haftara, we approached the ancient Temple site slowly, in awe and worship. This was to be a holy moment, when descendants of the branches of Israel’s three historic leading clans would ask God for help to bring our nation to him today, despite the misbehavior of our own ancestors and familial lines.  

With the inspiration of Ha’azinu, the three of us spent an hour at that site doing just that. We sensed that the prayers we uttered, united together, were the right ones for what Jerusalem and Israel needed at that time. That moment of prayer close to our ancient Temple was a holy moment. We approached God Almighty with teshuva in our hearts and minds, and called out to God in intercession for our nation’s destiny. It truly was special for us to participate in this action. We whose ancestors help lead our people astray, called out to God to straighten us out. 

Our haftarah (2 Samuel 22) and our parasha contain verses that illustrate just who God is, and they extol his merciful nature to us: 

For who is God, save the Lord? and who is a Rock, save our God? (2 Sam 22:32) 

They have dealt corruptly with him; they are no longer his children because they are blemished; they are a crooked and twisted generation. Do you thus repay the Lord, you foolish and senseless people? (Deut 32:5–6) 

A tower of salvation is he to his king; and shows mercy to his anointed: to David and to his seed, for evermore. (2 Sam 22:51) 

These are the very things about God that we knew and relied upon as we approached him on that day at the ancient Temple area. God is our “Rock.” The Hebrew word is sela, meaning a huge boulder—lots of rock there! These are not pebbles, or even small, medium or large rocks, but much more. Just as a boulder gives protection to those who hide behind it, so does God give protection to the ones who trust him. God is then called a tsur, that is, a cliff formation, made up of huge rocks and boulders that are literally pressed together, to afford protection to those who take refuge in it: “God of my solid rock formation, I will trust in him” (2 Sam 22:3, my translation). 

2 Samuel 22 has an underlying message of how faithful God has been in protecting David, as an illustration of how he protects his people. Yet we, his people, have not always dealt uprightly with our God; there have been periods of history when we have been unfaithful to the covenants he has given to us. And so we are blemished due to such actions, and our two exiles are evidence of such blemishing in our history. 

And yet, in spite of our problems keeping faithful to him, God will ever be faithful to David’s descendants, and to his people. Our parasha and haftara paint the picture that we had in our minds on that special day during the reading of Ha’azinu in Jerusalem—no matter how we had strayed in our history, God was unchanged. He was still our shelter, still our protector, and still our God. This is a comforting and relevant message for all Israel during this season of holy days.  

May this message strengthen and inspire us. May we find him as our solid, protective, rock formation—both as individuals, and as a nation!

Helpless but Ready

Shabbat Shuva, Hosea 14:2–10

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Not long before my old friend Rube (Rabbi Richard Rubinstein, that is) passed away, I had the privilege of visiting him at his home in Sacramento. He was already in bad shape from the cancer that eventually killed him, but his spirits were remarkably fine, so when he recommended a book, I paid attention. The title grabbed my attention too: This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared, by Rabbi Alan Lew. The subtitle explains that it’s about “The Days of Awe as a Journey of Transformation,” and “You are Completely Unprepared” is a sort of unifying theme.

Rabbi Lew doesn’t give us a manual on liturgy or customs to help us get ready for the High Holy Days. Rather, he’s telling us that we’ll never get ready; we’ll never be prepared for the central experience of the Days of Awe, which is an encounter with the real and living presence of God. Rabbi Lew tells us, “we begin our preparations for reconciliation with God by acknowledging our estrangement from God.” It’s an estrangement that we can’t fix, says the rabbi, but only recognize, as “we begin to acknowledge the fact that we are utterly unprepared [there’s that word again] for what we have to face in life.”

Recognizing that we are truly unprepared and empty is inherent to teshuva, repentance. As we say in the words of Avinu Malkenu (Our Father, Our King): “Ein banu ma’asim, we have no good deeds”, or literally no deeds at all, that we can invoke in God’s presence. There is nothing we can say or do in response to his awesome holiness. Recognizing this helplessness, our utter deficit in the presence of God, is essential to genuinely returning to him.  

This Shabbat, falling between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, is Shabbat Shuva, named from the words in Hosea: “Shuva Yisrael, Return O Israel, to Adonai your God, for you have stumbled in your iniquity” (Hosea 14:2 [1]).

When the prophet calls Israel to return to Hashem, he reflects the longing of the Lord himself, who says “Return to me and I will return to you” (Mal. 3:7). As our Messiah tells us, “There will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who turns to God from his sins than over ninety-nine righteous people who have no need to repent (Luke 15:7, CJB).

Since Hashem doesn’t just allow us to return to him, but rejoices in our return, the prophet makes sure we know how to do it: “Take words with you and return to the Lord” (Hosea 14:3[2]). But wait! Can it really be that easy? We don’t have to pay for our sins or prove we’ll never do them again? We just bring words of confession and return to God. And this is the point—to renounce our self-sufficiency and all the external props that we might employ to straighten out our lives:

“Assyria will not save us.
We will not ride on horses,
and we will never again say, ‘Our god,’
    to the work of our hands,
    for with You, orphans find mercy.’” 14:4 [3]

A few years after Rube introduced me to This is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared, another friend recommended A Praying Life, by Paul E. Miller. In one of the early chapters, “Learning to be Helpless,” Miller writes, “Prayer is bringing your helplessness to Jesus.” He quotes Thomas Merton: “Prayer is an expression of who we are. . . . We are a living incompleteness. We are a gap, an emptiness that calls for fulfillment.” Prayer, then, isn’t something we do to overcome our helplessness; it is a gift that arises out of the helplessness that will always be with us. But unless we can acknowledge that helplessness, we won’t even want the gift.

Which invokes a third book in my recent reading: God of our Understanding, by Shais Taub, a Hasidic rabbi. His subtitle is “Jewish Spirituality and Recovery from Addiction,” and Rabbi Taub expounds on the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous from the perspective of Torah, beginning with Step One: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol [or whatever we were addicted to] and that our lives had become unmanageable.” He writes,

The idea of surrender presented in the First Step . . . seems to turn many people off from even giving recovery an honest go. Yet, that’s probably just as well, because the admission of powerlessness and unmanageability is not an aspect of recovery—it’s the very basis of it. Nothing else seems to work very well without complete and unconditional capitulation first.

It’s true, of course, that surrender is a turn-off to many people in a day that is obsessed with success, techno-mastery, and the elimination of pain and unpleasantness. But what ties these three books together, and ties them all to Shabbat Shuva, is this notion that this despised reality of helplessness, incompletion, and powerlessness is not limited to addicts, but part of our humanity. It’s not just a factor to overcome, but the platform for genuine spiritual development. The books don’t call on us to recognize our helplessness so that we can fix it, but rather so that we thereby recognize our dependency on God. We’re not going to return to God only after we solve these problems, but somehow from within them, in the negation of the self-reliance and self-assurance that our secular culture continually seeks to promote.

This is a picture of real teshuva—turning away from self and its inevitable outcome, sin, and turning to God.

As Messianic Jews, we participate in Shabbat Shuva and the Days of Awe along with the whole Jewish community, even though we believe we’ve already been forgiven through Yeshua’s once-for-all sacrifice. Why? Solidarity with all Israel is sufficient reason, but there’s more. To paraphrase Rabbi Taub, it’s because repentance and forgiveness are not just an aspect of new life in Messiah, but the very basis of it. The religious world is always tempted to conform to the values of the dominant secular culture, which in our times includes the value of human competence and sufficiency. Feeling insufficient? God can fix that and send you on your way. But that’s not the gospel. Instead, it says, Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God. We don’t do teshuva once to get into this kingdom, and then leave it at the door. Rather, continually recognizing our spiritual helplessness and need, paradoxically enough, keeps us spiritually healthy and full. Perhaps that’s how my friend Rube could seem to be doing well even as his body was collapsing before the ravages of cancer.

We can’t fix our own backsliding, so the Lord promises to heal it instead:

I will be like dew for Israel.
He will blossom like a lily,
and thrust out his roots like Lebanon.
His tender shoots will spread out.
His beauty will be like an olive tree
and his fragrance will be like Lebanon. (Hosea 14:6–7 [5–6])

May it be so for us and the whole house of Israel in this new year!

Unless otherwise noted, Scripture citations are from the Tree of Life Version. Numbers in brackets reflect verse numbers in Christian translations.

The Real Housewives of Ephraim

Rosh Hashana 5780

by Monique B

In synagogues around the globe, Rosh Hashana is marked by more than the sounds of the shofar – we also read the stories of Sarah and Hannah, two barren women who have unique relationships with the God who makes promises.  

Hannah is a barren woman stuck in a deeply dysfunctional marriage. Her sister-wife, Pninah, has produced many sons and daughters, and never misses an opportunity to lord it over her. Her husband, Elkanah, thinks his own mercurial affections should provide sufficient comfort to his depressed and angry wife.

Hannah is also deeply devout – her family travels to Shiloh three times a year to offer sacrifices during the pilgrimage festivals, a trip that would come at no small expense or inconvenience. During one of these trips, she brings her case to Hashem, and bargains with Him silently at the gates of the Tabernacle. “If you give me a son, I will make him a nazir from birth! He will serve you all the days of his life.”

Her lips move, but no sound comes out – a highly unusual form of prayer at that time. Eli, the High Priest, thinks she’s a drunken, rambling fool, and tells her as much. Hannah shows us her moxie when she defends herself against this withering accusation from Israel’s most powerful leader: “I am not drunk, I am deeply vexed!” Eli steps back, and reassures her that her prayer – whatever it is – will surely be answered. Somehow this calms Hannah. She returns to her family with an untroubled mind, and quickly conceives her first-born son.

Three or four years later, when she has weaned her beloved boy, Hannah brings him to Shiloh to be raised by the same man who called her a drunken idiot the last time they met. This is a staggering sacrifice, which totally overshadows the bulls, flour, and wine that she brings along. And finally she prays out loud, offering a gorgeous song of praise and thanksgiving, and marking herself as one of the seven female prophets in the Tanakh.

The Song of Hannah sets up the major themes of the rest of the Books of Samuel – God gives and he takes away. He raises up the poor and lowly, and knocks the proud off their pedestals. This foreshadows the events that are to come – soon Eli, Israel’s judge and High Priest, will decline in moral authority. He and his sons will die an ignominious death. His replacement? Lonely Shmuel, who had grown up in his own household. Later, Shmuel will anoint Saul as king. He will rise in influence, and decline in moral authority when power corrupts him. God will raise up David, installing him in Saul’s own household, eventually supplanting him. Saul and his sons will die an ignominious death to make way for an obscure shepherd boy to be the next king.

As Hannah prays:

Hashem kills and makes alive;
he brings down to the grave, and he brings up.

Hashem makes poor, and he makes rich;
he humbles, and he exalts.
He raises the poor from the dust,
lifts up the needy from the trash pile;
he gives them a place with leaders
and assigns them seats of honor. (I Samuel 2:6-10)

Hannah leaves tiny Shmuel at the Tabernacle in Eli’s care. We learn that she hasn’t abandoned him there, as the text continues: “Each year his mother would make him a little coat and bring it when she came up with her husband to offer the annual sacrifice.” Eli blesses her that she might have another child to replace the one she has dedicated to the Lord. Hashem answers this request five-fold, as Hannah and her husband go on to have three more sons and two daughters.

The Sages hold Hannah in high regard. Rabbi Elazar points out that Hannah is the first person since creation to refer to God as the Lord of Hosts (Hashem Tzevaot). This is not a slip of the tongue – by using this title, Hannah implies that Hashem is such a great and mighty god that it should be a very small thing to open her barren womb. Indeed, the Talmud suggests a parable:

To what is this similar? It is similar to a flesh and blood king who made a feast for his servants. A poor person came and stood at the door. He said to them: Give me one slice of bread! And they paid him no attention. He pushed and entered before the king. He said to him: My lord, the King, from this entire feast that you have prepared, is it so difficult in your eyes to give me a single slice of bread? (b. Berakhot 31B) 

We could ask whether this approach is impertinent, but the results are telling. Hannah approaches the Tabernacle in such a state of rage and desperation that her prayers are mistaken for the incoherent blabber of an alcoholic. She calls God by a new title, and makes an impertinent request in the form of a bargain: you give me a son, and I’ll give him right back to you! Still, God hears her and provides an answer. The barren Hannah becomes a mother to six, all of them children of her own womb.

Perhaps this is why we read about Hannah on the first day of the year. She teaches us to pray as we’ve never prayed before – with desperation and a touch of impertinence, mindful that we have an audience with the King of all creation. During these holy days, the gates of repentance are open to us. May we learn from Hannah’s example, and may we all have the courage to pray like this woman.  

L’shana tova umetukah! May you have a good and sweet new year!

The Power to Change

Selichot 5779

by Rabbi Russ Resnik

We humans may say we like change, but something within us resists it. It’s part of our human nature to stick with routine and the status quo—especially when it comes to inward things. We might like to try out new experiences, new flavors and colors and places, but when it comes to changing the things closest to ourselves, we’re most likely to resist. Just ask anyone—including yourself—who’s tried to exercise more or eat less or phase out some unhealthy habit. We resist change.  

As a rabbi I’ve noticed over the years this sort of resistance when we talk about one of the great themes of our current season—teshuva or repentance. I can even imagine some of my readers groaning as I bring up that term. Yes, we emphasize teshuva during the whole period leading up to Rosh Hashana, and then on Rosh Hashana and all the way through Yom Kippur. Our tradition provides lengthy prayers of remorse and confession . . . and we have to overcome inner resistance to really put our hearts into this whole practice. 

Folks sometimes raise a theological objection: “I did teshuva when I accepted Yeshua. I turned away from sin and turned back to God once for all. Why do you keep bringing it up again?” I’ll keep my response really simple. Yeshua himself gave us a model daily prayer that includes these lines:  

Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts
    as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
    but deliver us from the evil one. Matthew 6:11–13

Daily bread, daily forgiveness, daily deliverance from evil. How much more, then should we seek forgiveness as we prepare for the Days of Awe, which our tradition pictures as a time of intense encounter with the awesome and holy God of Israel?  

After the close of the last Shabbat or two before Rosh Hashana (the Shabbat of September 21 this year), Jewish custom commends reciting Selichot, prayers for forgiveness. You can find Selichot prayers in a special prayer book or online, or you can read psalms of supplication like Psalms 32 and 51. The most important text for Selichot, though, is the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy from Exodus 34:6–7. Moses is speaking with Hashem (the Lord) after the incident of the golden calf. In response to Moses’ pleas, Hashem has agreed to show mercy to Israel and remain among them by his presence. Then Moses asks God to show him his glory and Hashem agrees—but it’s not a visual revelation that he gives. Instead . . .  

Adonai passed before [Moses] and proclaimed: “Adonai, Adonai, God, merciful and compassionate, slow to anger, rich in grace and truth; showing grace to the thousandth generation, forgiving offenses, crimes and sins; yet not exonerating the guilty . . .    

In this ultimate moment of divine self-revelation, God’s “glory” appears as mercy and compassion. Our sages discern Thirteen Attributes of Mercy that are especially comforting as we seek forgiveness at this time of year. Let’s take a moment to consider them word by word:  

1.      Adonai—God is merciful before a person sins, even though he knows we’re always liable to do wrong.

2.      Adonai—God is merciful after the sinner has gone astray.

3.      God (El)—The title El signifies power, including the power to extend mercy even beyond the degree indicated by the twice-repeated name Adonai.

4.      Merciful (rahum)—Hashem understands our human frailty. The Hebrew rahum is related to the word for womb, and speaks of the deepest sort of empathy. God understands.

5.      Compassionate (v’hanun)—God shows mercy even to those who don’t deserve it—like us.

6.      Slow to anger (erech apayim)—God gives the sinner ample time to reflect, improve, and repent. We sometimes grow impatient with the litany of confession during the High Holy Days, but it’s God who ought to be impatient with our sins—not just the list but our actual deeds—and he isn’t.

7.      Rich in grace (v’rav hesed)—The Lord treats us with boundless kindness that we haven’t earned.

8.      And truth (v’emet)—The Lord remains true to his word and its decrees, and finds the way to balance them with hesed, his kindness. Hesed v’emet, grace and truth, appear together numerous times throughout the Scriptures.

9.      Showing grace to the thousandth generation (notzer hesed la-alafim)—God remembers the deeds of the righteous, and ultimately of the Righteous One, on behalf of their descendants.

10.  Forgiving offenses (nosei avon)—Avon refers to intentional sin, which God forgives as long as the sinner repents.

11.  Crimes (pesha)—Pesha is sin with malicious intent, rebellion against God. God allows repentance leading to forgiveness even for this.

12.  And sins (v’hata’ah)—And God forgives sins committed out of carelessness, thoughtlessness, or apathy.

13.  Exonerating (v’nakeh)—The text says God does not exonerate the guilty, implying that he does exonerate those who truly repent. 

John highlights the paired attributes of hesed v’emet in his commentary on Exodus 34: “The Torah was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Yeshua the Messiah” (1:17). Commentators often see this verse as a contrast between Moses and Yeshua, between law and grace. But it’s more accurate to think of it as fulfillment. Moses gave us Torah, which speaks of grace and truth. Yeshua the Messiah embodies the very same grace and truth, living them out among us and through us. Grace and truth together have the power to change us deeply from within.  

We’ll repeat the Thirteen Attributes in our prayers from the night of Selichot through Yom Kippur. They provide the essential backdrop for all our confessions of sin. Without the declaration of God’s mercy, we’d turn the liturgies of confession into a dreary, self-absorbed, and depressing mess. With it, confession leads to a deep encounter with the God of grace and truth, embodied in Messiah Yeshua.

From Shame to Honor

Fifth Haftarah of Comfort, Isaiah 54:1–10

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann

Our Haftarah speaks in strident terms of two realities with which all societies and all people must deal: honor and shame.  

“Sing, barren woman who has never had a child!
Burst into song, shout for joy,
you who have never been in labor!
For the deserted wife will have more children
than the woman who is living with her husband,” says Adonai. . . .
Don’t be afraid, for you won’t be ashamed;
don’t be discouraged, for you won’t be disgraced.
You will forget the shame of your youth,
no longer remember the dishonor of being widowed.
For your husband is your Maker,
Adonai-Tzva’ot is his name.
The Holy One of Isra’el is your Redeemer.
He will be called the God of all the earth.
For Adonai has called you back
like a wife abandoned and grief-stricken;
“A wife married in her youth
cannot be rejected,” says your God.
“Briefly I abandoned you,
but with great compassion I am taking you back.
I was angry for a moment
and hid my face from you;
but with everlasting grace
I will have compassion on you,”
says Adonai your Redeemer. (Isaiah 54:1, 4–8)

The very first verse of this haftarah presents the kingdom and people of Judah metaphorically as a woman who is shamed because she has never been in labor and is therefore without children, also shamed because she has been forsaken by her husband, (actually widowed). Then, in the verses following, this woman’s status is reversed as she has many children and as her Maker, Adonai, becomes her husband. 

In some segments of our culture, this issue of shame for being childless or for being unmarried is still a stigma for women. We would all agree that this is unjust and unkind. I have also long noted that in our culture a man can afford to look sloppy. This will just be written off. But for a woman to appear in public in a sloppy manner is for her to court disapproval, and even conjectures about her emotional well-being. And if a woman is unattractive, she is apt to consider herself permanently one down. This is unjust, and it is cruel. To the extent that such “norms” prevail in our contexts, they need to be forsaken and uprooted.  

Although I have neither attached to myself the label “feminist” nor opposed being such, I think all men and indeed all people should join in making sure that women are treated with the dignity and honor God intends for them. This is a kind of feminism none should reject and all should embrace.  

Matters of honor and shame are currently being trampled underfoot in American culture. In the public arena, few if any bother to think about how they are enhancing or destroying the reputations and well-being of the people they despise, oppose, and denounce. I know people who engage in this practice every day on their Facebook pages, denouncing entire classes of people.   

We have seen in our Haftarah that matters of honor and shame are important to God. In the Besorah of Luke we find Yeshua talking about this issue too (see Luke 14:7–11).  In the Sermon on the Mount, Yeshua sternly warns us, “I tell you that anyone who nurses anger against his brother will be subject to judgment; that whoever calls his brother, ‘You good-for-nothing!’ will be brought before the Sanhedrin; that whoever says, ‘Fool!’ incurs the penalty of burning in the fire of Gei-Hinnom!” (Matthew 5:22).  

In view of all this then, consider the following:

 1.      What ought to be done transform the way people in our circles speak to and about others?

2.      If we don’t bother to address this, do we imagine this will be pleasing to ADONAI?

3.      How do you think society will be impacted if we do not reverse this trend of widespread disrespectful speech?

4.      If you were going to write a speech ethic for American political discourse, what would it say? Begin this way: “It is our decision that henceforth, when speaking of those of whom we disapprove, or with whom we disagree, we will not ________________________________________________ but instead will endeavor to __________________________________. In this manner we seek to reduce ____________________and increase _______________ in our nation.”

It is easy for us to speak in generalized terms about dignity for all people. But people are not generalities: they are very specific. Therefore, it behooves us to think clearly about the various groups of people we encounter: not society in general, but subgroups of people as they are distinguished from each other by economics, location, gender, race, politics, ethnicity, religion, and other particularities of their station in life. It may just be—and I would insist it is—that the God of Israel holds us accountable to treat all these kinds of people with the honor and dignity for which they were created. And who would doubt that care in such matters is a vanishing commodity in our day?  

We would do well to ponder the wisdom and challenge given us by Kefa in his first letter, “Be respectful to all—keep loving the brotherhood, fearing God, and honoring the emperor”  (1 Peter 2:17).  Few would doubt that our society is not doing well in these areas.  No excuse is good enough to justify leaving things as they are. We have to do better.