When Our Grief Is Quarantined

Parashat Shemini, Leviticus 9:1–11:47

Chaim Dauermann, Brooklyn, NY

I never dreamed that I would live through such interesting times.

For the past month, owing to the restrictions enacted to slow the spread of COVID-19, I’ve experienced the outside world almost entirely through the windows of our apartment in Brooklyn. I’ve watched as traffic patterns have lightened, as foot traffic has gone from frequent and carefree to sparse, masked, tense, and distanced. The infectious energy of the city I love has been at a sustained ebb. The size of our lives, too, has somehow seemed diminished by this pandemic. I can think of no other time in my life when I have felt as confined.

A change in circumstances necessarily brings with it a change in perception. This year I’ve found the story of God’s liberation of our people from bondage resonating more deeply and fully, now that my own freedom of movement has been temporarily removed. Even matzah has been difficult to come by this year—we’ve had to ration ours to make it last.

This change in perception is also felt when I read this week’s parasha, Shemini. Our Torah portion opens in chapter 9 as Moses finishes consecrating Aaron and his sons as priests. With that completed, Moses takes them through the process of making the first offerings, according to God’s instruction as given on Sinai (Exodus 29). In chapter 10, Aaron’s two eldest sons, Nadab and Abihu, are unceremoniously immolated by God when they offer “unauthorized fire” before him. 

Like much of Leviticus, these passages read as rather dry at first glance. The description of the sacrifices is so meticulous that readers might get the feeling they could accurately duplicate the tasks themselves. Even when Nadab and Abihu are burned alive, the events are described with clinical brevity. Leviticus isn’t typically thought of as a breathtaking read. And if you aren’t paying attention, it can be all too easy to miss the very real human drama vibrating just beneath its dry recitations of process and ritual. It is a book about holiness—about what it looks like to draw physically near to God, and what the consequences of that nearness can be.

If we are looking for drama, let us consider Aaron: He is a central figure in this portion. Although he says very little, he experiences—and suffers—much. As our portion begins, the consecration of Aaron and his sons has been completed. It is the eighth day, and—with Moses—Aaron and his sons now bring offerings before God:

Then Aaron lifted up his hands toward the people and blessed them. Then he stepped down from presenting the sin offering, the burnt offering and the fellowship offerings. Moses and Aaron then went into the Tent of Meeting. When they came back out and blessed the people, the glory of ADONAI appeared to all the people. Fire came out from the presence of ADONAI, and devoured the burnt offering and the fat on the altar. When all the people saw it, they shouted and fell on their faces. (Lev 9:22–24)

Then, abruptly, things take a turn:

Now Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu each took his own censer, put fire in it, laid incense over it, and offered unauthorized fire before ADONAI—which He had not commanded them. So fire came out from the presence of ADONAI and consumed them. So they died before ADONAI. (Lev 10:1–2)

Not much is said about what Nadab and Abihu did wrong, why it was wrong, or why this was the punishment. Proximity to the presence of God had already been shown to be something coming with great risk. In Exodus, before God descends to Mount Sinai, he instructs Moses: “Whoever touches the mountain will surely be put to death” (Exod 19:12).

Regarding the death of Aaron’s sons, Rashi comments:

Rabbi Eliezer says: Aaron’s sons died only because they rendered halachic decisions in the presence of Moses, their teacher. Rabbi Ishmael says: They died because they had entered the sanctuary after having drunk wine. The proof is that after their death, Scripture admonished the survivors that they may not enter the sanctuary after having drunk wine.

Indeed, later in the passage, after Nadab and Abihu’s deaths, God does speak directly to Aaron, saying: “Do not drink wine or fermented drink, neither you nor your sons with you, when you go into the Tent of Meeting, so that you do not die” (Lev 10:9).

The book of Exodus records that God was extremely specific with Moses when describing how and when incense should be burned by Aaron the priest (Exod 30:7–9). Yet, in our passage, we see that Nadab and Abihu each took “his own censer,” put incense in it, and offered “unauthorized fire” before the Lord. Any one of these points, or all of them together, could have borne responsibility for the offense.

But let us return to Aaron. Beneath all of the meticulous and dry detail of this narrative—the instructions, the penalties, the results—is a story that harmonizes in surprising ways with things we are going through today as a nation. The offering of sacrifices at the altar might seem rather foreign, but grieving over the sudden loss of someone close to us is something many of us are all too familiar with. And as the COVID-19 pandemic sweeps the world, even those of us who are fortunate enough not to have lost a loved one to this disease likely know someone who has. One of the truly heartbreaking consequences of this pandemic is how it has altered our mourning. People who are hospitalized are unable to have visitors, and the people who die must die alone.

A recent Wall Street Journal article explores this phenomenon:

A brutal hallmark of the pandemic is the way it isolates its victims even in their final moments. Patients die alone in hospital rooms, cut off from their spouses, children, siblings and often their pastors or rabbis. The emotional end-of-life moments, if they happen at all, unfold over an electronic tablet or phone, with a stranger serving as an intermediary.

This is true not only of people who are passing away from COVID-19. Hospitals and hospice centers are all on lockdown. Because of social distancing rules, people have had trouble having funerals or sitting shiva. That lack of physical presence, both for the ones who are passing, and the ones left behind, comes at a great cost. I am haunted, still, by a photo I saw a few weeks ago, of a woman standing outside a building, looking in through a window while holding a cell phone to her ear. The building was a hospice care center, and on the other side of that window was the woman’s father. It was the last time she spoke to him before he passed away.

The Scriptures record what happens in the moments after Nadab and Abihu are killed: Moses tells Aaron and his surviving sons they cannot mourn, nor can they even so much as go outside the entrance of the tent of meeting, “or you will die, for the anointing oil of ADONAI is on you” (Lev 10:7). Aaron’s cousins are conscripted to remove Nadab and Abihu’s remains from the sanctuary, and the priestly work continues. How must Aaron have felt? It’s an otherworldly scenario, and yet as I read this passage in the context of what has become of our grieving today, I cannot help but feel that Aaron’s experience here is closer to us than it otherwise might be.

As we approach this coming Shabbat, we also bring Passover to a close. As we recount the story of the Exodus at our Seder tables, we are reminded of the deaths of the firstborn throughout all the land of Egypt. Even Pharaoh—a wicked man—got to mourn his dead, while Aaron, Israel’s Kohen Gadol, lost his own firstborn, and yet he could not. The tension between the contrasting circumstances of the two men is striking. Some might even call it unjust. What do we do with that imbalance? What can we make of a world that produces such brokenness?

We who believe in Yeshua also spend time during each Passover season meditating on Messiah’s role as Passover Lamb (Exod 12:5, John 1:29, 1 Cor 5:7). When thinking about Yeshua’s suffering, death, and resurrection, we have an opportunity to remember that God has experienced true nearness to our pain. The prophet Isaiah identifies the Messiah as “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53). Through the death of his own Son, the God of Israel entered into our human experiences of sin, pain, grief, and even death. Through the process of drawing near to us, he drew us nearer to himself:

Therefore, brothers and sisters, we have boldness to enter into the Holies by the blood of Yeshua. He inaugurated a new and living way for us through the curtain—that is, His flesh. We also have a Kohen Gadol over God’s household. So let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and body washed with pure water. (Heb 10:19–22)

All Scripture references are Tree of Life Version (TLV).

Photo: Paul Frangipane/Brooklyn Eagle

An Open Hand

This week’s Torah commentary features a video presentation by Rabbi Russ Resnik on the tradition of Sefirat ha-Omer, or counting the Omer, based on Leviticus 23:15-16.

You shall count seven full weeks from the day after the Sabbath, from the day that you brought the sheaf of the wave offering. You shall count fifty days to the day after the seventh Sabbath. Then you shall present a grain offering of new grain to the Lord.

This 49-day count begins during Passover, and brings us to Shavuot, providing a rich connection that heightens the meaning of both holidays. Our deliverance from Egypt isn’t complete until we arrive at Mount Sinai and receive the Torah. Messianic Jews see additional meaning in this transition: Messiah’s crucifixion and resurrection during Passover reach their fulfillment when the ascended Messiah pours out his Spirit upon his followers at Shavuot.

The UMJC keeps the tradition of counting the Omer alive with a communal prayer drive each year. This year’s prayer focus is “An Open Hand,” reflecting our concern for the poor and needy, especially during this time of pandemic and crisis. Our open hand to the poor reflects the open hand of God toward us and all his creation, as it is written: “You open your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing” (Psalm 145:16).

Preparing for Passover in a Pandemic

Shabbat Hagadol 5780

The Shabbat before Passover is traditionally a time to review laws and customs in preparation for the festival.

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Passover is above all a story, an appeal to imagination and to memory. We don’t just think and talk about Passover, but we picture and reenact and memorialize it.

Ironically, one of the advantages of our current COVID shutdown is that it helps us imagine the “night of watching” in Egypt, the vulnerability our ancestors felt as they heard cries of anguish over the stricken firstborn in houses all around them. We’re in a far less dire situation of course, but it does helps us understand more deeply the Hebrews’ yearning for divine protection.

This crisis also makes us more aware of the power of shared experience. It’s another irony that during this time of isolation and social distancing, we can feel more connected to others. When I take my dog for a walk in the nearby park, the neighbors who are walking their dogs are friendly and outgoing, at a safe distance of course. Our havurah is meeting through a video feed online, but remains close, sharing concerns and prayers and just being community, perhaps more intensively than before.

So Passover this year might come alive for us in new ways, even though we can’t participate in a big community or extended family Seder. We can still remain connected through technological means, and we can individually enact reminders of the Passover story that Scripture provides.

The Negative Commandment  

One reminder is among the most distinctive commandments of Passover: “And no leaven shall be seen among you in all of your territory for seven days” (Deut. 16:4). Hametz or leaven includes all products made of or even containing any of the five grains of biblical times: wheat, barley, spelt, rye, and oats—because these inevitably become leavened. Yeast spores are afloat in the very air we breathe, and will attach to grain without any effort on our part—so the grain itself must be removed.

This commandment has been expanded and modified in various ways over the centuries, and you can learn the specifics through the many resources we can still access, and consult your local rabbi—if you have one—on specific applications. The heart of this commandment is a thorough cleansing from leaven, traditionally completed the night before Passover (Tuesday, April 7, this year). The next morning a symbolic portion of hametz is burned, and the formula is recited, “Any leaven in my possession, which I have or have not seen, which I have or have not removed, shall be as if it does not exist, and as the dust of the earth.”

Cleaning out our homes points to an inner cleansing of leaven. Just as grain inevitably becomes leavened by the surrounding atmosphere, so do we and our communities inevitably become leavened because of our fallen nature, and the fallenness of the surrounding culture in which we live.

Both the rabbinic literature and the B’rit Hadasha see leaven as a metaphor for sin or the evil inclination. “Don’t you know,” Paul asks the Corinthians, “that a little hametz leavens the whole batch of dough? Get rid of the old hametz, so you may be a new batch, just as you are unleavened” (1 Cor 5:6b-7a).

A few years back, I visited Ayts Chayim (now Shalom Boca) Synagogue in Florida just before Passover, and spoke about three strains of leaven afloat in the cultural air we breathe. Today we’re rightly concerned about breathing in the coronavirus, and we’re making every effort to be free of it . . . but these floating spores of spiritual leaven are still all around us.

Just as we’re vigilant to sanitize ourselves against the coronavirus, so we can be vigilant against these three strains that threaten our souls and communities—very much including our Messianic Jewish community—and fulfill Paul’s admonition: “Get rid of the old hametz.”

1.      The leaven of Consumerism

The COVID shutdown gives us a new perspective on consumerism . . . because we can’t do as much of it as usual. (Although it’s notable that lots of people responded to news of the expanding pandemic by consuming more stuff—toilet paper, bottled water, canned goods, and—at least around here—potatoes!)

There’s religious consumerism too, which talks God but centers on self, on what’s in it for me, how I get the most bang for my religious buck. We need to watch out that consumerism doesn’t seduce us into a religion about me, with God as a flashy accessory.

 2.      The leaven of Competition

Leaven “puffs up,” as Paul reminds us. Puffed up people love to compare themselves and compete with others. They (or we) gain in self-esteem by tearing down others. The COVID Shutdown should help us become less competitive and more interested in helping others (even though we might still be tempted to compete for toilet paper). It reminds us that it’s essential to watch out for others, as well as for ourselves.

3.      The leaven of inConsistency

Inconsistency is hypocrisy—everybody’s favorite religious criticism. It happens when our behavior doesn’t match our verbiage, as a portrayed by a blogger called “The Jewish Atheist”:

When I was a child, I remembered High Holiday services at our hometown temple as glorified fashion shows and gossip fests. The rabbi and cantor were speaking or singing while the congregants whispered about who looked old, who got divorced, or where so-and-so’s daughter went to college. The most religious time of the Jewish year was reduced to petty arguments, icy glares, and idle chatter.

We can all think of examples even closer to home—in our own communities and personal lives—but the positive commandment of Passover takes care of this.

The Positive Commandment

Get rid of the old hametz, so you may be a new batch, just as you are unleavened—for Messiah, our Passover Lamb, has been sacrificed. Therefore let us celebrate the feast not with old hametz, the hametz of malice and wickedness, but with unleavened bread—the matzah of sincerity and truth. (1 Cor 5:7–8)

We not only get rid of hametz—that’s the negative command—but we eat matzah. That’s the positive command. Sincerity and truth mean that our lives have integrity. How we live throughout the week, how we respond to this crazy pandemic, reflects what we say at services on Shabbat. More than that, it reflects who we really are in Messiah Yeshua.

• Instead of Consumerism, it’s all about God, who revealed himself in Messiah Yeshua, not just to me but to all Israel, and all of humankind.

• Instead of Competition, it’s all about God’s kingdom, about his program, not mine.

• Instead of inConsistency, it’s all about integrity, serving the King ahead of myself, always.

Messiah Yeshua is our Passover Lamb, and he’s also the matzah of sincerity and truth. When we partake of this matzah, we partake of him, as he instructed us to do one Passover long ago: “And when He had taken matzah and offered the bracha, He broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is My body, given for you. Do this in memory of Me’” (Luke 22:19).  

Passover is a story that lives on even amid the challenges and distractions of the COVID crisis. So let’s clean out the leaven and celebrate the festival with pure hearts, in memory of the one who renews the story for us and for every generation.

 All Scripture references from Tree of Life Version (TLV)

Image of yeast spores: Getty Images, Visuals Unlimited, inc./Dr. Stanley Flegler

The Gift that Goes Up

Parashat Vayikra: Leviticus 1:1–5:26

by David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

This week’s parashah describes the offerings presented in the tabernacle, including olah, minchah, and hattat.

Olah

Hashem takes in the smell of the burnt offering, the smell after months and months of rain, which Noach smelled; he was the first one to offer something up. Destruction and chaos were behind him, the gift, the Olah, went up to Hashem, up in smoke.  

Yitzchak, already a young man, understood what was happening, he must have understood, even though he never heard the initial command: “Take now your son, your only son, the beloved one, Isaac, and go for yourself (Lech Lecha) to the land of Moriah, and offer up the gift that goes up there, on one of the mountains that I will show you” (Gen 22:2). Avraham, his father, was offering him back up to God; he was to ascend, to make an aliyah. So they walked together, father and son. Going up, up the mountain.

And he called to Moshe—

 YHWH spoke to him from the Tent of Appointment, saying:

 Speak to the children of Israel and say to them:

Anyone—when (one) among you brings-near a near-offering for YHWH

 From domestic-animals: from the herd or from the flock you may 

bring-near your near-offering.

 If an offering-up is his near-offering, from the herd,

 (then) male, wholly sound, let him bring-it-near,

 As acceptance for him, before the presence of YHWH

 He is to lean his hand on the head of the offering-up,

 That there may be acceptance on his behalf, to effect-ransom for him.

(Lev 1:1–4, Everett Fox translation)

That which is offered up, the olah, brings near the One Who Is High and Lifted Up. We remember the binding of Yitzchak when we pray, “May his merit give us acceptance on his behalf.” May the near-sacrifice of Yitzchak ransom us, the sons and daughters of Yakov.

Minchah

East of Eden

in front of the two winged angelic Keruvim 

Kayin, the firstborn son of Humanity

Took from the fruit of the ground a gift to Hashem

But he kept the best fruit for himself. 

There

Hevel, a gift, a minchah, from the firstborn of his flock

A gift offering from his very best. 

Kayin’s face darkened.

The wolf is at the door

The devouring wolf

“Where is Hevel?”

Hashem asks a question to which he knows the answer.

The blood of Hevel is spilled, like his gift, and flows into the ground.

As Yakov brought to Esav, after betraying him: “Please, accept this gift, this minchah, from your servant, seeing your face is like seeing the face of Hashem” (Gen 33:10).

As Yakov’s sons brought a gift to their brother, Yosef. Having betrayed him, near starvation and out of options, they bring their best tribute to the vice regent of Egypt. 

Now what is left of the grain-gift (is) Aharon’s and his sons’, a holiest holy portion from the fire offerings of YHWH. (Lev 2:3, Everett Fox)

The grain-gift is the tribute, the minchah, the once-a-day afternoon prayer of the sons and daughters of Yakov. Aaron and his sons eat the remainder of that which is left by Hashem. Is it possible to have a meal with God? Like a young boy who asks for money, so he can buy his mom chocolates for her birthday, and he, of course, gets to eat half, so they share the sweets together. But it’s the best gift she’s ever received: a gift offering from his very best, a tribute to her maternal love.  

Hattat

Kayin: The wolf is at the door, the devouring wolf, but you must overtake him—sin, guilt, the yetzer ha-ra, inclination for badness. The offering that addresses the devouring wolf is from the same root as the word for sin: Hattat. It’s the offering that purges.

 If the Anointed Priest should sin, bringing-guilt upon the people, 

he is to bring-near, for the sin that he has sinned, 

a bull, a young of the herd, wholly-sound, for YHWH as a 

hattat/decontamination-offering. (Lev. 4:3, Everett Fox) 

Yeshua

The Shepherd-Rabbi, Yeshua, arranges for a Passover meal. He raises the cup filled to the brim with wine. Perhaps he is thinking of the innocent Hevel, slain before his time by the devouring wolf, bringing his heart-felt gift. Or maybe he’s thinking of Yitzchak, gratefully offering that which goes up, which is Yitzchak himself. Indeed, this Shepherd-Rabbi will soon be high and lifted up, 

Behold, My servant will prosper,

He will be high and lifted up and greatly exalted.

Just as many were appalled at You—

His appearance was disfigured more than any man,

His form more than the sons of men.

So He will sprinkle many nations. (Isaiah 52:13–15, TLV)

He will make himself the olah, like Yitzchak, he will make an aliyah to the Holiest place, Kiddush Hashem, like the martyrs of the sons and daughters of Yakov. 

Perhaps the Shepherd-Rabbi was thinking of the devouring wolf of Kayin, the power of sin and guilt to devour the sheep, and the wolf devoured him whole, unto death. The Shepherd was acting like a helpless, slaughtered lamb. And he was gone. And then, just as the Shepherd was devoured and gone, and the wolf and the devouring shepherds were upon the little lambs, the Shepherd-Rabbi reappeared, but this time, as a gate, a door, and on the door was written The Name: YHWH. And the voice of the shepherd/door called out gently to the lambs, and they recognized the kindness of his voice, and they entered through the gate, and they were safe. They were safe from the wolf, safe from death, and nothing and no one could take them out. They were home.  

Or perhaps the Shepherd-Rabbi was thinking of you in that moment, raising the Passover cup, and then offering himself: the gift, the going up, the drawing-near, the one-who-became-as-sin, the wholly-sound lamb. 

In God's Shadow

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

by Rabbi Isaac S. Roussel, Congregation Zera Avraham, Ann Arbor, MI

Many years ago, when I was a much younger man, I was earnestly seeking God’s will for my vocation. I was in the middle of a Master’s program in Chemistry, but wasn’t sure that it was what He wanted me to do. After much prayer I got an undeniably clear answer to finish my degree. I obediently finished and two years later, I again began seeking for what was next. I agonized in prayer for weeks. I can remember praying about this as I was driving to my mother’s house one Sunday and God said to me, again undeniably, “Do what you want!”

I was stunned. Did I hear wrong? Why would he say that? I wanted some direction! To know that I was on the right path! I began to wonder if I had just heard wrongly. But then a week later I was praying with a gifted friend of mine, whom I had said nothing about this to, and she said to me, “I see God laying roses in your path, but which one to pick up is up to you.” I was absolutely farblunget! I couldn’t believe my ears!

To top matters off, a week later I was on a personal prayer retreat and happened upon the text of Elisha’s encounter with the woman who had built him a room to stay in when he passed through (2 Kings 4:8–17). He asks her, “What can I do for you in return?” She replies “I have no son.” And Elisha says to her, “You will have one this time next year!” This hit me solidly between the eyes. While I had read this story several times, it never occurred to me that Elisha didn’t ask Hashem’s opinion. He just granted her this boon. How could he do that? What if God didn’t want this woman to have a son?

That weekend I read and prayed further. I also found this amazing passage. In 1 Samuel 10:6–7 (CJB), Samuel says to the newly anointed King Saul, “Then the Spirit of Adonai will fall on you; you will prophesy with them and be turned into another man! When these signs come over you, just do whatever you feel like doing, because God is with you.”

This whole series of events was assaulting my view of what it meant to be in Hashem’s will. Could it be that he didn’t really care what I did with my career? To be honest, I even found myself feeling a little hurt that I wasn’t special enough for him to give me a particular life mission or task.

What I eventually concluded was that God is interested in us spending enough time with him that we imbibe his values, and that the details are less important. “Be holy as I am holy” is his dictate (Lev 19:2). Some people certainly do have particular missions, but I think that this is more the exception than the rule.

So what does all of this have to do with our parasha this week? In our text we read about God selecting Betzalel to oversee the making of the Mishkan. Two midrashim point to Betzalel’s unique qualification for this work. In one (Genesis Rabbah 15:10), Moses is having a hard time understanding how the menorah is to be constructed. He asks God three times because he kept getting confused. Finally, God says to him, “Go ask Betzalel, he can do it.” Moses is astonished that Betzalel easily fabricates the menorah. He exclaims, “God showed it to me several times, yet I couldn’t understand how to make it; yet you, who never saw it, were able to make it on your own? Betzalel, you must have been standing  in the shadow of God, betzel El, when he showed me how to make the menorah.” 

The second midrash comes from the Talmud (Berachot 55a). God tells Moses to have Betzalel make the Mishkan, the ark, and the furniture. Moses, however, reverses the order when he tells him—furniture, ark, and Mishkan. But Betzalel says “Moses, one usually builds the house and then its furnishings.” To which Moses exclaims, “That is exactly how Hashem instructed me! Were you standing betzel El, in God’s shadow, when he instructed me?”

The implication here is that Betzalel, whose name literally means “in God’s shadow,” was attuned enough to God that he knew what God really wanted.

My conclusion from my own experience in seeking Hashem’s will is that we are all called to be “betzel El,” in God’s shadow. If we dwell near enough to him like this then it isn’t as important what we do, but how we do it. Are we exhibiting the same love and compassion as God does? Do we see the world as something worthy of love and redemption as he does? Do we seek to bring justice to the world, each in our own way? This is what Hashem asks of us. We can bring Hashem’s shadow, so to speak, into anything that we choose to do. It could be as a homemaker, teacher, engineer, janitor, or even as a rabbi!

We need this now more than ever in our highly polarized society and especially during the current health crisis unfolding across the world.

This is exactly what we see Yeshua doing throughout his earthly life. He dwells constantly in God’s shadow through a life of secluded prayer and study of the Scriptures. He declares, “I tell you that the Son cannot do anything on his own, but only what he sees the Father doing” (John  5:19). And yet we see him just healing people and forgiving people without stopping to seek God’s will. I used to think that this was because he was not only human but also divine. But now I think that it has more to do with him constantly dwelling in Hashem’s shadow.

May we seek to be attuned enough to our Father that we imbibe his values and perspectives. May we seek to dwell in his shadow through prayer and study. Then we can truly “do what is at hand,” for his Spirit will be upon us. Shabbat Shalom.

How God Describes Himself

Parashat Ki Tisa, Exodus 30:11–34:35

by Rabbi David Friedman, Jerusalem

How incredible are the blessings and gifts of God! Every day I wake up is a new start; I recite the “modeh ani” prayer every morning, and before me is a chance to live life fully, to spend time with people I love, to study and apply our magnificent Torah, to enjoy living in the Land and in the city of my great love. Yet, even after experiencing such incredible blessings, too often I so quickly turn from God’s ways! That very phenomenon is a part of today’s Torah portion. 

Our people had just witnessed the ten plagues. They had been miraculously delivered out of slavery. The Red Sea split right before them. Pharaoh’s pursuing army was destroyed. The Torah was being given to Moshe on Mt. Sinai, and the people witnessed natural phenomena that attested to the heavenly origin of the Sinai experience. Yet we are nearly slapped in the face, shocked, with the actions of our people. We encounter them and wince. We read of Aaron’s actions and cannot believe what we see! 

Now the people saw that Moshe took his time to come down the Mountain, so the people gathered against Aaron, then said to him: “Get up, make gods for us that will go before us, since that man Moshe who brought us up from the land of Egypt . . . we don’t know what happened to him!”

So Aaron said to them, “Take off the gold ear rings that are in the ears of your wives, your sons and your daughters; then bring (them) to me.”

And all the people took apart the gold ear rings that were in their ears, and brought (them) to Aaron. Then he took (them) from their hands, and fashioned it with tools; and he made it (into) a calf mask. Then they said: “These are your gods, Israel, that brought you up from the land of Egypt.”

So Aaron witnessed this, and he then built an altar in front of them, and Aaron cried out, saying: “It is a holy day to Adonai tomorrow.” (Exod 32:1-5)

It is here that I catch my breath—every year while reading this. I feel badly for Aaron: he is confronted by faithless, unhappy elements of his own people. Their voices are loud to him; he feels he is outnumbered. Aaron knows that he is planning something that is not kosher (v. 4, making a calf-mask, and v. 5, creating a new “holy” day). But he does it anyway. Perhaps he thinks he has to do these things to hold off a riot or mutiny. In fact, we don’t know how Aaron can justify what he did as the text here is not revealing on that point. As Aaron heard the people say, “These are your gods, Israel, who brought you up from the land of Egypt” (v. 4), how could he have stomached it? I think to myself, “How could he do this?” It’s a good thing at this point that God sent Moses back down the mount to set things in order. 

We are faced with a catastrophe that could undo the newly found liberation, that could have damaged the covenant relationship between God and his people beyond repair. As we read this passage, which of us does not feel betrayal, revulsion and sorrow? Even 3,300 years after this event took place, reading this description of what happened ignites such feelings in all of us. 

A most remarkable thing, then, is just how merciful and forgiving the God of Israel truly is. This situation could have had any number of outcomes. God does not pull punches. He tells Moses, “Your nation . . . has corrupted itself” (v. 7), and then: 

Adonai said to Moshe: “I have seen this people, and look, they are stiff necked. And now, leave me, so my fuming anger will be against them, and annihilate them. Then I will make a great nation from you.” (32:9–10)

We don’t read: “Oh, well, I guess your kinsmen felt leaderless and insecure that you, Moses, were gone for a few weeks. So we have to understand their feelings and not judge them.” No! It is amazing just how honest and straightforward our Torah is in its historical recollections. The bottom line is that God is provoked, and Moses is not happy, either: “Then Moshe got angry, and threw the tablets down, breaking them, underneath the Mountain” (32:19). 

Yet, Moses’ amazing plea to God helps the situation: 

Remember Abraham, Isaac and Israel, your servants, to whom you gave an oath in which you said to them, “I will make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky, and all of this land, that I said I will grant to your descendants so that they will inherit it forever.”

Then Adonai was comforted concerning the harsh actions that he said he would do to his people. (Exod 32:13–14)

Like his ancestor Abraham, Moses is bold in his intercession for his people. And somehow this touches the very heart of God. As a result, while things are not totally calm, the people avoid annihilation, moving instead toward teshuva (repentance), rectifying the crisis. At this point, we breathe a sigh of relief in knowing that two million people will not perish, even though they will go through consequences for their idolatry: “On that very day, about three thousand people from the nation fell” (32:28). Jews had to kill other Jews; this was the outcome, a sad and an extremely serious one.

The inevitable confrontation between Moses and Aaron occurs:

Then Moshe said to Aaron: “What did this people do to you, in order to bring upon you such a huge missing of the mark?” Then Aaron replied: “Don’t get angry, sir! You know the people, that they are evil! And they said to me, ‘Make gods for us that will go before us, because that man Moshe, who brought us up from the land of Egypt, we don’t know what happened to him!’”

“So I said to them, ‘Whoever has gold, take it apart and give it to me, so that I can throw it into fire; then this calf came out.” (Exod 32:21–24)

Aaron blames the people. Of course. I’m sure that I would have, too. It’s our common reaction when we disobey Torah and do wrong to others.

What do we learn from this? Here are some things I glean from our parasha:

1. God is merciful and forgiving.  

2. Yet he does not compromise his righteousness.

3. It is a blessing to have a strong intercessor as a leader (like Moses).

4. The battle we face is the same one that Moses and Israel faced: the battle to choose to do what is right (according to Torah) or what is wrong (contrary to Torah).

5. Our insecurities and unwanted circumstances are not valid excuses for choosing to do wrong.

6. There are serious consequences for disobeying God’s instructions.

I listed “God is merciful and forgiving” as the prominent lesson. It is the bottom line of our parasha, and probably of most Torah portions. In 33:14, we get a glimpse of the great mercy, forgiveness, and love that God had for his covenant people: “Then he (God) responded (to Moshe): “My face will go (on the journey to Israel with the people), and I will lead you!” 

To put it into more human terms, God had been greatly hurt and angered by our ancestors’ behavior, but he opted for reconciliation. As King of our precious covenant, he could have trashed it all after the incident of idolatry. But he didn’t. In fact, he continued to accompany and lead our people. And what does that show us? That God indeed is merciful and forgiving. His heart toward Israel was one of compassion: “I will have womb mercies on whomever I will have womb mercies” (33:19). Look at how God describes himself (!) in our parasha: 

So Adonai passed before him (Moshe), crying: “Adonai, Adonai, Compassionate and Merciful God, long-nosed, and great in covenant love and truth! Locking up covenant love for thousands; carrying away Torah transgressions, crimes, and missings of the mark; but he will not totally sanitize the Torah transgressions, afflicting the Torah transgressions of fathers upon the children, and upon the children of the children, unto the third and fourth generations. (Exod 34:6–7)

So the incident of idolatry is to be remembered throughout all time, due to its inclusion in the Torah. But our God, though he will not compromise with wrongdoing, so loves his covenant people! And I love this emphasis in our parasha. May it inspire us all!  

All biblical passages are translated by the author.

Photo by Michael Weidner on Unsplash

Our Hands Are Full

Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20–30:10

by David N., Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

In Parashat Tetzaveh we get the first explicit mention of Aaron and his sons as priests of Israel. While priests are mentioned earlier in the book of Exodus, this is where Aaron’s family explicitly gets the job. The first order of business seems to be their wardrobe: “Make sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and adornment” (28:3). As they say, “The ephod makes the man,” and Aaron’s family gets an entire chapter devoted to the rich attire that signifies its priestly role. 

Moses is notably not mentioned by name in Tetzaveh, but the grammar seems to emphasize his role. The first words of the parasha, “You shall further instruct the Israelites”, begin not just with tetzaveh (command) but ve’atah tetzaveh, adding emphasis on the “you”—perhaps better translated “you, yourself, shall instruct the Israelites” (Exod 27:20). The same emphasis begins chapter 28: “You shall bring forward your brother Aaron” (28:1, also see 28:3). In fact the entire parasha seems to be directed specifically at Moses, employing the singular imperative tense throughout, yet doesn’t use his name a single time. 

The commentator Ramban sees this grammatical nuance as directing Moses to do the work personally and not to delegate any of the details. However, while Moses is clearly the responsible party, making the garments is also a communal endeavor. Actually making the garments are those from among the community, poetically described as “the wise of heart that I have filled with the spirit of wisdom” (28:3). 

So, while the only people explicitly named in the parasha are Aaron and his sons, Moses is hardly peripheral. We are also introduced to some as-yet-unnamed artisans who are “filled” (maleh) with a spirit of wisdom who have the artistry and technical skills to actually make the garments.  

What follows is a description of the garments for the priestly service (chapter 28) that is perhaps more detailed than modern readers would prefer—unless you are a clothing designer trying to make them, in which case it is frustratingly spare on details. The garments include a breastpiece, an ephod, a robe, a fringed tunic, a headdress, and a sash. “Put these [garments] on your brother Aaron and on his sons as well, anoint them, and ordain [umil’eita et yadam] them and consecrate them to serve Me as priests.” (28:41)

In this verse and several others, Moses is commanded to ordain Aaron and sons as priests, as in Exodus 29:9, “umil’eita yad-Aharon veyad banav,” literally “you shall fill Aaron’s hands, and the hands of his sons.” Rashi relates this idiom of filling their hands to a French custom:  

When someone is inaugurated, entering upon a particular task from that day on, his hand is “filled” with it. Here in Europe, when someone is appointed to a position, the ruler puts a leather glove in his hand, calling it a “gauntlet,” by means of which he is invested with the office and takes possession of it. Such a transmittal of authority is “filling the hand.” (Rashi on 28:41)

Just as Moses commanded the building of the mishkan, a physical structure to house the Presence of God among the people, now he builds a social structure, starting with priests who facilitate and mediate God’s Presence.  

But it is not enough to consecrate them or anoint them. Even the clothes do not fully “make the man.” Additionally, their hands must be filled; they must have something to put their hands to. They need a job. Which is perhaps why, immediately after the consecration ceremony, before the parasha ends, even before the instructions for the building of the altar, God commands concerning the daily tamid offering. The tamid is the workhorse of the sacrifices, performed twice daily, the primary occupation of the priests serving. 

“Now this is what you shall offer upon the altar: two yearling lambs each day, regularly. You shall offer the one lamb in the morning, and you shall offer the other lamb at twilight . . . a regular burnt offering throughout the generations, at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting before the Lord. For there I will meet with you, and there I will speak with you, and there I will meet with the Israelites, and it shall be sanctified by My Presence.” (29:38–43)

The priests are not set apart simply for the sake of being set apart; while there may be inherent value in being set apart (that is, holiness), the priests of Israel are not an aristocracy as an end unto themselves. Rather, they are set apart for a vocation, a calling. They have a purpose. 

One (perhaps underrated) element to healthy, thriving humans is a sense of purpose. In a recent TED Talk, Johann Hari, an author who specializes in depression, points to a growing body of research showing that among other things, not having a sense of purpose is related to depression. What’s more, it is important for people to have this purpose in the context of social bonds.  

In order to be a whole person we each need a vocation that is bigger than ourselves. It need not be glamorous or excessively heroic, and its main ingredients may simply be caring for the people put in front of us. But it must demand something of us. This is why it is not enough to consecrate Aaron and his sons as priests. Rather, Moses is further instructed to “fill their hands” by giving them the tamid offering to perform daily. 

Not that the tamid was all they did. It would trivialize the role of the priests to think of them as essentially glorified slaughterhouse-workers. Their real vocation was mediating the Presence of Hashem to the rest of the community, as judges, communal leaders, and in the overall maintenance of Israelite religion. This first offering, however, gets them started with something practical, achievable, and meaningful. 

Now that the Temple service is not with us, who performs these varied tasks? While Aaron’s descendants are still given a place of honor in our communities today, they no longer play a central role in Israel’s worship. Yeshua acts as the High Priest (Hebrews 4:14), and an aspect of the priesthood is given to all the children of Israel. As the priest’s garments are described, you may notice various parts made partially or wholly of blue, or techelet. For example, the breastpiece is “held in place by a cord of blue,” bipetil techelet (28:28). This expression is found in another place in Torah, but as part of an otherwise inscrutable commandment: 

The Lord said to Moses as follows: Speak to the Israelite people and instruct them to make for themselves fringes on the corners of their garments throughout the ages; let them attach a cord of blue (petil techelet) to the fringe at each corner. (Num 15:38–39)

One can think of this cord of techelet blue as a small part of the priestly uniform designated for all Israel. As the Levites are set apart from among Israel, and the priests from among the Levites, so Israel is set apart among the nations—and not without a vocation of our own! 

But again, now that the Temple does not stand, what is our vocation? What, when we wake up tomorrow, is the purpose that fills our hands? Well, that is a question that deserves more than a paragraph. Perhaps it is best left as an exercise for the reader—to be discovered through study and prayer, alongside our community. What is it that we are filled with a “spirit of wisdom” to accomplish?  

May each of us, with God’s help, find our role in establishing the glorious state of affairs described later in the parasha: 

“I will abide among the Israelites, and I will be their God. And they shall know that I the Lord am their God, who brought them out of the land of Egypt that I might abide among them, I the Lord their God.” (29:45–46)

  All Biblical quotations are from the Jewish Publication Society Tanakh translation.

When God Moves in Next Door

Parashat Terumah, Exodus 25:1–27:19

Rabbi Yahnatan Lasko, Beth Messiah Congregation, Montgomery Village, MD

What happens when God shows up?

The book of Exodus is a powerful series of answers to this question. When God shows up, the oppressed realize that their voices have indeed been heard. When God shows up, the unjust powers of this world are judged. When God shows up, idols get broken down, the enslaved go free and their children rejoice. When God shows up, the nations of the world hear and see and put their trust in God. When God shows up at Sinai, revelation happens, eternal covenants are made, and a way of life that leads to wisdom and blessing is given. When God shows up after the incident with the golden calf, iniquity and sin are judged and atoned for, the covenant is renewed, and the people’s way of life is restored. When God shows up, priests are ordained, artisans are filled with the Ruach to create beautiful work, and the people are inspired to bring their best to build God’s house. At the end of Exodus, God shows up when his glory fills the Tabernacle, and all of Israel sees God’s presence as a cloud, resting with them in the mishkan and guiding them forward on their journey. At every turn, Exodus is a story of God showing up in powerful ways.

This week’s parasha, Terumah, describes the various furnishings of the Tabernacle, prompting a tantalizing question: What happens when God moves in next door?

Our ancestors surely must have wondered this after God instructed Moses: “Have them make a Sanctuary for Me, so that I may dwell among them” (Exod 25:8). This would be a new step in Israel’s relationship with God. They had known God as the God of their ancestors. They had known God as the God who judged the idols of Egypt. They had known God as the voice of revelation speaking from the mountain. But now God was initiating a new thing: becoming “the God who dwells among them.” 

This relationship of “God with us” would center on a physical structure, a holy tabernacle or tent. The cloud of God’s presence had been with the Israelite camp before, going before them to lead the way or standing behind them to guard and protect them. Now there would be a mishkan, a tent—a physical touchpoint, disassembled, carried, and reassembled by Levites—to serve as the designated place for God, as God’s home among the Israelites. 

What happens when God moves in next door? Our parasha sets forth a provisional answer—a dynamic of mutuality, of giving back and forth—by means of paradox: “Tell Bnei-Yisrael to take up an offering for Me. From anyone whose heart compels him you are to take My offering” (Exod 25:2). 

God describes the gift that each Israelite would give as terumati—literally “my gift.” Before individuals even feel their hearts stirred within them to give gifts to God, those same gifts already belong to God, in a sense. Perhaps this is because God is the Creator of everything, or maybe it’s because God had recently enriched the Israelites with Egyptian valuables (as restitution for years of slavery). Despite the fact that everything the Israelites have to give already belongs to God, it is nevertheless important to God that they feel moved to give it, and do so. 

Another paradox resides in the phrase vayik’khu-li. While the particle li on the end may rightly be rendered “for me” (as in our translation, “take for me an offering”), it also can blend more seamlessly into an invitation: “take me.” Robert Alter effectively captures this ambiguity in his translation: “Speak to the Israelites, that they take Me a donation” (The Five Books of Moses, 460–461, emphasis mine). 

How can Israel “take [God]” as a gift? The word for taking, lakach, forms the root of another important biblical Hebrew word: lekach, which literally means “a takeaway.” It is often translated “doctrine,” and we regularly encounter this word through our liturgy in the verse from Proverbs quoted at the conclusion of the Torah service: Ki lekach tov natati lachem—”For I give you sound learning—do not forsake my instruction” (Prov 4:2). A midrash from Exodus Rabbah expounds further: 

“And they shall bring Me gifts” (Exodus 25:2)—here it is written, “for I have given you a good portion, do not forsake My teaching” (Proverbs 4:2); do not forsake the purchase that I gave to you. When people buy things, their purchase has gold but no silver, or silver but no gold, but the purchase that I give to you has silver, as it is said “The sayings of God are sayings pure like smelted silver” (Psalms 12:7). It has gold, as it is said “More lovely than gold and than much fine gold” (Psalms 19:11). . . . The Holy Blessed One said to Israel, “I sell to you My Torah, and (as if such a thing could be) I am sold along with it.” (Sefaria Community Translation, https://www.sefaria.org/Shemot_Rabbah.33.1?lang=bi, CC0)

The midrash connects the verb yik’khu-li with the Torah, the lekach tov, the good doctrine or takeaway teaching. This fits the order of events in Exodus: first God gives the Torah to Israel on Sinai, with all its statutes and ordinances, and now God is taking an offering.  

The midrash continues, going beyond the language of giving to explain God’s gift: “I’ve given you My Torah, but with it, I’ve sold you myself.”

This is similar to a King who had an only daughter. One of the kings came and took her and sought to go back to his land to marry her. He said to him, “My daughter who I have given to you is my only one. I cannot bear to separate from her, but to tell you that you cannot take her is also impossible since she is your wife. Rather, do me this favour, that everywhere you go make me a small room, so that I can live with you, for I cannot leave my daughter.” So said God to Israel: “I have given you the Torah. I cannot bear to separate from her, and to tell you not to take her is also impossible. Rather, everywhere you go make me one house so that I can live within it” as it is said “And make me a sanctuary” (Exodus 25:8).

This midrash portrays the Torah as a beloved child with whom God is unable to truly part, such that giving the Torah to the Jewish people means that God will always want to maintain a residence among them. To Messianic Jewish ears, this parable also reflects God’s relationship with his beloved son, the living Torah, whom God offered to Israel as an act of covenant fidelity and a guarantee of all God’s promises. We who receive Yeshua as the promised Messiah do so only through a relationship of mutual giving with the God who seeks to live among us. 

How can we give anything to God today? The Malbim, a 19th-century European rabbi and commentator, applied the lesson of Parashat Terumah to our hearts: 

God commanded that each individual should build him a sanctuary in the recesses of his heart, that he should prepare himself to be a dwelling place for the Lord and a stronghold for the excellency of His Presence, as well as an altar on which to offer up every portion of his soul to the Lord, until he gives himself for His glory at all times.

Nearly two millennia earlier, Rav Shaul taught the same spiritual lesson, praying for some “that Messiah may dwell in your hearts through faith” (Eph 3:17), and encouraging others to “present [their] bodies as a living sacrifice” (Rom 12:1). Paul applied this lesson not only to individuals but also communally: “Don’t you know that you are God’s temple and that the Ruach Elohim dwells among you? . . . for God’s Temple is holy, and you are that Temple” (1 Cor 3:16, 17b).

What happens when God moves in next door? The relationship deepens through a mutuality of giving: God bestows teaching, wisdom, and blessing, and Israel celebrates by giving back that which rightfully belongs to her Maker: glory, honor, praise, and the finest things she has to offer. The presence of God in the Tent at the center of the camp thus points to a glorious reality: the presence of God at the center of our lives.

As we gather together each week in our synagogues, circling around humble yet beautiful arks in which we reverently store God’s lekach tov (the good teaching that he has given us), let us be continually inspired to live out the beautiful reality this points to: Imanu-El, God with us, graciously giving and receiving all that we offer up gratefully in love.

All Scripture references, unless otherwise noted , are from Tree of Life Version (TLV).

What Kind of Book Are You?

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1–24:18

Dr. Vered Hillel, Netanya, Israel

I have a question for you. Have you ever heard of a lawyer or judge who sits down and reads a law book in a leisurely way as if it were a novel? While possible, this is not the norm. Law books are usually a collection of laws or codes that have been systematized according to individual laws, so that a person doesn’t have to sit down and read the entire book to find what they are looking for. One can simply look up the laws that pertain to the subject with which they are dealing. This is the way the Torah has often been read. The various laws have been identified and analyzed and then systemized as regulations. This is a helpful way of categorizing and understanding the individual laws, but it wrests the covenant between Hashem and Israel out of its narrative framework, which establishes the relationship between God and Israel. Without the narrative link, the covenant, as articulated in Exodus 19–24, is devalued and read as another law book or law code, allowing the link between Israel and God to be severed.  

In Exodus chapters 1–18 Hashem initiates a relationship with Israel while we are still in bondage. He calls and brings Israel out of bondage so that we will know him as our God (Exod 6:6–7; 16:12). It is only after this relationship is established with Israel that Hashem regulates the relationship through the covenant and its statutes. The purpose of the covenant was not to bring people into relationship with Hashem, since that was already established, but to help Israel be a holy people set apart to him, by defining holy behavior (Exod 19:6).  

This week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim, is known as the Book of the Covenant, Sefer Habrit. It contains the earliest collection of biblical laws. These laws and regulations, as well as the narration in the Book of the Covenant, depict Hashem as a moral, law-giving king who cares about every aspect of people’s lives. He is the God of justice who prohibits perjury and demands complete impartiality in court (21:1–3) and who distinguishes the guilt of intentional murder from unintentional manslaughter (21:12–13). He expects people to treat each other properly and for us to exhibit holy behavior (21:14–22:16). He even shows concern for what might be classified as disadvantaged classes of people—slaves, foreigners, widows, orphans, and the poor (22:17–23:19).  

This concern for the disadvantaged classes is a good example of the relationship between the narrative context and the actual laws. The first laws mentioned in Sefer Habrit are about slaves (21:2–11). This placement tells us that the treatment of slaves is a priority to Hashem. The further mention of slaves in Exodus 20:10; 21:20-21, 26-27, 32; and 23:12 reinforces the prominence of the issue. These laws about slaves relate to the central theme of the narratives in the first eighteen chapters of Exodus, the release of Israelite slaves from Egyptian bondage. In Exodus 22:22–23:9 Hashem extends his concern for slaves to others by providing regulations for social justice concerning the poor and sojourners. The specific laws in these verses begin and end with the sojourner, but they also include the widow, the orphan, and the poor. These are the very people who are most likely to become enslaved due to unpaid debts. Therefore, the narrative of Israel’s experience in Egypt is the basis for understanding these social-humanitarian regulations. 

It is easy for us to read Sefer Habrit as a systematized law code from which we can draw a law or statute and upon which we can build a list of dos and don’ts. We can learn about social justice, humanitarian outreach, and even holy behavior by reading the individual statutes. All of this is good, but how much more profitable it is when we draw upon their wider narrative context, which comes from a relationship with Hashem. The resulting benefits and blessings reach beyond this physical realm into the eternal one. Instead of promoting a rigid understanding and observance of covenantal laws, which can negatively affect our lives and relationships, placing the laws in their narrative context in Exodus, expands our relationships and changes our lives. Our hearts, concerns, and desires become more in line with Hashem’s because our observance stems from our relationship with him and flows to others. At the same time, lives lived in such a manner continue the narrative of Israel’s deliverance from bondage by Hashem’s outstretched arm (Exod 6:6) and further the kingdom of Heaven.  

Placing the covenantal laws and statutes in their narrative context allows us to see that the covenant is not a list of dos and don’ts but an expression of Hashem’s love, given to regulate the relationship between Israel and himself that was established when he brought us out of bondage. When observed through this relationship, the regulations bring freedom for us and others. Such a perspective helps to set our minds on the things of the Spirit so we can live according to the Spirit (Rom 8:5) and to transform us by the renewing of our minds (Rom 12:2).  

The story of our relationship with God is told through our lives, and our lives are the only book that some people will ever read about God. What kind of book do we want people to read from our lives—a law code or one that stems from and exhibits the same grace Hashem gave to Israel when he established a relationship with us? May the story of our lives reflect the grace and love relationship established by Hashem and enacted by Messiah Yeshua.

Photo by Danika Perkinson on Unsplash

What's Your Story?

Parashat Yitro, Exodus 18:1–20:23

By Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, PhD

Parashat Yitro can aid us in better understanding how people come to faith in the God of Israel and his Messiah. That process is surprising and we have much to learn.

Relationship with people

In this story, as in the stories of many of our lives, relationship precedes faith. Yitro had a strong, trusting, and mutually respectful relationship with his son-in-law Moshe and with the people of Israel prior to his ever coming to faith in the God of Israel. As we shall see, the broad order of Yitro’s faith commitment was relationship with members of God’s community (Moshe, Tzipporah, and their children), faith in the God of Israel, and then ritual reception into that community.

This is a necessary lesson for those religiously zealous people who hold that “unbelievers” must not be given any communal standing or responsibilities until after they have made a faith commitment. This would mean making faith commitment prior to communal relationship. This bears reconsideration.

I am mindful of a couple in their sixties who came to my congregation at the suggestion of their out of state Yeshua-believing daughter. Let’s call them Jack and Jill. Now Jack and Jill knew they were not Yeshua-believers, and we knew that as well. But right off the bat we gave them communal responsibilities. Relationship was built. Spiritual information was exchanged. And in the fullness of time, both came to fully embrace what our community stood for, a condition that persists to this day. Relationship led to faith and that led to membership. That’s how it was for Jack and Jill, and that’s how it was for Yitro too.

People most often come to Yeshua-faith through discovering through the grapevine the story of our own encounters with God in Messiah, or otherwise through their direct relationship with us. Yitro had heard reports of God’s dealings through Tzipporah his daughter, and perhaps through his grandchildren, Gershom and Eliezer. He had also heard the reports of God’s goodness to Israel through travelers in the area. And in today’s parasha we see Moshe telling him his own story—his own experience with God, and the experience of the people of God in general. It ought to be the same way for us. People need to hear about the mighty works of God in our lives and our friends’ lives and connect these stories with the assurances given in Scripture, if they would grasp the reality of the God of Israel and of Yeshua’s claim to be Messiah.

Relationship with God

In coming to Yeshua-faith, people experience three encounters that bring them into a newly vital relationship with the God of Israel. We can see these encounters evident in Yitro’s encounter with Moshe.

1. A truth encounter – “I now believe this to be essentially true.”

2. A power encounter – “I now believe that the power of God as revealed in this religious culture is supreme, real, tangible and adequate.”

3. An allegiance encounter – “Now I know that the Lord is greater than all gods” (Exod 18:11).“

   • I now see something compelling about the character of God as you have encountered him and want to experience the impact of this truth and power in every aspect of my doing and being;”

   • “I want to know the personal Source behind this narrative, this community dynamic and this power;” and

   • “I am willing to walk through this doorway of new possibilities and new responsibilities, trusting in God and submitting to his rule in my life.”

   • “I renounce all other spiritual allegiances in submission to this God.”

These encounters take time to come together. We need to give people: 

• lots of exposure to our story, and the stories of God-encounters in the Bible and in our own community of faith;

• time and opportunity for them to invite God’s engagement with them as best they know how;

• prayerful support from ourselves and others.

So the question for us is a relational one. To what extent are we and our community members nurturing a vital relationship with God, and a warm relationship with people who need to seek him and find him more deeply? Do we have time for cultivating relationships, or are we “just too busy”? That says a mouthful. If we are too busy to cultivate real relationships with people and with God, then indeed, we are “too busy.”

And finally, how can we build bridges between our inquiring friends and others who know God in a warm way, who can share their stories with our friends as we also share our own? And how can we best build a bridge between those stories and the stories found in Scripture so that our friends discover that what we have found is grounded there, waiting for them to engage as well with the One who stands ready to engage with us?

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks said, “The world we build tomorrow is born in the stories we tell our children today.” The same is true of the world our friends will build. Tell them your story, introduce them to others and their stories, and introduce them to the stories in Scripture, which set the pattern for all of us.

And finally, remember the words of Elie Wiesel, “God created people because he loves stories.”