The Choice Point

Parashat Acharei Mot-K’doshim, Leviticus 16:1–20:27

By Ben Volman, Kehillat Eytz Chaim, Toronto

This week’s combined reading of Acharei Mot and K’doshim leads us just past the middle of the Torah into the second half of Leviticus, which has been called “The Law of Holiness” (or the Holiness Code). There are few lines of Scripture more uncompromising than the opening verses of K’doshim: “You are to be holy as I the Lord your God am holy” (19:2). Is this truly possible? Most of us would probably settle for “faithful,” or perhaps, “devout.” But holy? It seems an impossible ideal: parush, utterly “set apart.” We ought to be wary given that whole class of Yeshua’s contemporaries named P’rushim—the “set apart” Pharisees. He told us to listen to what they say and observe their lives. “But don’t do what they do” (Matthew 23:2). (Their own writings reveal the P’rushim were equally critical of each other.)

As a congregational leader, I’m often encouraging “survivors” struggling with mid-life faith—more likely to think of “being holy” as something to aim at well down the road, probably when they’re closer to heaven. Some are feeling this struggle even more intently during the COVID-19 pandemic while they’re socially distant from their faith family, coping with physical isolation. Along the pathway of years with lots of years to go, we easily lose the passion of our “first love.”  

There’s a name for feeling stuck in the middle. Rosabeth M. Kanter, a Harvard professor posting in a well-known 2009 Harvard Business Review blog, called it: “the miserable middle of change.” She wrote, “Everyone loves inspiring beginnings and happy endings: it is the middles that involve hard work.” Dr. Kanter saw frequent evidence of the problem when institutions were trying to change and then more poignantly saw the effects while working with a team facing a mid-point crisis at an African solar cell project during the Ebola epidemic: “Tragically, it’s an unhappy ending for some . . . but for most, it’s a choice point. Do you give in and give up? Or do you find ways to get through . . . making needed adjustments, helping those who need help, but keeping your longer-term purpose in mind?” 

It’s just past the middle of the year. We’ve just finished Passover, and yet this parasha points us toward the themes of holiness and even the details of Yom Kippur, our “holiest day of the year,” right in the opening chapter of Acharei Mot. So this is an interesting moment to step back and think about what the Day of Atonement means now, when it’s many months behind us with many more to go. Perhaps it’s even more consequential as we’re in the process of counting the Omer, literally counting our steps to Shavuot and the revelation of Sinai. After all, this is where Israel will verbally commit to following the God who reveals himself as the one true, sovereign God of Creation, and we all know how soon our people will revert to worshiping a golden calf. 

In some ways, there’s holiness in the details. Every aspect of the offerings, both for the High Priest himself and for the people, is detailed with precise instructions for purging the Holy Place and the altar from sin and impurity. This ritual was initiated in the tabernacle and then duplicated in the great Jerusalem temples over a thousand years. During the Second Temple, even when there was neither an ark nor a visible sign of the Holy Presence, every movement of the High Priest was well-practiced, as he was considered under mortal risk should he have an impure thought. It’s the same warning that Moshe gives to Aaron in the Tabernacle as we open Leviticus 16 “so that he will not die” (vs. 2). 

There’s also a unique, holy quality in the confessions of the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest. This was the only day, according to the Mishnah (Yoma 6:2), when the Kohen actually uttered the Tetragrammaton—the four-letter name of God—as he confessed over the sacrifices: first for his own sins, then the sins of the priests, and finally for the sins of the people over the Azazel sacrifice—or as William Tyndale named him, the scapegoat—carrying our sins out of sight. 

We often take it for granted, but one of the most refreshing aspects of the Yom Kippur service as we know it, is that during this very holy day, we do nothing to deny any of our sins. How many times have I been in services where there’s a call for holiness but few details on what’s wrong? For many years after I came to faith, I attended High Holy Day services with my father where the congregation’s first language was Hungarian, as was the lengthy d’rash. Nevertheless, as we read the Viddui, confessions from alef to tav in the Machzor, beating ourselves over the heart, I had to admire the extensive nature of that list. I couldn’t think of anything that had been left out in any language—or anything that I couldn’t reflect on without being amazed at God’s mercies.  

As a Messianic Jew who has been frequently scourged by preachers warning me not to think that I can earn one iota of righteousness, let alone holiness, through attention to the Torah, I find something here of inestimable value. On Yom Kippur, there is no shame, no fear, no debasing of any who draw near—no matter where we think we stand: whether devout, just trying to be faithful, or downright unworthy. In fact, that’s how we open this most holy day of the year—declaring from the bima before Kol Nidre, “we hold it lawful to pray with sinners.”  

Those words usher in a moment of sheer trembling reflection—as if, for a moment, we truly understand ourselves in the courts of God, and face as he does, in absolute acceptance, that human beings fall short, struggle with temptations and fail, and yet, are permitted to come before One who is truly holy—even when our temples are dust and we are guilty for the death of our King Messiah. This is the time to reflect that we too are a generation between “dust to dust.” But through a few hours of prayer, fasting and contrition, we find that we’ve been given sacred time and sacred space for teshuvah—repentance, to return and rediscover our eternal identity.  

I recall many years ago meeting a dear brother in the Lord from Australia. We were at a Messianic conference and he told me about his brother who was appalled to know that he was fasting on Yom Kippur. Since then, I’ve heard a similar concern from other believers, but few of them know the depths of meaning to be found in the remarkable liturgy of the day—much of it calling us to be fully open to God’s call on our whole life. Several times during the Yom Kippur service we repeat: “For on this day atonement shall be made for you to purify you of all your sins; you shall be pure before Adonai” (Lev 16:30). And after we’ve spent time in prayer, fasting, and contrition, I feel genuinely ready to accept that this is my calling, to pursue purity, “to be holy.” And each year I learn a bit more—or perhaps the Torah is inscribed a little more clearly on my heart. I’ve been given a day that I choose to make “a choice point.” A day of decision to press on through the “miserable middle,” even if the journey is tough, lonely, or even impossible to see through the next obstacle. Day by day, year by year, he’s taught me not to give in or give up as long as I can keep his larger, eternal purpose in my mind and heart. Faith will find a way to get through. 

After that final long trumpet blast on Yom Kippur, the day echoes the peaceful reassurance that brings to mind Sim Shalom, a closing prayer of the Amidah: chen v’chesed v’rachamim—mercy, grace and compassion, for us and for all his people of Israel. I leave humbled, acknowledging the incredible miracle of God’s forgiveness in Yeshua, and willing to begin again the journey to holiness.

Affliction and Favor

Parashat Tazria-Metzora, Leviticus 12:1–15:33

Rabbi David Friedman, Jerusalem

As we are all still shut in or locked down for an unknown amount of time, I cannot help but think about some of our ancestors who experienced a type of “shut-in” experience, and learn from their example. 

It is not a pleasant example. 

In ancient Israel, there was an infectious skin disease known from at least the times of Moses to the late Second Temple era. Like the current coronavirus, it affected men and women, the rich and the poor, in both urban and rural areas. The Torah gives explicit steps to take when this disease attacked someone. This disease is often translated as “leprosy,” but it was not Hansen’s disease, or leprosy, as we know it today. Instead, it was an infectious, uncomfortable condition that rendered its victims ritually unclean, possibly confirmed a spiritual impurity, and cut them off from their families in their communities. The “leper” was expelled from home and brought to an isolated area where the local priests could serve as both doctor and spiritual guide as the victim processed his or her way through this terrible disease. 

Leviticus 13.45-46 explains the implications of this skin affliction:  

Anyone with such a defiling disease must wear torn clothes, let their hair be unkempt, cover the lower part of their face and cry out, “Unclean! Unclean!” As long as they have the disease they remain unclean. They must live alone; they must live outside the camp.

 And again, we read in Numbers 5:1-3: 

God said to Moses, “Command the Israelites to send away from the camp anyone who has a defiling skin disease or a discharge of any kind, or who is ceremonially unclean because of a dead body. Send away male and female alike; send them outside the camp so they will not defile their camp, where I dwell among them.”

 The afflicted one had to be expelled from his community.  

The only one whom the diseased person would see during this time in isolation was the priest who would assess the situation and decide whether the isolation would continue or could end, whether there was healing or continued illness. Leviticus 14:1-15 details the protocol for this examination. How much “social distancing” individual victims practiced with other victims is unknown, but seems minimal in terms of finding, gathering, and delivering food. We even read of four victims who begged at the city gate of Samaria, and banded together to gather necessities (perhaps even booty) in 2 Kings chapter 7. 

What would the shut-in victims do during their time in isolation? They didn’t have entertainment. They couldn’t work. Books did not exist. They had no social life. They were a social disgrace (of sorts), outcasts from their own families and communities. 

One of the reasons that our classic commentators cite for being struck with leprosy is slander, and Miriam is the prominent example: “When the cloud lifted from above the tent, Miriam’s skin was leprous—it became as white as snow. Aaron turned toward her and saw that she had a defiling skin disease” (Num 12:10). 

A famous 14th century Jewish book, Sefer Ha-Hinukh (Book of Instruction) informs us: 

Therefore we have been admonished to pay attention to this bad disease and to think that it is caused by sin.  As the Sages have said, for the most part it comes from the sin of uttering evil reports and does not come to us by chance. One must come to the kohen (priest), who is in charge of atoning of sinners, and in the presence of the one who makes atonement, perhaps he will consider repenting, and when put under quarantine for several days perhaps he will turn to examining his actions.

 My former teacher (Professor R. Jospe) from the University of Minnesota wrote,  

[This skin disease] teaches us a moral lesson: a person is responsible for his actions, and his actions have consequences. Divine providence warns us gradually, before the damage becomes irreversible, first by afflicting one’s clothing, and only later, if the warning is ignored, by a worse affliction against the body.

The historical Jewish perspective is that the stricken persons would have time to turn to God, to repent from their wrongdoings (especially the sin of slander). Like the stricken ancient Israeli, we can and should also use this time of social distancing to renew our relationship with God, to receive healing and forgiveness if needed. In this manner we can leave our homes, with God’s help, in the near future, refreshed and ready to go for what he has for us next. 

Friends, I cannot make a direct parallel and say that we are experiencing the coronavirus plague today because of slander. But there is so much slander going on, in my own country in the realm of politics, religious life and even, tragically, in the body of believers. Our world has been sinking in anti-Torah behavior: murder of innocent people through abortions numbers about 45 million babies a year; anti-Semitism is growing and is too often encouraged by the confessing Christian church, as well as the Muslim world; economic oppression caused by greed and disrespect for the aged are everywhere. Humankind’s sexuality is twisted, far from the model given to us in the Torah. Drug and human trafficking are international plagues. Jihad occurs today, which incorporates murder (in Nigeria this has been happening under the world’s nose with little complaint). Our world is an absolute mess.  

So I can say that we live in a polluted world. Polluted by anti-Torah behavior. Polluted by abortion, polluted by antisemitism, polluted by greed, polluted by disrespect toward those whom we should respect greatly. We have so much slander that it’s a major item in the media every single day. Elections worldwide are entertainment in slander and mud-slinging. 

This being the undeniable situation, those of us who are in isolation and who love God have a valuable role in today’s world. We can turn to God from our own wrongdoings (especially slander). We can take a stand against the other ills, both praying and supporting those who are working to offer more Torah-friendly alternatives (such as pro-life options in the face of abortions). While we are in seclusion, like the skin disease victim, we need to meet with our priest. Our priest Yeshua is of the Order of Melchizedek, the High Priest of the Heavenly priesthood. Let him speak to us and direct our futures. Confess to him our wrongdoing of slander and spreading rumors, and anything else from which we need to turn away. We need to be the leaders in doing this. If we don’t do this, who else will? If the priest comes back to examine us and continues to see the corruption, we may remain in isolation. The wonderful news is that our High Priest is quick to forgive and forget our wrongdoings if we turn from them.  

I encourage you to use this time to show your corrupted “skin” to the High Priest.

It’s not the most pleasant thing in the world to do, but neither was it pleasant for the skin disease victim to do so. But it was part of the healing process. It is the righteous thing to do.

It is mandated by our teachings: “If we admit our wrongdoings to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our wrongdoings, and to cleanse us from all acts of unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). 

And then we can intercede on behalf of our communities, our families, and our nations. We are here to do that. While we are shut in, as the Jewish sage Hillel wrote, “if not now, when?” As Shaul penned: “I tell you, now is the time of God’s favor, now is the day of salvation” (2 Cor 6:2). Now is the time of God’s favor towards us. He will listen to us during this time of shut-in and lockdown, Messiah instructs us: “But you, when you pray, go into your inner room, close your door and pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you” (Matt 6:6).

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).