Let's Learn Wood

Parashat B’shelach, Exodus 13:17–17:16

David Friedman, UMJC rabbi, Jerusalem

Some years back in a closed study session, I was happy to study four verses from today’s parasha with my close friend, lecturer and author Ariel Berkowitz, and Eldon Clem, a scholar, rabbi, and world-class Aramaic expert. All three of us had been curious as to the meaning of four verses in our parasha. We read them every year in the parasha cycle, but it was never clear to us what these verses meant.

So with a holy drive, we sat down, rolled up our sleeves, brought out our Torahs, our Septuagints, our Targums, and our commentaries, and sat down, hungry to solve the mystery. Here are the verses:

Then Moshe brought Israel from the Red Sea, and they went to the Wilderness of Shur; so they went three days into that wilderness, and they found no water. Then, they traveled toward Marah, and they weren’t all to drink water from Marah, because they were bitter. So they named the place “bitterness.” Then the people complained about Moshe, saying, “What will we drink?” Then he cried to Adonai, and Adonai taught him wood, which he tossed in the water, and the waters were sweetened there. So there he gave them statutes and judgments. (Exodus 15:22–25)

The text reads strangely in the original Hebrew, and is a bit awkward in English as well. It literally states, “Adonai taught him (Moshe) wood.” Are we being told that Adonai taught Moshe about wood, making this a biology lesson? Perhaps he was teaching him which tree branches or leaves, when put into stagnant or polluted waters, purify the water, like a Steripen or chlorine? One Aramaic translation reads this phrase as, “Adonai trained Moshe wood.” Another Aramaic translation words it, “So he prayed before Adonai and Adonai taught him a tree.” But we have the same issue: what does that mean?

Rashi explains that verse 25 means that the Torah was involved in this incident at Marah. I like Rashi’s insight here: the contents of the Torah were somehow part of making the dead, stagnant, polluted water come to life. In the Garden of Eden, there was a tree called the Tree of Life, Etz Hayim in Hebrew. “In the middle of the garden, were the Tree of Life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil” (Gen 2:9).

Again in Revelation 2:2, it is written, “Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life; on each side of the river stood the Tree of Life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.”

And again, in Proverbs 3:16–18: “Long life is in her right hand, in her left hand are riches and honor. Her ways are pleasant ways and all her paths are peace. She is a Tree of Life to those who embrace her; those who lay hold of her will be blessed.”

What is being talked about here? Wisdom, in this context. And where is Adonai’s wisdom found for us? Where do we learn about it, and study about it? In the Torah, in the Scriptures. The words and instructions of God are his wisdom. They are the Tree of Life that sweetens poisoned waters. They are life-giving words in the midst of human existence.

After an entire day of study, my two friends and I reached the conclusion that “teaching wood” was an idiom in ancient Hebrew, meaning “teaching the Torah.” The people of Israel in the book of Exodus would have been familiar with the image of the Tree of Life, the Etz Hayim. By teaching Torah to the people (as in 15:26), Moshe was truly presenting them with life and with real drinking water (as our holy Messiah himself stated, “He who comes to me shall have fresh water flowing from his belly,” John 7:38). Similarly, the wood cast into the water symbolizes how learning and applying the Torah to our lives leads to blessing, to life, to the Messiah, and to goodness. After all, fresh water was a necessary and life-giving item in the ancient Middle East then, and still is today.

If Exodus 15:22–25 means that Adonai was teaching them principles of the Torah, we might ask, which ones? Verse 26 already begins to answer: “If you will listen carefully to the voice of Adonai your God, and do what is right in his eyes; if you pay attention to his commands, and keep all his judgments . . .” So, listening to God and obeying him are the bottom lines to this lesson. And how do we know how to obey him? It is written for us in the Torah. It’s not a hidden mystery. What are God’s instructions and judgments? They are all found in the Torah.

In Exodus 15:25, the symbolic tossing of the wood or Tree of Life into the stagnant water was done to teach a truth to the people: If they will obey God’s instructions to them, they will have life. God’s instructions, when obeyed, produce life! Exodus15:26 summarizes that truth:

If you listen carefully to the voice of Adonai your God and do what is right in his eyes, if you pay attention to his commands and keep all his decrees, I will not bring on you any of the diseases I brought on the Egyptians, for I am Adonai, who heals you.

And then comes Exodus 15.27: “They came to Eilim, where there were twelve springs and seventy palm trees, and camped there by the water.” God led them to quite the oasis. Twelve springs of water and seventy palm trees. There was a lot of shade and water. I spent time in the Sinai Peninsula, that same place where Moshe led the people at this point in our verses. The elements there, the sun, the sand, the wind, and the darkness at night, are all very present. At night, we could feel the darkness, almost as if you could reach out and touch it. I can imagine that to people used to living in Goshen, being in the Sinai would throw them for a loop. It was scary and uncomfortable. So God spoke right into this situation, and taught them “wood.” That is, he taught them that if they would obey his instructions, his Torah, this would produce life, even in a wilderness that was full of difficult and fear-producing natural elements.

This incident of 15:22–26 is one where God showed his way to the entire people. The wood being thrown into the water was a symbolic act that summarized everything that God was teaching them, the bottom line, the crucial lesson that they had to learn to do well on their journey. He taught them “wood,” an idiom for, “He taught them the bottom line of the Torah”—hear and obey. It is the same lesson that we find in Deuteronomy 6:4: Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheynu Adonai Echad. Hear and act upon what you hear, Israel: the LORD our God, the LORD is One.

Now, the text does indeed say that when the wood hit the water, it transformed the stagnant water into drinking water. But this miracle has its meaning, to me, in that a larger lesson was learned.

And what relevance do these verses have for us?

Quite a bit, I would think. The prophet Malachi wrote: “I am Adonai; I do not change. And so you, Jacob’s sons, you are not destroyed” (3:6). If, 3400 years ago, God emphasized that the people needed to learn the Torah and to keep it, he would have the same message today to you and to me. Let’s remember that it is written: “For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through the endurance taught in the Scriptures and the encouragement they provide, we might have hope” (Rom 15:4).

Scripture citations are translated by the author.

The Price of Hesed

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1-13:16

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

Every year the gift-giving season comes earlier and earlier, to the point that some desperate merchandisers try to lure us into their stores with X-mas in August promotional ads. This year in reaction to the societal retreat due to Covid and the ensuing economic concerns, retailers have been even more aggressive with online marketing. “Black Friday” internet specials arrive in October as warm-ups to the real event and seem to have lingered through the month of November. But as we read Parashat Bo we should be taken with the concept of Passover in January, a reversal of materialism as Hashem offers us the priceless gift of personal and communal redemption.

Among Messianic Jews much has been said concerning the parallels between the sacrifices of the paschal lamb and that of Yeshua. After all, the paschal lamb was the Korban Pesach, the essential sacrifice which God commanded the children of Israel to make before liberating them from bondage to Pharaoh and bringing them to Sinai where they would enter into a covenant of service to him. The blood of this lamb, placed upon the lintel and posts of the doors of Israel’s abodes in Goshen, stood as the sign by which the destroyer would pass over them, averting the plague of death of the first-born that befell the households of Egypt. Similarly the blood of Yeshua, whom Yochanan the Immerser referred to as the “Lamb of God,” spiritually holds the curse of sin and death in abeyance, and brings both Israel and the nations into a renewed covenant with God. Yeshua himself used the symbols that surround the Seder meal and the Passover lamb to ritualize and point forward to his own efficacious sacrifice.

Both Passover lambs provide material and spiritual redemption for the community of Israel, and they also create a community of redemption out of the people of Israel. This is accomplished through the dialectic of hesed and gevurah. According to Jewish mystical thought, the Holy One in the creation of the world employed these two movements. Hesed is the move outward toward distant horizons. For the individual this means expanding oneself and reaching out to others. Gevurah on the other hand is an act of inward recoil, withdrawing into the protective recess of one’s own inner self. Through hesed souls touch each other and loving community is created; by virtue of gevurah self-awareness occurs and souls are also developed. Since all people are created in the image of the divine, much can be learned about God in the hesed community as well as the loneliness of gevurah.

By examining Torah’s account of the paschal lamb (Exod 12:3-8), we can see the cyclical pattern of hesed and gevurah. First, Moses is commanded to speak to the entire assembly of Israel, instructing them to each select a solitary unblemished male lamb from the flocks, for the individual households. The lamb is brought into the humble homes for a five-day period of inspection. As it is observed within the privacy of each household for that period, the particularity of the lamb increases. First it is referred to as a lamb (12:3), with no definite article employed. Then it becomes the lamb (12:4) and eventually we are told, “it shall be yours” (12:5). Here the taking of the lamb represents a recession inward to the individual home, a ceding of communal attachment for the sake of increased personal awareness. In a move toward gevurah the lamb becomes more sentient to the observing family, and the attachments to it become more sentimental. No doubt its death will seem more brutal and become more efficacious as the awareness of its innocence becomes more acute.

The same can be said of Yeshua. From a distance he is a prophet among many, and a messiah among many candidates. Brilliant scholars have sought to place him within the great expanse of history, only to lose the power of his personality, the magnetism of his presence, and the dynamism of his spirit. But when you draw closer to him, examine his life, and imbibe of his spirit, he goes from being a messiah, to the Messiah, and eventually your Messiah. Only in the closeness of such examination can we better know the love and nearness of God, and the depths of our own need.

It is this awareness of our neediness that propels us out into the community and compels us to seek others. Torah tells us that around the paschal lamb a new hesed community forms. We read, “If the household is too small for a lamb, let him and his neighbor next to his house take it according to the number of people” (Exod 12:4). Living together, sharing needs, provision, and protection is made possible through the sacrifice of the Passover lamb.

How natural, then, for all Jews to begin the Seder with the strange declaration, “This is the bread of poverty,” followed by the seemingly contrary, yet open, invitation for “all who are hungry to come and eat.” It is not the physical act of eating that draws us together; rather, it is the great sense of solidarity and empathy that we each crave. It is only in our deepest awareness of poverty, suffering, and brokenness that we are drawn out of our self-protective cocoons into the loving embrace of community. This year we are given the opportunity of concretizing this declaration by giving selflessly to meet the needs of others. Food insecurity is rampant, and we are compelled to heed the aspirations of Torah that declare “However, may there be no destitute among you” (Deut 15:4 Stone edition).

Hesed also allows us to enter the emotional space of others through the gift of empathy. This past Tuesday evening, with my wife and daughter, I watched the brief but emotional memorial service at the mall in the nation’s capital for the 400,000 souls stolen by a plague of epic proportion. I could tell how deeply saddened my family was, but I was truly shaken by my own sense of self protectionism. How could I cry about lost recreation and human contact, when so many would never see their loved ones again? Hesed comes with a price, and empathy and compassion can leave scars. It is no wonder that before placing himself upon the altar of redemption, Yeshua retreated to Gethsemane to share his suffering with his Father and to be strengthened.

When we embrace his sacrifice in the poverty attained through the introspection of gevurah, we can truly enter the hesed of the community. After Yeshua partook of his final Seder with his disciples he prayed this prayer,

Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me. I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one: I in them and you in me. May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me. (John 17:21-23)

This year as we read Bo and consider the Passover lamb and God’s gift of redemption, may this prayer of Yeshua become manifest in our lives and our redemptive communities.

A Way Forward for Pharaoh

Parashat Va’era, Exodus 6:2–9:35

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Fear makes for bad politics. Just ask the folks who lived through Pharaoh’s reign in the days of the Exodus. 

As our story opened in last week’s parasha, Pharaoh was stoking fears about a peaceful minority group thriving among the Egyptians: “Behold, the people of Israel are too many and too mighty for us. Come, let us deal shrewdly with them, lest they multiply, and, if war breaks out, they join our enemies and fight against us and escape from the land” (Exod 1:9–10). The way he handled this clear threat from the Israelite population was to conscript them into an oppressive system of forced labor—which didn’t work. The Israelites continued to thrive and the Egyptians became even more unsettled (Exod 1:12), until Pharaoh instituted a policy that may have been unthinkable until then, even in tyrannical Egypt: murder every male child born to the Hebrews. 

At this point, our narrative introduces another kind of fear. The Hebrew midwives were ordered to carry out this policy, “But the midwives feared God and did not do as the king of Egypt commanded them, but let the male children live” (Exod 1:17). Midwives occupied a humble place in ancient society and would normally be left unnamed. But in Shemot, the Book of Names as Exodus is called in Hebrew, the names of these brave midwives are recorded forever: Shifrah and Puah. They feared God more than they feared Pharaoh, and that points the way out of the system of oppression that gripped not only the people of Israel, but the whole land of Egypt. Other Hebrews, especially the mother and sister of Moses, will join them in choosing the fear of God over fear of Pharaoh.

Pharaoh, of course, cannot abide the notion that there’s anyone or any power to be feared more than he. He ramps up the pressure on the Israelites and their cries rise up to the One even greater than Pharaoh: “And God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob. God saw the people of Israel—and God knew” (Exod 2:24–25).

The stage is set for a mighty confrontation between God and Pharaoh, which intensifies throughout this week’s parasha. Hashem sends Moses to deliver the Israelites and (in last week’s parasha) gives him a preview of the struggle: “When you go back to Egypt, see that you do before Pharaoh all the miracles that I have put in your power. But I will harden his heart, so that he will not let the people go” (Exod 4:21). The notion of God hardening Pharaoh’s heart so that he can resist God’s power is a tough one. Why not just soften Pharaoh’s heart so that he relents and releases Israel? In addition to a multitude of insights from sages and commentators, I’ll add this: perhaps Hashem wants to point us beyond the regime of domination that Pharaoh embodies. Hashem can overpower and out-oppress Pharaoh; he can terrorize Pharaoh as Pharaoh has terrorized Israel and his own people as well. But he’s seeking a non-coerced response. He’s strengthening Pharaoh’s heart, which is already set against God, so that Pharaoh isn’t crushed but remains free to turn away from evil of his volition. 

This brings us back to the second kind of fear, the fear displayed by Shifrah and Puah: fear of God. Pharaoh utilizes fear to weaken, crush, and dominate others. The fear of God points the way toward freedom from the fear of man. Yes, Hashem will put the pressure on Pharaoh big-time, but he will strengthen Pharaoh’s heart so that he can still freely embrace the fear of God. In Exodus 4:21, the Hebrew says literally, “I will strengthen his heart, ahazek et-libo.” You might recognize in that phrase the word we repeated a couple of weeks ago at the conclusion of our reading of Genesis: Hazak, hazak, v’nit’chazek, “Be strong, be strong, and let us be strengthened.” 

And so, throughout the succession of plagues in this week’s parasha, Hashem is seeking a genuine change of heart in Pharaoh and in his people. Pharaoh uses fear to dominate and manipulate his people; Hashem uses fear to correct and restore. “The fear of man lays a snare, but whoever trusts in the Lord is safe” (Prov 29:25). Today we are living in a moment of intense fear of man, with powerful people ready to mobilize that fear to their own ends. Trusting in the Lord leads us to safety. 

The succession of plagues in this week’s reading leaves off at Plague Number 7, an appropriate moment to pause and assess the situation. This plague consists of hail, “hail and fire flashing continually in the midst of the hail, very heavy hail, such as had never been in all the land of Egypt since it became a nation” (Exod 9:24). Pharaoh finally appears to repent: “This time I have sinned; the Lord is in the right, and I and my people are in the wrong. Plead with the Lord, for there has been enough of God’s thunder and hail. I will let you go, and you shall stay no longer.” But Moses knows that this is only a coerced submission. He’ll call off the plague. “But as for you and your servants, I know that you do not yet fear the Lord God” (Exod 9:30). And sure enough, “When Pharaoh saw that the rain and the hail and the thunder had ceased, he sinned yet again and hardened his heart, he and his servants” (Exod 9:34). Here the word isn’t strengthened, but hardened or made heavy—vayakh’bed libo—and Pharaoh did it himself. 

The fear of man or the fear of God. Being manipulated by fear-mongering people in power or liberated by fear of God. The choice is ours, and the choice is even Pharaoh’s to make. Fear of God is the way forward for Pharaoh, but will he take it? Stay tuned for next week’s parasha. 

Scripture references are from ESV (English Standard Version).

The Power of Small Choices

Parashat Shemot, Exodus 1:1–6:1

By Dave Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

In his recent commentary on Parashat B’reisheet (Covenant and Conversation Bereishit 5781), Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z”l identified a pivotal moment in Moses’ life portrayed in this week’s reading:

There is a fascinating phrase in the story of Moses’ early years. He grows up, goes out to his people, the Israelites, and sees them suffering, doing slave labour. He witnesses an Egyptian officer beating one of them. The text then says: ‘He looked this way and that and saw no one’ (vayar ki ein ish, or more literally, ‘he saw that there was no man’, Ex. 2:12).

It is difficult to read this literally. A building site is not a closed location. There must have been many people present. A mere two verses later we discover that there were Israelites who knew exactly what had happened. Therefore, the phrase almost certainly means, ‘He looked this way and that and saw that there was no one else willing to intervene.’

Rabbi Sacks finds here an instance of the “bystander effect,” a psychological phenomenon wherein multiple people observe a crime but none do anything to intervene, possibly because they assume someone else will do so. This is why first aid training teaches someone responding to an injury to identify one person and assign them directly to call an ambulance, instead of just yelling out “call 911” to a whole group of bystanders—because often none of them will! 

Rabban Gamliel may well have been thinking of Moses when he said, “In a place where there are no men (anashim, plural of ish), try to be a man (ish)” (Avot 2:5). This word “ish,” sometimes understood as “leader” or “human being,” is the same word that describes what Moses looked for, but did not see, before taking action. Moses shows himself to be uniquely immune to the bystander effect, a person who fills Rabban Gamliel’s criterion for being a leader. 

We see the same pattern when Moses arrives, alone, at a well in Midian. He observes an injustice, shepherds “driving off” Jethro’s daughters so they could water their flocks first, and his behavior is consistent: seeing injustice, he steps in and comes to the defense of the daughters (Exod 2:17). 

In fact this seems to be Moses’ calling card. When the Israelites regress to idolatry and God announces his intention to destroy them and replace them with Moses’ descendants, there is no one else to stand between God’s wrath and his people. Who stands between God and what he intends to do? Well, Moses does. He steps up, interceding on their behalf (Exod 32:11–14; also Num 16:20–22). Who prefigures Yeshua’s role as intercessor, advocate, and mediator better than Moses?

How to be like Moses . . . or Pharaoh

But how does Moses come to be this way? How does he manage to consistently display this essential trait of leadership, stepping up in situations where there is a need? 

One way to understand how Moses so consistently displays this middah (character trait) is to look at his antagonist, Pharaoh. The king of Egypt is similarly consistent in his refusal to allow the Israelites to leave. 

When God commissions Moses from the burning bush, he says a strange thing: not only will he not influence Pharaoh to let the people go easily, he will do the exact opposite! God will harden Pharaoh’s heart (Exod 4:21) so that he will not let the people go. This raises all kinds of questions. For one, why was poor Pharaoh set up to fail?

If we look closely at the language the Torah uses to describe his stubbornness, however, we see during the earlier plagues that Pharaoh’s heart “becomes strengthened/stiffened” (e.g. vayechezak lev Par’oh in Exod 7:13, 22). Sometimes Pharaoh is clearly the active party, as in Exodus 8:29 where it could be translated “Pharaoh made his heart heavy” (yakhbed Par’oh et libo). But as we continue to the later plagues, the dominant language becomes “Adonai stiffened Pharaoh’s heart” (vaychazek Adonai et lev Par’oh). The commentator Ramban, commenting on Exodus 7:3, notices this pattern as well:

When God says already before the plagues, “I, however, will stiffen his heart so that he will not let the people go,” He is informing Moses of what He is going to do in the last five plagues. God, after all, already knows that Pharaoh will refuse to let them go until he is forced. And indeed, in the last five plagues, and also at the splitting of the sea, it says that God hardened Pharaoh’s heart. “Like channeled water is the mind of the king in the LORD’s hand; He directs it to whatever He wishes” (Prov. 21:1).

Ramban implies that once Pharaoh chooses a trajectory, God, in a sense, holds him to it. The reference to “channeled water” is apt: as a stream flows, it cuts a channel in the earth. What starts as a stream over flat ground, given time, can cut through rock, becoming unchangeable, a permanent feature of the landscape. 

So it is with our actions. While you might think that our character determines our actions, the converse is also true: our actions imprint themselves on our character. 

If you think about it, it’s almost obvious: patterns of behavior become harder to change over time. This implies that those first actions, even if small, have outsized importance to one’s character. Maybe when Moses first noticed the Egyptian taskmaster beating an Israelite slave, the future hung in the balance as he decided what to do . . . but the next time at the well, it was a little easier to make that decision.

For Pharaoh, the first plague was his best shot to choose the right way. As each plague went by, and he repeatedly chose fear over faith, pride over humility, his ability to choose—his free will—slipped out of his grasp.

Faithful in small things

On one hand, this is scary: we may have less free will than we thought! Of course psychologists and neuroscientists have suspected this for some time. But on the other hand, it’s empowering to learn that small choices can add up to significant changes. 

This is not only true if we want to emulate this middah of responsiveness and leadership that Moses demonstrates—it applies to any middah that we want to cultivate. To grow as humans we should start by finding small actions that grease the wheels for larger actions. This helps us to understand Yeshua’s teaching that those who are faithful in small things will be entrusted with greater things (Matt 25:14–30; Luke 16:10). 

For example, the mussar teacher Alan Morinis passes on a teaching by Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler applying this approach to the middah of generosity: 

By obligating ourselves to give according to rules and formula, we expose our hearts to repetitive acts of giving that leave their trace on our inner lives. The very act of giving itself ultimately makes us more charitable, merciful, and loving. “Love flows in the direction of giving,” was Rabbi Dessler’s teaching. (Everyday Holiness: the Jewish Spiritual Path of Mussar, 157–58)

This pattern in the life of Moses reveals not only why he was chosen to lead our people, but also what allowed him to succeed as a leader. Be encouraged! Every choice you make can be an inflection point in your life, no matter how small. Take hold of it!

Leave Behind Your Best

Parashat Vayechi, Genesis 47:28–50:26

By Rabbi Stuart Dauermann

Children don’t miss a beat. They observe things about us we don’t see in ourselves, in the process being imprinted with both the good and the bad. This is unavoidable. And yes, this can be troubling.

This week’s parasha reminds us all is not lost. Not only do children observe us in all our messy glory, we ourselves may choose to impress upon them the best we have learned in life. We can leave to friends and family the best we know, our purest gold.

Ya’akov does this, while bestowing a blessing on his grandsons, Efraim and Manasseh. David H. Stern beautifully paraphrases the intent of Torah’s words in B’reisheet/Genesis 48:16, where Ya’akov says of his grandsons, “May they remember who I am and what I stand for, and likewise my fathers Avraham and Yitz'chak, who they were and what they stood for.”

In Jewish terms, what Ya’akov is doing here is leaving a tzava’ah, commonly termed “an ethical will.” In such a statement, whether in person, in writing, on video, or digitally, one records for one’s family and friends a record of what we have learned about life with God, and our weightiest values, admonishing them to remember in their living the best lessons from our life.

It is one thing to leave a will that specifies who gets the jewelry after we are gone. But in a tzva’ah one passes on treasures more lasting and precious than these.

The tzva’ah is a penetrating form of intergenerational mentoring, where we function as elders in our social system. In From Age-ing to Sage-ing, Zalman Schachter-Shalomi and Ronald S. Miller highlight this towering intergenerational role in which “elders come to terms with their mortality, harvest the wisdom of their years, and transmit a legacy to future generations. Serving as mentors, they pass on the distilled essence of their life experience to others. The joy of passing on wisdom to younger people not only seeds the future, but crowns an elder’s life with worth and nobility.”

Although the task may sound morbid to some, crafting a tzava’ah is an excellent way of shaping a personal vision statement. It is a way of reminding yourself of what your life is about when you are at your best. The process is good for you, and even better for others. So have at it! Here are some bases to be covered:

1. Shalom Bayit and Shalom Mishpacha (peace within the family). Many of us know how ugly things can get when a loved one passes on. Often this involves fights over property, but it may also involve long-simmering issues that come to the surface under the stress of losing a peace-keeping loved one. In making a tzava’ah, it is wise to anticipate such tensions, to circumvent needless competition, and to admonish loved ones to walk in peace with each other. This is a time to use one’s personal gravitas to hold family members accountable for respecting your wishes and to enhance the honor of the family.

2. Final Arrangements. This includes everything pertaining to your passing, whether you want a Do Not Resuscitate order, the disposition of your remains, whether you wish to donate your organs, who you want officiating at your funeral and burial, the people you especially want there, what you may wish to be said at your funeral and burial, the how and where of the disposition of your body, the nature and location of the meal after your funeral, instructions about shiva and shloshim (how you wish your family to observe the week and the month after your passing), what you want on your tombstone, and any arrangements pertaining to your passing from this world to the next. These kinds of arrangements are not only for your satisfaction; they also relieve your loved ones of the task of making all these decisions themselves, at a time when they are not at their best.

3. Emotional and Interpersonal Matters. Some people and some relational issues may warrant being directly addressed. This is especially true of people with whom you sense or know you have unfinished business, or unresolved relational matters. In crafting a tzava’ah you may wish to address these matters in a publicly read document, or, more likely, in private communications, whether videos, recordings, or written materials. Here is where you can do so much good and remove overshadowing clouds from the people and generations that succeed you.

4. Your values and your faith. Here you will want to speak about your relationship with God in a manner that will comfort, instruct, encourage, and perhaps gently challenge those who survive you. What have you learned from and about God that you would want to stress and pass on to those you love? And what of your values? What have you learned is most important in life? What is worth remembering and serving, worthy of sacrifice? And what is not worth living for? What have you learned from others past and present that you want to highlight and see perpetuated?

As with Ya’akov blessing his grandsons, take time so that people might remember who you were and what you stood for, and what you learned from others that should not pass from human life and memory.

This is what Paul did with Timothy, as recorded in 2 Timothy chapter 4, part of Paul’s tzva’ah:

I solemnly charge you before God and the Messiah Yeshua, who will judge the living and the dead when he appears and establishes his Kingdom: proclaim the Word! Be on hand with it whether the time seems right or not. Convict, censure and exhort with unfailing patience and with teaching.

For the time is coming when people will not have patience for sound teaching, but will cater to their passions and gather around themselves teachers who say whatever their ears itch to hear. Yes, they will stop listening to the truth, but will turn aside to follow myths.

But you, remain steady in every situation, endure suffering, do the work that a proclaimer of the Good News should, and do everything your service to God requires.

For as for me, I am already being poured out on the altar; yes, the time for my departure has arrived. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. All that awaits me now is the crown of righteousness which the Lord, “the Righteous Judge,” will award to me on that Day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for him to appear.

That was Paul’s tzava’ah to Timothy. What is yours to those you love?

Whose Justice?

Parashat Vayigash, Genesis 44:18–47:27

By Dave Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

The beginning of Parashat Vayigash is the climax of the story of Joseph and his brothers. The narrative tension is at its highest point, as it appears that Benjamin will be enslaved by his not-yet-revealed brother, Joseph, and the brothers will be sent home to break the news to their now twice-bereaved father.

Then Judah went up to him and said, “Please, my lord, let your servant appeal to my lord, and do not be impatient with your servant, you who are the equal of Pharaoh. (Gen 44:18)

Judah goes on to recount the story up to this point, giving the reader his perspective. I always took the words of his monologue at face value, hearing in them a pleading, humble tone. But Rashi makes an unexpected comment on the phrase “do not be impatient” (or “do not be angry”). He says, “We learn from this that Judah now spoke harshly to Joseph.” And Rashi does not stop there, even suggesting that “you who are the equal of Pharaoh” is a veiled threat: “If you annoy me any further I will kill you and your master [Pharaoh] too.”

Rashi, following midrashic sources, hears a barely-concealed anger under the surface of Judah’s words. To someone who has read this story from childhood, knowing that Joseph is about to reveal his identity, this is unexpected. But this reading is surprisingly well attested in the rabbinic sources. Aviva Gottlieb Zornberg, in her spectacular work, The Beginning of Desire: Reflections on Genesis, helps to flesh out this reading: 

In this passage, Rashi understands the obviously conciliatory tone of Judah’s rhetoric as the plain meaning of the text, with the menacing, reproachful notes detected by the midrash as undertones. Ramban elaborates on this idea, which possibly originates in the midrashic comment that Judah spoke “both softly and harshly” . . . in Ramban’s view, there is anger hidden in Judah’s words, though he dare not express it unambiguously.

 This reading is at odds with the common reading of this story where Joseph is the righteous orchestrator of his brothers’ repentance. But perhaps Joseph has some residual anger, or is indecisive, or confused about his identity—perhaps it’s more comfortable to keep his old life at arm’s length than to deal with forgiveness and long-buried emotional trauma.  

If so, then Joseph needs Judah to call him out, to break the dam of his reticence, to rip off his mask.

If we follow this interpretation, what accounts for Judah’s anger? A hint may lie in the exchange right before this, at the end of the previous parasha: 

Judah replied, “What can we say to my lord? How can we plead, how can we prove our innocence? God has uncovered the crime of your servants. Here we are then, slaves of my lord, the rest of us as much as he in whose possession the goblet was found.” But [Joseph] replied, “Far be it from me to act thus! Only he in whose possession the goblet was found shall be my slave; the rest of you go back in peace to your father.” (Gen 44:16–17, emphasis added)

Zornberg suggests that it’s these last words, “go in peace (‘alu leshalom),” that set Judah off. Shalom, peace, is a motif weaving its way throughout the story of Joseph and his brothers. The word is broader than the English word “peace,” however, to include wholeness, completion, safety, and health. In Judah’s mind, returning without Benjamin to the death of his father and a permanently fractured family, is no kind of shalom. 

Joseph has claimed to be a God-fearing man (42:18), and we get the sense that he takes pride in acting justly. The cup was found in Benjamin’s bag, so only Benjamin will be punished. Judah’s suggestion that all the brothers remain as slaves is laughed off. Far be it from him to act thus! This is Egypt, cradle of civilization! Nobody does law and order like us! We only punish the guilty. But Judah sees through him. “Go in peace” employs a narrow vision of shalom. It is a platitude, a joke.  

This is why Judah is livid. 

What we have here are two different conceptions of justice. Joseph cares about justice, certainly. He likely sees this whole charade as a kind of justice for how his brothers treated him. As a boy he was a tattletale (37:2), and it seems he may have grown up with a tattletale’s sense of justice.  

This conception of justice we detect in Joseph is well-represented in our contemporary culture. This justice is fair, mechanical, and punitive. An eye for an eye, meted out on the individual caught with a hand in the cookie jar (or a goblet in his sack). According to this conception of justice, letting a criminal go free is a miscarriage of justice. Brothers who have done wrong need to be punished, and even if they have repented, they must prove it.  

Judah’s justice, on the other hand, is nuanced, empathetic. It’s the justice of the rabbis, who while acknowledging the concept of “an eye for an eye” and capital punishment, organized their legal system in a way that made them impractical and irrelevant. Judah’s justice is oriented toward shalom. Instead of punitive, it is restorative.

Justice, as the word is used in English, does often carry this sense of retribution. In that sense, Joseph’s justice might seem more natural to many of us. This kind of justice is about the right people being punished for crimes. But in the Jewish tradition the dominant aspect of justice (tzedek) is redistributive justice, hence the Hebrew word tzedakah meaning charity, or obligatory giving of money to the poor. 

Justice in our tradition, then, is not preoccupied with crime and punishment, but is focused on shalom, restoration, and wholeness, and finds its ultimate embodiment in Yeshua, who like Judah, was willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of restoration, regardless of whether it was fair.

In a feat of profound self-control, Judah avoids the pitfalls of his righteous anger, however, and while subtly calling out Joseph, he tells a story designed to arouse his empathy. In his case, the story succeeds beyond his wildest expectations because, well . . . you know how it ends. 

Today the true meaning of justice is no academic point. In the United States, for example, much of the legal system takes Joseph’s approach to justice. Because laws accrete over time, we now live subject to a vast corpus of law, which is impossible for a citizen to fully know. James Duane, an American law professor writes: 

Legal experts now agree that just about everybody in the nation, whether they know it or not, is guilty of numerous felonies for which they could be prosecuted. One reliable estimate is that the average American now commits approximately three felonies a day. (You Have the Right to Remain Innocent, p. 22)

Because the breadth of statutory “law” is so expansive, the American system of justice has a certain flexibility in how it can be wielded. The law can entrap us all, but only certain people are policed in a way where those unknown felonies are used against them. And the legal system is experienced very differently by those with the (mostly economic) resources to navigate its labyrinthine halls. 

The results are clear enough: For example, a cursory look at incarceration rates by race or ethnicity in American jails shows wild imbalances (Black Americans make up 40% of the prison population, but only 13% of the total population). Nearly half of Americans have experienced a family member incarcerated, but that half is overrepresented in more vulnerable communities. Families are separated and communities hollowed out when fathers and brothers spend much of their lives in prison. 

Judah worried about sending his father, Jacob, “down to Sheol in sorrow” (44:29). Just as today, Benjamin’s captivity would have an impact extending far beyond just the presumed guilty party. 

Joseph, in his position of power, portrays himself and his government as just. We do fair punishments! Only the guilty are punished! Indeed, some of us may say the same of our own legal system. But Judah sees past such platitudes. Systems are not inherently just, and systems established by power tend to protect the powerful. We know well that Egypt was not in fact a shining example of justice. Fortunately Joseph could hear the voice of his powerless brothers giving him correction. 

Bryan Stevenson, who has committed much of his life to giving voice to prisoners, writes in Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption: 

I've come to believe that the true measure of our commitment to justice, the character of our society, our commitment to the rule of law, fairness, and equality cannot be measured by how we treat the rich, the powerful, the privileged, and the respected among us. The true measure of our character is how we treat the poor, the disfavored, the accused, the incarcerated, and the condemned. We are all implicated when we allow other people to be mistreated.

 Perhaps it is time for us to put aside our platitudes about justice as well and listen carefully to the stories of the accused.

Citations of Tanakh are from the JPS translation.

Miracles Obvious and Hidden

Parashat Mikketz, Genesis 41:1-44:17

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

Nachmanides says there are two types of miracles; Nes Nigleh, the obvious miracle, and Nes Nistar, the hidden miracle. The quintessential obvious miracle is Pesach. God causes the ten plagues, splits the Red Sea, and reveals the Torah with great fanfare at Sinai. The quintessential hidden miracle is Purim. God is not even mentioned in the Purim story; he works silently behind the scenes to affect his will.

Joseph’s story, which we are reading right now, is an example of a hidden miracle. God accomplishes his will to teach Joseph humility, and prepares him through many trials to become the leader that he was meant to be. Hanukkah is an example of both. In the story of Hanukkah, God works behind the scenes through Mattathias and his sons, but then we have the open and obvious miracle of the oil.

Yeshua’s arrival is a mix of both as well. For most people, it was just the birth of a son to a humble couple from Nazareth. A few people saw the miracle, though. Shimon and Hannah at the Temple, the shepherds who saw an angelic host, and the magi from the east know that something is up. But Yeshua’s second coming will be an obvious miracle in the extreme. He will arrive in the sky with a heavenly host at his heels, bringing judgment upon a sinful world!

These days, obvious miracles do occasionally happen, but for the most part miracles are of the hidden variety; a person suddenly recovers from an illness for no apparent reason, another has a financial windfall just as it was needed. An elderly friend of mine told me a story about when she was a young single mother raising her children alone. They were very poor. One morning she realized that she had nothing to feed the kids for breakfast. She prayed and trusted. Suddenly there was a knock at her door and a neighbor was holding two boxes of cereal. She said that her kids didn’t like it and was wondering if my friend could use them! Many miracles like this happen every day; we just don’t hear much about them.

As Jews, our job is to constantly seek the hidden miracles in life. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel encouraged everyone to live in “radical amazement.” He said, “One of the goals of the Jewish way of living is to experience commonplace deeds as spiritual adventures, to feel the hidden love and wisdom in all things.”

The siddur guides us toward this goal. First thing in the morning when we awake, we recite the Modeh Ani, thanking God for the miracle of having another day. We recite Psalm 145, which recounts wonder and praise at Hashem’s provisions. Before we recite the Shema, we say “In his goodness he renews daily and constantly the work of Creation.” In the Amidah, we say during the Modim, “We thank you and recount your praise, for our lives which are entrusted to your care, for our souls which are in your charge, for your miracles which are daily with us, for your continual wonders and favors, evening, morning, and noon.” And in the Birkat Hamazon we say, “He nourishes and sustains all, and benefits all and he prepares food for all of his creatures which he has created.”

All of these are a recognition of hidden miracles that are with us daily.

Creation itself is a hidden miracle. Many look at it and see nothing but the result of randomness. Others see God’s hand. The Lubavitcher Rebbe once said that the world, “is a symphony we do not hear, a magnificent spectacle concealed from our eyes—so we see just a world. That is all there is to the world: concealment. Rip away the concealment and there is only Miracle.”

The poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote,

Earth’s crammed with heaven,

And every common bush afire with God,

But only he who sees takes off his shoes;

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Going back to Nachmanides, he wrote, “Hidden miracles are the basis for the entire Torah. A man has no share in the Torah, unless he believes that all things and all events in the life of the individual as well as in the life of society are miracles.”

We can read of Joseph’s experiences and think the ancient writers saw God there when he wasn’t. We can read the Hanukkah story and simply conclude that a ragtag group of underdogs won the war by sheer luck and circumstance. We can also read the story of our daily lives and miss the miracles. But our vocation is to see the Nisim Nistarim, the hidden miracles, every day. May we train our hearts and minds to do so, and may our siddurim be our guide in this pursuit. May we see the hidden “Hanukkah light” at the core of everything!

Hag Hanukkah Sameach!

This commentary originally appeared in UMJC.org, December, 2017.

Spreading Light in Dark Times

Hanukkah 5781

Monique B, UMJC Executive Director

2184 years ago today, a pagan despot sacrificed a pig on the altar of the Temple in Jerusalem. Antiochus chose the short days and dark nights of Kislev for this disgusting deed on purpose. His goal was the complete demoralization of the Jewish people, who clung stubbornly to monotheism, despite their pagan occupiers.

Right after desecrating the Temple, Antiochus dispatched his troops across Judea to enforce a new decree: Judaism was now illegal. Observance of Shabbat, circumcision of Jewish infants, and studying Torah were now punishable by death. As a show of compliance, Jewish leaders would be forced to eat treyf in public, and make elaborate sacrifices to foreign gods.

The soldiers only made it 12 miles out of Jerusalem before encountering outright defiance. You see, Modiin was home to Mattityahu the Kohen, the father of five strapping young men. When Antiochus’ representative arrived to put on their demonstration of public humiliation, Mattityahu threw a spear through him (and the Jew who stepped forward to play along, too).

“Whoever is for God, follow me!” was his rallying cry, as Mattathias and his sons retreated into the Judean wilderness to organize their rebellion. Together the Maccabees (“the Hammers”) and the Hasideans (“the Pious”) fought a lopsided guerilla war. Their goal was to do more than simply shoo away the Greeks — they sought a return to the era of the biblical Judges, when strongmen (and women) would rally simple Jewish farmers, herders, and sailors to take up arms as the need arose.

For three years the Maccabean coalition fought, on multiple fronts. The Seleucid-Greek Empire deployed their greatest weapons of war — even armored elephants came to Israel’s shores — in their attempt to put down the rebellion. They forgot that the God of Israel was on the other side, the same God who delights in redeeming the Jewish people through miracles.

Three years to the day after Antiochus placed a pig on the altar of our holy Temple, the Maccabees liberated and rededicated it, creating the new festival of Hanukkah which we celebrate tonight. Once again the Temple blazed with the light of the newly consecrated menorah, once again Jerusalem was restored to its status as the holy city on a hill, shining the light of God’s oneness over a world plunged into darkness.

We come to Hanukkah this year in a time of profound darkness. 2934 Israelis have died of COVID so far. In America the number is even more staggering, at 290,000 dead (including over 3000 just yesterday). In both countries, the virus has taken an extreme toll on Hasidic and Orthodox Jewish communities, where children and the elderly live side-by-side in densely populated homes.

To slow the spread of this terrible plague, we are asked to isolate ourselves. But we are not a people who thrive when we are left alone. Judaism isn’t a way of life for rugged individuals. Every aspect of Jewish life is meant for community — Shabbat doesn’t feel right without a dinner table full of hungry guests, a bris depends on a living room full of nervous uncles and cousins, a wedding demands a circle of joyous and sweaty dancers, a funeral requires a minyan of supportive mourners. Every single ritual we do is tangible and communal: we touch and kiss the Torah, we share the challah, we place our hands on the children to give them our blessing, we bathe the bodies of the dead.

Tonight we begin lighting candles together, likely in groups that feel far too small. We’ll connect through screens that filter out the smell of latke grease that tends to linger in the air. If there is a toddler in your life, you might not get their chocolate gelt fingerprints on your freshly ironed blouse. Instead, you’ll blow kisses to each other over FaceTime. I want to validate your disappointment — this is not the way Jewish life is meant to be lived. Some connection is indeed better than none at all, but real community life (the kind with the sticky fingerprints and the floor full of crumbs) is a thousand times better.

I want to bless you that you should find joy in these difficult circumstances. That you should be inspired by the Maccabees, who clung stubbornly to their hope for brighter days, even on the very darkest nights. The Maccabees drew their name from a glorious acronym — Mi Chamocha Ba’eilim Adonai (“Who is like you, O Lord among the Gods?”). May their choice to rise up and worship God, even in confining circumstances, serve as a template for us today. They had the boldness to declare, “A Great Miracle has Happened Here!” even in the midst of suffering. May we do so as well.

Words Still Stick—for Good or Ill

Rachel’s Tomb (circa 1890-1900) (Credit: Library of Congress, Detroit Publishing Co. photochrom color)

Parashat Vayishlach, Genesis 32:4–36:43

Rabbi Russ Resnik

When the time came for our father Jacob to return to the land promised to him by the Lord, after twenty years of servitude under his father-in-law, Uncle Laban, it wasn’t easy. He had set out alone as a young man with few possessions and he came back with two wives, their two handmaids, eleven sons, a daughter, and great wealth in flocks and herds. But Jacob had needed to slip away with this whole household while Laban was off shearing his sheep. Just before he got back to his land, he had to wrestle all night with a mysterious “man,” who left him lame and leaning on a staff. When it was time to meet up with Esau, the brother he’d wronged so many years before, Esau came to greet him with a contingent of 400 men. Amazingly Esau embraced Jacob and welcomed him back, but more trials awaited: Dinah was raped by a local prince, and her brothers, two of Jacob’s sons, retaliated with a brutal attack on the prince’s entire city, setting the stage for what Jacob feared would be the next round of retaliation—against him.

But the final blow, and undoubtedly the most painful, came after Jacob had returned to Beth-El, where his journey had begun twenty years before. There God appeared to him again, and spoke words of blessing over him.  

Then they traveled from Beth-El, and while they were still a distance from entering Ephrath, Rachel began to give birth, but her labor was difficult.  While she was struggling to give birth, the midwife said to her, “Don’t be afraid, for this is also a son for you.” Now as her soul was departing (for she died), she named him Ben-Oni, but his father named him Benjamin. Then Rachel died and was buried on the way to Ephrath (that is, Bethlehem). (Gen 35:16–19 TLV)

In Midrash Rabbah, the sages interpret this tragic death in light of an earlier incident. When Jacob and his family escaped from Laban, Rachel for some reason had stolen his household idols. Laban caught up with Jacob and his encampment and demanded his idols back. Jacob denied that anyone had taken them, saying, 

“Anyone with whom you find your gods shall not live. In front of our relatives, identify whatever is yours that is with me, and take it back.” (But Jacob did not know that Rachel had stolen them.) (Gen 31:32 TLV)

The sages cite this story to explain why Rachel, the younger sister, dies long before her older sister, Leah. One of the sages, Rabbi Jose, says, “She died because of the patriarch’s curse” (Genesis R. 74:4). We may disagree with this explanation, but the principle remains: Words have the power to create reality. We can trace this principle at work throughout Genesis, beginning with God creating all things, the heavens and the earth, through his words. “Life and death are in the power of the tongue” (Prov 18:21 ESV). Life-giving words, words of appreciation, gratitude, and affirmation, aren’t just sounds—they are a creative force that elevates the world we live in.

Moreover, in the world of Genesis, words once spoken stick. Before Jacob left home, he had joined his mother, Rebekah, in tricking Isaac his father into giving the blessing Isaac intended for Esau to Jacob instead. When Esau discovered that his blessing had been given to his brother, he begged his father, “Haven’t you saved a blessing for me?” 

Isaac answered and said to Esau, “Behold, I’ve made him master over you, and all your brothers I’ve given to him as servants. I’ve provided him with grain and new wine. What then can I do for you, my son?”

Esau said to his father, “Do you just have one blessing, my father? Bless me too, my father!” (Gen 27:36–38 TLV)

Esau can’t ask Isaac to take the blessing back from Jacob and give it to him. He knows that words stick, and the blessing once spoken cannot be undone. The best Esau can hope for is a different blessing of his own. Words once spoken cannot be made silent. But we might wonder, in our day of inflated verbosity, whether words still have such power and durability. I’d suggest that the Torah is telling us they do. Despite the flood of words in the digital era, words still have creative power, and words stick. Therefore we need to measure our words with care for, as our Master reminds us, “whatever you have said in the dark shall be heard in the light, and what you have whispered in private rooms shall be proclaimed on the housetops” (Luke 12:3 ESV).

The stories of our ancestors also reveal the power of words not spoken. If Rebekah had told Isaac about the prophetic words she’d heard before Jacob and Esau were even born, that the older would serve the younger, Isaac could have planned how best to impart blessings to his sons instead of being tricked into a fraught situation. If Rachel had told Jacob that she’d run off with her father’s household idols, Jacob wouldn’t have responded with what amounted to her death sentence.

So we need to be careful with our words, but not so careful that we clam up and don’t speak the positive, life-giving words that need to be said. Rebekah and Rachel both withheld information from their husbands. In counseling with married couples I often see the opposite—husbands who withhold too much from their wives, not just information, but simple words of affirmation and encouragement. They neglect the creative, sticking power of positive words: “Wow, honey, that dinner smells fabulous. I can’t believe you’ve even had time to make it while you’ve had to run around after the kids all day long!” Or “. . . after you came home from your tough day at the office!”

The current Netflix series The Crown portrays the younger Prince Charles as arrogant and self-absorbed, unable to build a happy marriage with the beautiful Princess Diana. Finally she bursts out to complain of being neglected and overlooked by him, and he responds:

I know what being overlooked feels like. I’ve spent my whole life being unthanked, unappreciated, uncared for. And if I’ve been cold or distant with you, perhaps it’s because I don’t feel truly understood by you. I sometimes think you see me as an old man. Or worse, a gargoyle above the church door. Gray, made of stone, unemotional, but I’m not. You think I don’t crave the occasional “Well done,” or … “Aren’t you clever?” Or even just a thank-you. I need encouragement and the occasional pat on the back too. (https://subslikescript.com/series/The_Crown-4786824/season-4/episode-6)

Whether or not this scene is historically accurate, it’s an accurate portrayal of the human condition. If one so favored and honored as the Prince of Wales needs the occasional pat on the back, so must we and those around us.

Words have power for good and ill; words stick and their absence sticks too. The power of words gives us an opportunity to create good amidst the confusion, chaos, and anxiety of the days we’re living in. Life and death are in the power of the tongue; let’s be generous in speaking words of life to those around us, beginning with those who are the closest.

Dear Leah (A Letter from Your Sister, Rachel)

Parashat Vayetzei, Genesis 28:10–32:3

David Wein, Tikvat Israel Messianic Synagogue, Richmond, VA

Dear Leah,

It humbles me now to think of how I acted when we were young. I was desperate and childless, and children are the blessing of God and the hope of our inheritance. I pleaded with Jacob, our husband, for a child. We believed that mandrakes would make us fertile, and tried to use them as bargaining tools to spend the night with Jacob! You had many sons, among them Levi and Judah. I had only Joseph and later Benjamin. So much jealousy and blame-shifting, but we’re in good company. Our brother-in-law, Esau, knew all about that. I guess it’s fear—maybe there’s not enough blessing from God. Maybe there won’t be enough love from Jacob. 

It’s funny, but when we fled from our father in the middle of the night—which was obviously Jacob’s idea—I . . . I don’t know why, but I took some of my father’s teraphim, his household idols, and hid them beneath me while I was on my camel. I never told you that, but that’s why our father, Laban, came after us and ransacked your tent and mine. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want him to use the idols to find us, or maybe because I was concerned about the property inheritance that they represented, or maybe I relied on them to a certain degree—which is wrong, I know. But desperation and fear gave way once again to deception and blame-shifting. I was in a tough situation, and I didn’t handle it well, and I’m sorry. 

Little did I know how my actions would affect the lives of our children and our descendants. When I left this world, Benjamin my son entered it. And I’m so thankful for my elder son, Joseph, for his commitment to forgive. I’m kvelling, I know, but he was in a position of prominence, the prime minister of Egypt, and instead of revenge, he brought salvation from the famine. It was through my own son Joseph that I learned another path than the one I had chosen with you, Leah. 

There were glimpses of this Joseph sort of choice throughout the history of our descendants. Your son Moses was a Levite, a son of Levi. And this Moses, son of Levi, saved all the sons of Israel, kind of like my Joseph did for Levi. And when God told him he couldn’t enter into the promise of Abraham, our grandfather, to inherit the land, Moses was heartbroken. But your son, Moses, trained up my son Joshua, son of Ephraim, son of Joseph. Moses took the humble way, the Joseph way, because he knew the people would need a leader in the land after he came to rest with his fathers. 

But our sons frequently went the other way as well, making the same mistakes I made. It grieved me so when the sons of Benjamin . . . with a son of Levi in the town square, they . . . I can’t really even talk about it. But it led to the sons of Benjamin being destroyed by the hand of Hashem and by their brothers. Those were dark times, when everyone did whatever they wanted to, whatever seemed good in their own eyes, and there was no king.

I guess when Hashem is not our king, it leads to hatred of our brothers and sisters. Everyone’s just trying to rule over and control everyone else. On the other hand, morality and justice seem to go with humility and respect for the Kingship of God in our story, don’t they? 

And then, we finally had a king, the mighty and impetuous King Saul, son of Benjamin, son of mine, who went mad with fear, power, and jealousy—he really took a play out of my notebook, I guess. 

Your son was David, son of Judah, son of Leah. And they sang songs about him:

Saul, the son of Rachel, has slain his thousands,

But David, the son of Leah, the humble shepherd boy, has slain his tens of thousands. 

David showed his character when he played music on the harp to soothe my son, Saul, even when Saul was throwing spears at him. What madness. But as with my firstborn, Joseph, who turned things around, it was Saul’s firstborn, Jonathan, who did the same. Remember, it was Jonathan son of Saul, not David, who was next in line to be king. And Saul, son of Benjamin, son of mine—raged against his own son, Jonathan: 

You son of a perverse, rebellious woman! Don’t I know that you have chosen the son of Jesse—to your own shame, and to the shame of your mother’s nakedness? For as long as the son of Jesse lives on earth, neither you nor your kingship will be secure.

That’s true, in a way, isn’t it? As long as the son of Jesse, David, lives, the kingdom of Saul is not secure. It’s like only one kingdom can stand. Either the kingdom of Saul (made of fear, anger, and jealousy) or the kingdom of David (which, because of covenantal love, Jonathan puts ahead of his own rights to the throne). Jonathan, son of mine, gave up his inheritance and his power because of his love for David, son of yours.

I could speak more of our sons and daughters, but I just want to mention one more of your sons. 

This son of Judah, son of yours, Leah; there was no one like him, and there will never be another; he was the promised descendent of David, the Messiah and King. He followed the way of Joseph and Moses, in humility and putting his brothers before himself. 

My son, the Apostle Paul, son of Benjamin, son of Rachel, said this about your son: “For to me, to live is Messiah and to die is gain.”

In other words, everything that Paul has—his whole life—belongs to the Messiah, son of Judah. It’s not about Paul’s kingdom, but about the Son of David’s kingdom. Because the Son of Judah, the Son of Leah, put our needs before his own. He thought of our lives, and said that this was more important than his life. For us to have healing and joy and eternal life was more important to him than his own. I hope that our children will learn from his example. I have learned so much from him. Our children must humble themselves, and seek to bless and rescue their brothers. I think my son Paul said it best:

Do nothing out of selfishness or conceit, but with humility consider others as more important than yourselves, looking out not only for your own interests but also for the interests of others. Have this attitude in yourselves, which also was in Messiah Yeshua,

Who, though existing in the form of God,

did not consider being equal to God a thing to be grasped.

But He emptied Himself—

taking on the form of a slave,

becoming the likeness of men

and being found in appearance as a man.

He humbled Himself—

becoming obedient to the point of death,

even death on a cross.

For this reason God highly exalted Him

and gave Him the name that is above every name,

that at the name of Yeshua every knee should bow,

in heaven and on the earth and under the earth,

and every tongue profess that Yeshua the Messiah is Lord—

to the glory of God the Father.

My hope is that our descendants would learn from my mistakes, and be more like my sons Joseph and Paul, and more like your sons Joshua, King David, and Yeshua. That they would choose the way of humility and, rather than hoarding blessings, seek to be a blessing. That the kingdom of Saul would pass away, and the kingdom of your son would be established always. In that way, I am now finally deferring to you, Leah.  

Your sister always,

Rachel