It Takes Courage to Be Holy

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim, Leviticus 16:1–20:27

Dr. Vered Hillel, Netanya, Israel

 “You must be holy because I, the Lord your God, am holy” (Lev 19:2).

What an incredible statement! How can we, who are finite and mortal, be like God, who is infinite and eternal? It almost seems preposterous and impossible; yet Hashem told Moses to speak these exact words to the children of Israel, more than once. All of the commands for Israel to be holy as Hashem is holy, with the exception of Leviticus 11:44, 45, are found in what is known as the Holiness Code (Lev 17:1–26:46). This unit draws its name from the central theme of holiness, which is repeatedly and emphatically addressed throughout this section. This week’s Torah portion comprises part of the Holiness Code.  

The people of Israel bear a collective responsibility to seek and demonstrate holiness. In almost every section of the Holiness Code, Hashem tells Moses, “Speak . . . to the children of Israel” (17:1; 18;1; 19:2; 20:2; 22:17; 23:1, 24; 24:1–2; 25:20). We bear a collective, as well as individual, responsibility to seek to be holy as Hashem is holy. And we bear witness to the presence of Hashem in and among us. The Holiness Code, through its collection of secular, ritual, moral, and festival regulations, separates Israel from the other peoples of the world as Hashem’s chosen people (Lev 20:24, 26) and informs us how to demonstrate this unique calling through our actions, through the way we live.  

Let’s look a little more closely at the first four chapters of the Holiness Code (Leviticus 17–20), which are part of this week’s Torah portion, to see what we can learn about being holy as Hashem is holy. Three times in these four chapters (17:2, 18:2, 19:2) Hashem tells Moses “Speak to . . . the children of Israel and tell them . . .” In Leviticus 17:2 Moses tells Israel, “This is what the Lord has commanded.”  

Three general areas are addressed in chapter 17: 1) the instruction that sacrifices must be offered at the one, legitimate altar near the entrance to the tent of meeting; 2) regulations concerning the blood of animals, both sacrificial and those used for food, and the prohibition against consuming blood; and 3) the prohibition against eating the flesh from carcasses of animals that died or that were torn by beasts.  

Moving on to 18:2, we read that Hashem tells Moses, “Speak to the Israelites . . . ‘I the Lord am your God. You must . . .’” Chapter 18 contains the most systematic and complete collection of laws in the Torah dealing with the subject of incest and forbidden sexual unions. In the process of defining sexual sins, the chapter delineates the limits of the immediate family. In chapter 19, Moses is to tell Israel, “You must be holy for I, the Lord your God, am holy.” Chapter 20 is a continuation of chapter 19 and culminates in verses 24 and 26 where Hashem proclaims, “I am the Lord your God who has set you apart from other peoples. . . . You must be holy to me, for I, the Lord, am holy, and I have set you apart from other peoples to be mine” (20:24, 26). Sandwiched between the two commands to be holy “for I, the Lord your God, am holy” in 19:2 and 20:26 are commands telling us what it means to be holy.  

Some of these imperatives seem rather strange to us today, like the prohibition of wearing clothing made of a mixture of wool and linen (19:19). However, if we look closely, we can see how such commands can be applied to our lives now. Leviticus 19:19 also prohibits planting two different kinds of seeds in the same field and not crossbreeding two different animals. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z’’l suggests that these commands can be fulfilled today by respecting and caring for the environment.[1] Not conforming to idolatry means resisting the idols of our age, time, and area, whatever that may be. Not harvesting the corners of our fields can be understood as treating the poor with dignity and respect, and sharing our blessings with others. We are told not to curse the deaf or put a stumbling block before the blind. These commands can be fulfilled in our days by not insulting others with our speech or actions and not taking advantage of someone, even if they do not know about it. It means doing justice, having honest business practices, and keeping Shabbat.  

Being holy can be summed up in the command to love your neighbor and the alien (stranger, foreigner) as yourself (Lev 19:18, 34). We love our neighbor and the stranger living among us, by not lying, stealing, or deceiving others, not hating, bearing a grudge, spreading gossip or standing by silently when someone else’s life is in danger. It means having the strength of character to go to a person who has hurt us, discuss the incident with them, give them a chance to apologize, and then forgive them. Being holy means being set apart, being distinct. It means having the courage to be different than the world around us. 

We are created in the image of God and called to act in his ways. Though it may seem preposterous or even impossible, we are to be, and can be, holy as Hashem is holy. Living a holy life as presented in the Holiness Code reminds us of the presence of Hashem in our own lives and in the life of the people of Israel. Such a life demonstrates our unique calling as his chosen people and testifies of Hashem’s presence to those around us. Peter reminds us to be holy in every area of life, “for it is written, “You must be holy, because I am holy” (1 Pet 1:6). May we all have the courage to be different, to be holy. 

[1] This section was inspired by Rabbi Sacks’ commentary, “In Search of Jewish Identity” on Acharei Mot-Kedoshim from 5776. The entire commentary can be found at https://rabbisacks.org/search-jewish-identity-kedoshim-5776/.

Doctors of the Soul

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

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

The kohen shall look at the affliction on the skin of the flesh: If the hair in the affliction has changed to white, and the affliction’s appearance is deeper than the skin of the flesh—it is a tzara’at affliction; the kohen shall look at it and declare him contaminated. (Leviticus 13:3, author’s translation)

The Torah requires that the kohen, or priest, examine the person with tzara’at, an apparently severe and contagious skin affliction that is often wrongly translated as leprosy. Yet here in Leviticus chapter 13 the kohen is asked to observe it twice in the same verse. So why is there an obvious redundancy? Rabbi Yisrael Yehoshua Tronk of Kutno, a 19th century posek (a recognized decider of halakha) opined that it is incumbent that when one sees an afflicted person that he also sees him as a whole person. The kohanim were in a sense the “doctors of the soul.” This is the role of a kohen, to restore the person to wholeness—to have the imagination to see beyond a person’s present brokenness, and to recognize his or her own power to heal. 

Rabbi Yehoshua of Nazareth, the greatest posek of all, is also the Kohen Gadol, the Great High Priest in heaven and earth. The Besorot (Gospels) record many stories of Yeshua healing individuals who are broken. In Luke 14 he chose to heal a man whose entire body was bloated as the result of tzara’at. The healing occurs in the home of a prominent Pharisaic scholar. Apparently, the sick man is in some way related to the household and is just lying suffering and, we might infer, dying. What is ironic is that the group of men who were present had the power to heal but they were largely unaware of it. It was an untapped power, since they preferred to stand in judgment rather than invite the man to the table and see him as anything other than a lost soul. Only those who know they are broken can offer healing to others. 

Some people are not healed because they choose not to be healed. Yeshua once came upon a paraplegic at the pool of Beit-Zata who had been sitting there for years waiting to be lowered into the reputedly therapeutic waters. Yeshua asked the man the most enigmatic question: “Do you want to be healed?” (John 5:1–6). The question seems so counter-intuitive. Why else might a sick man wait for therapy? Still, so many people avoid healing both intentionally and inadvertently. They often lower their ideals to accommodate their present ability to fulfill their potential. Oddly many people would rather languish in pain and isolation than risk the failure of trying and trusting. Therefore, Yeshua’s simple remedy was to ask the man to pick up his mat and walk. We are often crippled by our own fear of trying. 

I have always been amazed and inspired by the story of Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1–10). Zacchaeus is a tax collector who climbs a tree to get a glimpse of Yeshua. From the reading we can deduce what is obvious in the social-historical context of the text. Tax collectors were considered “sinners,” collaborators with the illegitimate and pagan government. Yeshua’s rhetoric, though, would say anything but that: “Zacchaeus come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.” Yeshua goes on to describe Zacchaeus as a “son of Abraham too.” Yeshua is not merely appealing to Zacchaeus’s lineage, rather to a promise of Torah, which in that social context had long since been domesticated and dismissed when it came to Zacchaeus and those like him. The point here is that Zacchaeus accepts Yeshua’s counter-verdict and begins the process of living up to it, giving half his possessions to the poor and paying back four times what he has gained illicitly, twice the degree of repentance prescribed for such an act in Torah. Zacchaeus’ desire and effort to be spiritually healed is matched and encouraged by Yeshua’s desire to see him as he can be rather than as he presently is.

I would offer one more example, this one of a modern-day kohen and the spiritually broken metzorah (“leper”) who crossed the threshold into his life. The story is recorded in the 1995 book, Not by the Sword: How a Cantor and His Family Transformed a Klansman, by Kathryn Watterson.  Michael Weisser was a trained conservative cantor, recently graduated and ordained as such. He was offered the position as spiritual leader of a small synagogue in Lincoln, Nebraska; a synagogue that did not have the resources or appeal to call a rabbi. But shortly after moving his family into a house on Randolph Street in Lincoln he began to receive threatening antisemitic phone calls, “You’ll be sorry you moved into 5810 Randolph Street, Jew-boy.” The calls became more frequent and were accompanied by letters as well. They were all coming from a man named Larry Trapp who had connections and credentials from several white supremacist organizations. He had been terrifying Jews and other minorities in Lincoln for almost a decade. 

The truth is that the terrifying specter of Larry Trapp was merely an illusion. Trapp was a severe diabetic who had already lost both legs to amputation and was confined to a wheel chair. He was a sad, angry, disenfranchised man, a victim of abuse himself, who used terror to try to regain some control over his world in lieu of the acceptance he craved. One day when Trapp called, Cantor Weisser and his wife inexplicably began to read Psalms to him over the phone. Following a series of strange developments during subsequent calls, Cantor Weisser went to visit the man who still was a symbol of fear to his family. He was shocked to see the broken man who had previously terrified him and was appalled at the squalor in which he lived. He continued to visit Larry Trapp until his health had faltered so severely that he could no longer care for himself. Trapp moved in with the Weisser family, and in a still stranger turn of events converted to Judaism and became a member of the family. He lived with the Weisser family for years, and they became his caregivers until his physical maladies from years of abuse overcame him. He was buried in a Jewish cemetery and was remembered fondly by many of the people in the community whom he had previously terrorized. 

To be healed we must see ourselves as whole. To fill our role as a nation of kohanim we must see others as whole. Let us then rise to the occasion.

Pity the Fool

Parashat Shemini, Leviticus 9:1–11:47

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, Ahavat Zion Synagogue, Los Angeles

 In the 1980s adventure series, “The A-Team,” we were given excellent advice by the heavily muscled and menacing B. A. Baracus (Mr. T). That advice?  “Pity the fool.” It was a warning not to get out of one’s depth, and not to presume to battle against someone whose victory would mean your vaporization.  

This week’s parasha presents an excellent argument for taking that advice. Better yet, examining this account yields excellent advice for leadership, advice that’s fantastic and not foolish.

Let’s look at what’s fantastic first, and then at what’s foolish.  

This is the day the people of Israel, from the commoners to the Levites and priests, have completed the complexities of building the Mishkan and together with Aharon have obeyed the detailed instructions given them from the mouth of God through Moshe. Now the graduation ceremony has arrived: the investiture of the priests and what we might term the ribbon-cutting for the Tabernacle.

Aharon raised his hands toward the people, blessed them and came down from offering the sin offering, the burnt offering and the peace offerings. Moshe and Aharon entered the tent of meeting, came out and blessed the people. Then the glory of Adonai appeared to all the people! Fire came forth from the presence of Adonai, consuming 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)

The God of Israel is the commencement speaker at this event, and with his fire from heaven he speaks his approval of the entire project, and of Moshe and Aharon who have modeled obedience to his directives, diligence in their work, and an orientation toward being agents of blessing for the people of God. This is leadership excellence. This is fantastic. And it deserves God’s dramatic, fiery Amen! 

Then we have the fools, who indeed are to be pitied.  

Nadav and Avihu are Aharon’s sons, therefore, nephews of Moshe. They have been ordained and invested as priests, by the command of God and through the agency of Moshe and Aharon. It is as if they have graduated summa cum laude from the best school possible, Mishkan University. They have it made. And they throw it all away.

But Nadav and Avihu, sons of Aharon, each took his censer, put fire in it, laid incense on it, and offered unauthorized fire before Adonai, something he had not ordered them to do. At this, fire came forth from the presence of Adonai and consumed them, so that they died in the presence of Adonai. 

Moshe said to Aharon, “This is what Adonai said:

‘Through those who are near me I will be consecrated,
and before all the people I will be glorified.’” (Lev 10:1–3a)

The holy fire that falls here is not a validation but a vaporization. It is God’s judgment, not his Amen. But why?

The rabbis of our people supply multiple interpretations: Nadav and Avihu were drunk when they entered the sanctuary; they were improperly clothed; they had not washed their hands and feet; they were unmarried; they had entered the holy place without authorization; or they had expounded the Torah in the presence of Moshe, their teacher. 

Torah supplies us with clues as to the “why” of this tragedy. First, Moshe, speaking for God, says, “Through those who are near me I will be consecrated, and before all the people I will be glorified.” Nadav and Avihu were not involved in consecrating God, in treating him as holy. They were up to something else. If they had been involved in treating Adonai as holy, they would have been doing as Moshe and Aharon had done: obeying his directives, doing their work diligently, and seeking to serve as agents of blessing for the people of God. But that is not what they are doing.

I suggest they are trying to manipulate the manifestation of the glory of God, the fire from heaven. That’s a crazy idea, but Torah provides a clue as to how they got so stupid.

In the aftermath of the death of Aharon’s two sons, Hashem tells him:

Don’t drink any wine or other intoxicating liquor, neither you nor your sons with you, when you enter the tent of meeting, so that you will not die. This is to be a permanent regulation through all your generations, so that you will distinguish between the holy and the common, and between the unclean and the clean; and so that you will teach the people of Isra’el all the laws Adonai has told them through Moshe. (Lev 10:9–10)

Apparently, in celebrating their big day, Nadav and Avihu had gotten tipsy, or worse, drunk. Then then came into the Mishkan, perhaps hoping to get Adonai to do a repeat performance of his amazing send-the-fire-trick. What they were doing had nothing to do with obedience to God, with diligent service, or with blessing the people. And it had nothing to do with bringing glory to God.

The contrast between these fools, Nadav and Avihu, and Moshe and Aharon could not be more stark. Throughout the account, Moshe and Aharon are strictly obedient to the commands of Adonai. When Moshe relays Adonai’s verdict to Aharon, “Through those who are near me I will be consecrated, and before all the people I will be glorified,” the text says Aharon kept silent. Not a word of complaint.  

Before this, Moshe had given directives to Aharon and his remaining sons: 

Don’t unbind your hair or tear your clothes in mourning, so that you won’t die and so that Adonai won’t be angry with the entire community. Rather, let your kinsmen — the whole house of Isra’el — mourn, because of the destruction Adonai brought about with his fire. Moreover, don’t leave the entrance to the tent of meeting, or you will die, because Adonai’s anointing oil is on you. (Lev 10:6– 7)

Again, not a word of complaint. Instead, obedience and diligence for the sake of God’s blessing on his people.  

The lesson for us and for our day is clear. A fantastic leader will be one who models obedience to God’s word, diligence in his service, and an orientation toward being a blessing to his people. A foolish leader will be impressed by his own station and will even seek to manipulate the presence of God for his own purposes and satisfaction. Instead of being sober in his service, he will be drunk, if not with wine, then at least intoxicated with his own juices.  

He forgets Adonai’s admonition: “Through those who are near me I will be consecrated, and before all the people I will be glorified.” 

Pity the fool.

The Afikomen: My Body Broken for You

Pesach 5781

by Jared Eaton, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

During the festival of Pesach, Jewish families around the world connect themselves to one of the greatest stories ever told by celebrating the Passover Seder, an interactive dinner where we retell the story of the Exodus from Egypt.

But a lesser-known Passover tradition is the Seudat Mashiach, or Messiah’s Meal. Instituted by the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Chasidic Judaism, in the 1700s, the Messiah’s Meal is eaten on the final day of Passover and looks forward to future divine deliverance.

The haftarah for the final day of Passover is from the book of Isaiah, and includes prophecies of a leader upon whom “the spirit of the Lord shall rest, a spirit of wisdom and understanding, a spirit of counsel and heroism, a spirit of knowledge and fear of the Lord” (Isa 11:2).

It has become traditional to usher out Passover by looking forward to the arrival of this Messiah and the redemption that he will bring to the world. Messiah’s Meal has become a beloved tradition for some believers in Yeshua who combine the traditions of Seudat Mashiach with our understanding of the identity of the Messiah. But even the traditional first night Seder points to Messiah Yeshua, and perhaps in no place more clearly than in the hiding of the Afikomen.

For the uninitiated, one of the traditions of the Passover Seder is a special bag called a matzah tash that has three compartments, each with a piece of matzah, unleavened bread, in it. The tradition is to take the middle piece out and break it in half. Half of the matzah is placed back in the matzah tash, but the other half is wrapped in a linen napkin. This piece is called the Afikomen.

Afikomen (epikomon, ἐπὶ κῶμον) is a Greek word that means “that which comes after” or “dessert,” and is a substitute for the Passover sacrifice, which was the last thing eaten at the Passover Seder during the eras of the First and Second Temples (Talmud, Pesachim 119b).

The Afikomen is hidden by an adult for the duration of the first part of the Seder, and after dinner the children search for it and bring it back to their parents to be redeemed for a prize. Traditionally, the Seder cannot end until the Afikomen is found and redeemed.

It’s a beloved tradition, but Judaism has no authoritative explanation as to the origin or the meaning of the Afikomen. A number of diverse and often conflicting theories have emerged over the centuries. One tradition holds that the three pieces of matzah represent the three classes of Jews, the Priests, the Levites, and the Israelites. Another that they represent Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. But these are later innovations; they are not mentioned in the tractates on Passover in either the Mishnah or the Talmud. And even if this were the case then why do we break the middle piece? What would breaking the Priests or Isaac accomplish? Some rabbis believe that breaking the matzah represents the splitting of the Red Sea, but if that’s the case why do we hide one piece of . . . the ocean? One tradition, cited  by the Chasidic Lubavitcher Rebbe in his Haggadah, even says that we hide the Afikomen so that it doesn’t get eaten by accident before the meal is over.

None of these theories is satisfying. But there is one other that I think makes perfect sense. One that ties all of the symbolism together and tells a cohesive story. And that theory, first presented by Austrian-Jewish scholar Robert Eisler in 1925, is that that the tradition of the Afikomen was conceived by the first century Jewish followers of Yeshua, and that the Afikomen is a symbol of our Messiah.[1]

The very appearance of the matzah and the way it’s prepared is indicative of Yeshua. Matzah has stripes burned into from the oven rack and must be pierced to allow air to escape to prevent it from rising. In the same way, our Messiah was striped by the lash and his hands and feet were pierced by nails.

The three compartments of the matzah tash represent three ways that we experience God, through the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. And we take the middle piece, representing the Son, and we break it, as Yeshua was broken for us.

After his death on the cross, Yeshua’s body was wrapped in a linen shroud and hidden away for three days until his resurrection. So too, we wrap the Afikomen in a linen cloth and hide it away until the end of the Seder.

When the meal ends, the children search for the Afikomen and bring it to be redeemed. In this act, we are emulating the redemption that we have in the Father through the sacrifice of Messiah Yeshua. For just as Yeshua, through his death and resurrection, has redeemed us from sin and death, the Afikomen too must be redeemed by the father of the family.

And how fitting is it that it is the children who go to seek Yeshua? Messiah taught that the kingdom of heaven belongs to the children (Matt 19:14), and indeed we ourselves must change and become like little children if we wish to enter the Kingdom of heaven with them (Matt 18:3).

And just as the Seder cannot end until the Afikomen comes back, the Kingdom of Heaven will not be established until the return of the Messiah.

It’s true that the Word “Afikomen” is often translated as “that which comes after”, but according to David Daube, a preeminent twentieth-century scholar of Biblical Law, a better translation is (aphikomenos Αφικομενός) “the one who has arrived.” [2]

And if nothing else, we know that Yeshua himself has likened the matzah of the Passover meal to his body. At the last supper, the Passover Seder he ate before he suffered, Yeshua took the matzah, gave thanks, and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is broken for you; this do in remembrance of me” (1 Cor. 11:24 KJV).

On Passover, the Jewish people connect themselves to one of the greatest stories ever told. And believers in Messiah Yeshua also connect ourselves to another story, one told nearly 1500 years after God freed the Hebrew slaves. This Passover, as we break, hide, and redeem the Afikomen, “the one who has arrived,” we all look forward to and share in the deliverance we have in Messiah Yeshua. 

Chag Pesach Sameach!

[1] “Das Letzte Abendmahl” [The Final Supper], appeared in the journal Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft [ZNW] Vol. 24 (1925): 161-92 and Vol. 25 (1926): 5-37.

[2] Daube, D. (1966). He that cometh (pp. 6-14). London: Tolley.

Resurrection: The Story that Defines Us

Passover 5781

 Rabbi Russ Resnik

As we prepare for Passover this year, there’s lots to do—cleaning the leaven out of our houses; buying the right food; inviting family and guests to the Seder, whether in-person or on-screen; and preparing the feast. Amidst all these preparations, it’s vital to remember that we’ll be telling and hearing and even acting out a story, a story that defines who we are and what our lives are about.

In his book After Virtue, philosopher Alisdair MacIntyre writes that the human being is “essentially a story-telling animal.”  

Deprive children of stories and you leave them unscripted, anxious stutterers in their actions as in their words. Hence there is no way to give an understanding of any society, including our own, except through the stock of stories which constitute its initial dramatic resources. (p. 216)

 All the stories that constitute the “dramatic resources” of the Jewish people draw upon or orbit around the grand narrative of our redemption from Egypt, the Passover story. It’s no wonder, then, that the ritual of Passover is meant to arouse the curiosity of our children through every generation. Keeping this ritual is a set-up to telling the story of Passover:

 When you come to the land that Adonai will give you, as he has promised, you are to keep this service. And when your children ask you, “What do you mean by this service?” you shall say, “It is the sacrifice of Adonai’s Passover, because he passed over the houses of the people of Israel in Egypt, when he struck the Egyptians but spared our houses.” (Exod 12:25–27; see also 13:8, 14–15)

 Later, Moses instructs the Israelites to tell the story again, in response to a question our children might ask, not just about the Passover ritual but about all the customs of Torah:

When your son or daughter asks you in time to come, “What is the meaning of the testimonies and the statutes and the rules that Adonai our God has commanded you?” then you shall say to them, “We were Pharaoh’s slaves in Egypt. And Adonai brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand. And Adonai showed signs and wonders, great and grievous, against Egypt and against Pharaoh and all his household, before our eyes. And he brought us out from there, that he might bring us in and give us the land that he swore to give to our ancestors. And Adonai commanded us to do all these statutes, to fear Adonai our God, for our good always, that he might preserve us alive, as we are this day.” (Deut 6:20–24)

The Lord provides a story that can be told and retold to keep alive the meaning of Passover—and ultimately the meaning of the whole Torah—for every generation. It’s a story that reminds us who we are, Israel, a people bound in covenant to the Lord.

It’s no wonder, then, that when the Lord sends his Messiah to reveal himself to Israel, the Messiah enters into Israel’s foundational story. His final journey to Jerusalem, where he will be handed over to the gentiles and executed, joins a pilgrimage for Passover. Messiah Yeshua celebrates the Passover with his followers within Jerusalem, joining the multitudes who are observing the festival. It is during Passover that Yeshua is offered up as a sacrificial lamb, providing the ransom for his people. And it is during Passover that Yeshua rises again from the dead. Through both of these mighty deeds Yeshua enters fully into the Passover story, not setting it aside or replacing it, but fully embodying it on behalf of his own people.

During Passover, Luke tells us, the risen Messiah met two of his followers, Cleopas and an unnamed companion, on a road leading out from Jerusalem. Before revealing himself to them, Yeshua asks why they seem so downcast. They tell him about “Yeshua of Natzeret, a man who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people,” who had been condemned to death and crucified a couple of days earlier, even though “we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” Yeshua, still unrecognized, reproves them for not believing the words of the prophets: “Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and enter into his glory?” (Luke 24:13-26). It was necessary not only to fulfill specific prophecies, but to reflect the overall death-to-life trajectory of the divine plan of salvation. Messiah’s suffering and glory are both essential to the whole plan.

Accordingly, then, “beginning with Moses and from all the Prophets, Yeshua interpreted to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning himself” (Luke 24:27). Why does he begin with Moses in this on-the-spot Bible study? Because the death-resurrection linkage is evident throughout the story of redemption that Moses tells. From Canaan, the family of Jacob went down to Egypt, descending from the land of promise to the land of bondage, the land of death. From Egypt, as we recite during the Seder, the Lord “took us out from slavery to freedom, from sorrow to joy, from mourning to festivity, from darkness to great light, and from bondage to redemption. Let us, therefore, sing before him a new song. Halleluyah!” In Scripture, from Moses on, death sets the stage for resurrection, including the death-to-life redemption of Israel that Cleopas and his companion were hoping for.

To this day, the shared story breaks through our isolation and confusion to reveal the meaning of our lives. The story of our redemption from Egypt provides the meaning that defines us, especially as we recognize the account of Messiah’s death and resurrection within it.

If resurrection is our defining story, then, what does that mean for how we live today? That question could lead to a whole drash on its own, so I’ll confine myself to one implication especially relevant to the era of Covid disruption and post-Covid uncertainty: Negative events don’t shake our resurrection foundations.

We neither deny adversity nor seek it out—but when it comes, we know it carries within it the promise of resurrection, new life, new energy, and renewed awareness of God’s presence, for which negative events often set the stage. We are not left “unscripted and anxious,” as Professor MacIntyre puts it. Instead we can face whatever comes without despondency and fear, like Cleopas and his friend who found their hearts burning within them as they heard from the risen Messiah. Or like their frightened companions in Jerusalem, who were also reproved by Yeshua: “Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts?” (Luke 24:38). They were troubled by the sight of Yeshua among them, when they thought he was dead and buried, but the master’s words apply to us all, no matter the circumstances: “Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts?”

Messiah Yeshua’s resurrection is the story that defines us. This Passover, may we remember it and tell it out loud to renew our hope and confidence in God, no matter what events around us might bring. In the resurrection story, adversity never writes the final line.

 Scripture references are adapted from the ESV.

The Offering that Brings Peace

Parashat Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1–5:26 [6:7]

Michael Hillel, Netanya, Israel

Last week’s parasha, Vayakhel-Pekudei, ended with the setup and dedication of the Mishkan or Tabernacle, and then its infilling with the glory of Hashem as he took up residence in the midst of the Israelite camp. This week’s reading begins the third book of the Torah of Moses and interestingly has neither an introduction, nor apparent transition from the construction, setup, and infilling of the Mishkan. Rather, from the way the book begins, it would seem that the tabernacle was already fully operative. “Now Adonai called to Moses and spoke to him out of the Tent of Meeting, saying: ‘Speak to Bnei-Yisrael, and tell them . . .’” (Lev 1:1–2a).

The rest of the parasha deals with numerous korbanot or offerings. I will not be looking at all the offering covered, only the third one, zevach sh’lamim or the peace or fellowship offering, described in chapter 3.

The zevach sh’lamim was brought for the purpose of expressing thanks or gratitude to Hashem for his bounty, and/or for his mercies on behalf of the one making the offering. In both the Mishkan and the Temple, a portion of the offering was burnt on the altar, a portion was given to the kohen (priest) to consume, and the rest was eaten by the one who brought the offering and his family; hence everyone received a part of the offering.

This was not a required offering, but an optional one that could be brought when the one bringing it desired to do so. The zevach sh’lamim provided an opportunity for the offerer, his family, and the presiding kohen to share in a sacred meal together. It has been suggested that such a meal foreshadowed the communal meal instituted by Yeshua with his talmidim, which later became a regular occurrence in the growing ecclesia, the body of Messiah.

It should also be noted that this optional zevach sh’lamim was a costly offering. The only two options were either unblemished sheep or goats. It was not a matter of simply deciding on a whim to offer a zevach sh’lamim, rather it took forethought and planning to ensure the sacrifice would be acceptable by the kohen to be presented to Hashem. With the idea of forethought and planning in mind, consider these words of Yeshua:

Therefore if you are presenting your offering upon the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your offering there before the altar and go. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and present your offering. (Matt 5:23–24)

In other words, it seems that one’s offering would not be acceptable to Hashem unless one were in right relationship with others—at least as much as is possible. Granted, this is true for all offerings, but I suggest that it is especially true for the zevach sh’lamim. How could one approach Hashem in an attitude of thanksgiving when he or she has enmity and strife with others in his or her sphere of influence? In a Taste of Torah, Keren Hannah Pryor reminds us that the “importance of the korban, then lies in the restoration of a right relationship between man and God, as well as the rehabilitation that results in right relationships between man and man.” *  

Before leaving this point, I want to clarify the phrase above, “at least as much as is possible,” concerning making peace with a brother. Rav Shaul wrote these words to the Yeshua-believers in Rome: “If possible, so far as it depends on you, live in shalom with all people” (Rom 12:18). 

There may be times, when someone does all that they can to make restitution with another, to restore a relationship that once was, when this just cannot be accomplished. The hurt or the schism may be too deep for the other to forgive or to accept the attempt at restoration. In cases such as these, all that we can do is turn the situation over to Hashem and trust in his mercy and grace to cover it, while hoping that things might change in the future. Continuing with this thought, the writer of Hebrews encourages his readers to . . .

Pursue shalom with everyone, and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord. See to it that no one falls short of the grace of God; and see to it that no bitter root springs up and causes trouble, and by it many be defiled. (Heb 12:14–15)

Shalom, true peace, is not the absence of conflict, disagreement, or even pain; it is knowing that we do not face these challenges alone, and that the one who shares them with us adds his strength to our weakness, enabling us to endure—even if the challenges lead “through the valley of the shadow of death” (Psa 23:4). Shalom is the confidence in knowing that there something else, or better yet someone else, who stands beyond these perceived challenges, who has already overcome each challenge that we face and so much more, while at the same time telling each of us that he is there to assist us through no matter what.

Today, we can bring our zevach sh’lamim, at least metaphorically, before our high priest, Yeshua, expressing our thanksgiving to the Father for his bounty and mercy in our lives. Each time we share in the communal celebration of Zichron Mashiach Yeshua (the Lord’s Supper) it is as if we are sharing our portion of the zevach sh’lamim sacrifice with our brothers and sisters.

 All Scripture passages are from the Tree of Life Version (TLV).

* Keren Hannah Pryor. A Taste of Torah: A Devotional Study Through the Five Books of Moses (Marshfield, MO: First Fruits of Zion, 2016), 122.

Our Worship: Managed or Mysterious?

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

Rabbi Russ Resnik

“I don’t believe in organized religion.” That’s a common response when we try to talk about faith with someone who’s unaffiliated. If I’m talking with someone about Messianic Judaism in particular, I might respond, “Don’t worry, we’re not that organized.”  

This rejection of organized religion usually rests on the assumption that faith and spirituality are, and should be, intensely personal, that it’s up to each person to discover his or her own way to worship, and that all these matters are best kept private. But what we see in Exodus, the Torah’s preeminent book of worship, would seem to be the exact opposite.  

Worship in Hebrew is avodah, which is also the word for service or labor. Israel has served Pharaoh, and now they will serve God. We might even say that Israel has worshiped Pharaoh—the verb is the same in Hebrew—and now they will worship God. They have devoted their time, abilities, and energies to the glory of Pharaoh, and now they must devote their time, abilities, and energies to the glory of God. Pharaoh, however, believes the people must serve him, so Hashem instructs Moses to tell him, “Thus says the Lord: ‘Let my people go, that they may serve me’” (8:20 [16]).

Here in three Hebrew words we have the theme of the entire book of Exodus: Shalach ami v’ya’avduni—“Let my people go, that they may serve [worship] me.” The first half of this phrase, Shalach ami, “let my people go,” describes the first half of Exodus, in which the God of Israel forces Pharaoh to release his people. This half concludes with the arrival at Mount Sinai. The second half, v’ya’avduni, “that they may worship me,” begins with the encounter at Sinai and details the building of the tabernacle, where Israel will worship the Lord, who dwells in their midst.   

At first, this part of Exodus looks like religion at its most organized. The instructions for worship, for building the tabernacle and all its equipment, and for inaugurating the priesthood are extensive. Nothing is left to human invention, as Hashem tells Moses: “Exactly as I show you concerning the pattern of the tabernacle, and of all its furniture, so you shall make it” (Exod 25:9). The structure of the narrative itself underscores the gravity and precision of making the tabernacle: Seven chapters, Exodus 25–31, are given to instructions for building, culminating with a reminder to keep Shabbat; five chapters, Exodus 35–39, begin with another reminder about Shabbat and detail the assembly of the components of the tabernacle and the clothing of the priests; one final chapter, Exodus 40, portrays the actual construction.  

All this may seem like organized religion to the max . . . until we hear the end of the story. 

So Moses finished the work. Then the cloud covered the tent of meeting, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle. And Moses was not able to enter the tent of meeting because the cloud settled on it, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle. Throughout all their journeys, whenever the cloud was taken up from over the tabernacle, the people of Israel would set out. But if the cloud was not taken up, then they did not set out till the day that it was taken up. For the cloud of the Lord was on the tabernacle by day, and fire was in it by night, in the sight of all the house of Israel throughout all their journeys. (Exod 40:33b–38)

Note the poetry of these final verses. In each verse, the word “cloud” appears, with the defining phrase, “the cloud of the Lord,” in the final verse. In addition, the phrase “glory of the Lord” appears twice, for a total of seven mentions of the divine presence. Seven, of course, is the number of perfection, and the tabernacle is perfected only now as the glory-cloud fills it. To underline this truth the identical phrase, “and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle,” is stated twice.  

To understand true worship, we need to pay attention to one additional phrase here: “Moses was not able to enter the tent of meeting because the cloud settled on it.” No matter how organized the religion of Exodus may be, it is in the end mysterious. God reveals his ways and his instructions, but remains always beyond our understanding, always other and more than all we know and all we might experience. At the heart of true worship is always mystery, today as in the days of Moses.  

When I outlined the final section of Exodus above, I left out three chapters, Exodus 32–34, which recount the worship of the golden calf and the restoration of the covenant afterward. Like its whole context, this section is also about worship, and also in a way about organized religion, but it’s organized by human design, not by divine revelation.

We might call it religion that is managed, in contrast with the religion that is mysterious.  

Worship of the golden calf is managed worship, a human initiative to resolve a pervasive human problem, uncertainty and the resultant fear. “When the people saw that Moses delayed to come down from the mountain, the people gathered themselves together to Aaron and said to him, ‘Up, make us gods who shall go before us . . .’” (Exod 32:1a). The calf reflects a human concept of deity, and human creativity gone amok, as “the people had broken loose” (Exod 32:25). Its worship ends in chaos, but at its core it is managed, limited to human definitions and serving human desires. It lacks the mystery that defines true worship.  

Today, we live in an increasingly man-made world, a world intent on elevating the human above the divine, on putting the divine at the service of the human. We live with values no longer based on “We” but on “I,” as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, zt”l, describes in his recent book Morality: Restoring the Common Good in Divided Times. The I-centered worldview rejects what it calls organized religion in favor of a person-centered, self-exalting private religion that can be customized according to individual needs and preferences. Religion as accessory—it’s a lot more comfortable than the mysterious religion revealed in Scripture, but in the end it leaves us as solitary and isolated selves.  

The great project of worship in Exodus began with a command: “And let them make me a sanctuary, that I may dwell in their midst” (Exod 25:8). The final scene of Exodus reminds us that even as God dwells in our midst, he remains always beyond us. Even as God dwells amid his people through the presence of Messiah Yeshua, our worship remains ultimately mysterious, “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known” (1 Cor 13:12). In the meantime, we embrace the mysterious, even as we worship the God who is present among us.

Scripture references are from the English Standard Version (ESV).

Compassion that Doesn't Fail

Parashat Ki Tisa, Exodus 30:11–34:35

Rabbi David Friedman, Jerusalem

How incredible are the blessings and gifts of God! Every day I wake up is a new start; a chance to live life fully, to spend time with people I love, to study and apply our magnificent Torah, to enjoy living in Israel, and in the city of my great love. Yet, even after experiencing such incredible blessings, too often I quickly turn from God’s ways! That very phenomenon is a part of today’s reading 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 Moses on Mt. Sinai, and the people witnessed natural phenomena that attested to the heavenly origin of God’s instructions. Yet as we read this week’s parasha, we are nearly slapped in the face with the actions of our people. We encounter their actions and we wince. We read of Aaron’s actions and we cannot believe what we see!

Now the people saw that Moses 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 Moses 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’s confronted by faithless, unhappy elements of his own people. Their voices are loud to him; he feels cornered and outnumbered. Aaron knows that he is planning to take action that’s not kosher (making a calf-mask and creating a new “holy” day). But he does it ​anyway.​ Perhaps he thinks he has to do these things to save his life, or to keep the people from going back to Egypt, or to hold off a riot. In fact, we don’t know how Aaron can justify what he did, as the text here gives us no light on that question.

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 this?  It’s a good thing that God sent Moses back down the mountain to set things in order.

We are faced with a catastrophe that could undo the newly found liberation, that could damage 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 3300 years after this event took place, this description of what happened ignites such feelings in all of us. But we find out a remarkable thing: 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 Moses: “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 because 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 the Torah is in its historical recollections. The bottom line is that God is provoked, and Moses is not happy either: “Then Moses got angry, and threw the tablets down, breaking them, underneath the Mountain” (32:19). Yet, Moses’ amazing plea to God turns things around:

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. (​32:13–14)

Like his ancestor Abraham, Moses is bold in his intercession for his people. And somehow this touches God’s heart. As a result, the people avoid annihilation, moving instead toward teshuva (repentance), rectifying the crisis. 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 ​extremely serious one. A lethal plague also breaks out, and some of the people have to drink water made of the golden idol, crushed and ground up in the mix. The inevitable confrontation between Moses and Aaron occurs:

Then Moses 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 Moses, 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.”​ ​(32:21–24)

Aaron blames the people. Of course. I’m sure that I would have done so, too. It’s our common reaction when we do wrong.

So what can we learn from this horrendous incident? Here are some things I glean from our parasha:

1. God is compassionate, 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 the Torah) or what is wrong (contrary to the 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 compassionate, merciful, and forgiving” as ​the prominent lesson. It is the bottom line of our portion, and probably of most Torah portions. In Exodus 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 Moses): “My face will go (on the journey to Israel with the people), and I will lead you!”

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 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). The Hebrew word for “mercy” reflects how a mother feels toward her unborn baby. Look at how God describes himself in our parasha:

So Adonai passed before him (Moses), crying: “Adonai, Adonai, Compassionate and Merciful God, longsuffering, 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. (34:6–7)

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

All Scripture citations are the author’s translation.

Esther: A Story of Standing Together

Purim 5781

by Jared Eaton, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

As the festival of Purim approaches, Jews around the world gather to read the megillah of Esther, a story about a young Jewish girl who becomes the queen of the Persian Empire and uses her position to save the Jewish people from destruction.

Esther has been an inspiring figure in Judaism for centuries. Children dress as her on the festival of Purim and it’s even become traditional to name baby girls born near Purim Esther after the heroine of the story.

But compared to other figures in the Bible, is Esther really a good Jewish role model?

Compare Esther to a similar figure in Jewish history, Daniel. The books of Esther and Daniel both concern how Jews are to live and act in exile, and have heroes who have to navigate through the intrigues and pressures of life in the court of a powerful gentile king.

But from there, the similarities end. Daniel has uncompromising faith and unwavering trust in God. He reacts to exile by holding fast to his values and his Jewish identity. He refuses to eat unclean foods; he refuses to bow down to idols; he refuses to change his prayer life or diminish his service to God. He always tells the truth and is fearless in the face of powerful kings. Daniel never compromises who he is.

Esther isn’t the same kind of role model. She hides her Jewish identity, embraces pagan customs, eats unclean foods, and marries a gentile. Daniel inspires the pagan kings to praise the name of the most-high God to all the people and nations of the earth. Esther is so irreligious that God’s name isn’t even mentioned in the whole book.

When Mordecai comes to her for help, Esther’s first response isn’t courage or faith, it’s self-preservation. She says “Everyone knows that anyone who appears before the king without being invited is doomed to die unless the king holds out his gold scepter. And the king has not called for me to come to him for thirty days” (Esth 4:11). It’s not a good look for someone who is supposed to be a hero and a role-model.

Martin Luther, the leader of the Protestant Reformation, hated the book of Esther so much that he wished for it to be expunged from the scriptures, because it was “filled with heathen unnaturalities.” Perhaps the most disturbing thing about the book of Esther is that when archeologists uncovered the Dead Sea Scrolls from the Qumran caves, they found fragments of every book in the Hebrew scriptures, except for Esther. The book of Esther was not included in the original Hebrew Bible.

So why do we place such emphasis on this book? Why do we read it year after year, telling the story of Esther, Haman, and Mordecai over and over again? Why is Esther such a hero to our people that we celebrate a holiday commemorating her story?

I think the answer lies in the same passage I quoted a moment ago. I believe that Esther found her greatest strength at her moment of greatest weakness.

Filled with rage and envy against the Jews, Haman had convinced the king to issue an edict calling for the death of every Jew in the empire. It was a moment of unprecedented devastation in our nation’s history.

The Jewish people responded by turning to God in hopes of being saved. Throughout the Kingdom, there was great mourning amongst the people. They took to the streets, fasting, weeping, and wailing. Everybody lay in sackcloth and ashes. Everybody that is, except for Esther.

Esther is completely oblivious to everything that is going on around her. She doesn’t even know about the death sentence looming over her people’s heads. She’s sitting pretty inside the palace, insulated from the cares of the world, decked out in royal garments, being pampered by maidens who attend to her every need.

No wonder then that Esther hesitates when Mordecai asks her to put herself on the line. She has everything to lose. A few months ago, Esther was a poor Jewish orphan, from an ostracized minority, with no parents, little education, and few prospects. By extraordinary circumstances, she found herself elevated to an exalted position as queen of all of Persia. She was able to leave the old, impoverished Jewish life behind and embrace her new abundant life as a Persian.

But now her past has caught up to her. She can’t escape the person she used to be, and now she is being asked to own the identity that she worked so hard to escape, knowing that if she does, she could lose everything she has, even her own life.

Esther has a decision to make. She can stay where she is and let the storm pass her by. No one knows that she’s Jewish; she would be safe inside the palace. She could keep living her new, comfortable life.

But instead, Esther responds to the call. With a little help from Mordecai, Esther realizes that her fate is bound to the Jewish people. Whatever her circumstances may be, wherever she lives or whatever she practices, she will always be a Jew, and she cannot abandon her people when they need her the most.

She tells Mordecai to go and gather all of the Jewish people. You have been fasting and praying up until now, well, I am going to fast and pray with you. I won’t remain separate from my people anymore. If I am going to be lost, then let me be lost. But let it be for the right reasons . . . let it be with my people, and for my people, not separate from them.

This is the greatness of Esther. She didn’t have to do what she did. Esther could have remained hidden and safe from harm, but at the most critical moment, she recognized that all Jews are responsible for one another, that we are all deeply connected, and she rejoins her people and changes the destiny of the Jewish people forever.

There’s a powerful lesson for Messianic Jews in this story. Like Esther, sometimes it’s easy for us to become isolated from our people. It’s easy to get caught up in our own insular little community and lose sight of what’s going on in the wider Jewish world. Sometimes we even find it easier to relate to gentiles than to Jews, find that our faith in Messiah Yeshua gives us more in common with the church than with Israel.

But the Hamans of the world have not gone away. The Jewish people still live under the threat of bigotry and antisemitism. Hate speech against the Jews has been on a steady rise.

We, like Esther, have choice to make. We can shut ourselves up in our palace and hope that the storm passes us by. Or we can recognize that we are a part of the Jewish people, that God has called us to bear one another’s burdens, and that we need to stand with our people in good times and bad.

Purim is a celebration of our Jewish identity in a world that continues to hate and fear Jews. In the darkest times in our history, the Jewish people have celebrated Purim to remember how God has never abandoned us and how deeply connected we are to one another.

And no, I don’t think Esther is a poor role model. Martin Luther, raging antisemite that he was, may not have been a big fan of the book, but Moses Maimonides, one of the greatest Jewish minds of all time, said that outside of the five books of the Torah, Esther is the most important book in the Bible. He believed that more than any other text, Esther would instruct the Jewish people how to survive in exile away from the Holy Land.

Esther may not have been included in the original versions of the Hebrew Bible, but from the medieval period on there have been more scrolls of Esther discovered than any other book of the Bible, save the Torah. During the tortured history of European Jewry, this book took on a special meaning to the Jewish people. The book of Esther teaches us that even in the most hopeless situations, God will always deliver.

Wherever the Jews would survive plagues, or floods or famines, they would celebrate Purim to remind them of God’s deliverance. When Judaism was outlawed in Spain during the Inquisition, Jews would secretly celebrate Purim in basements and cellars.

When we read the book of Esther, we join ourselves to a long tradition. A tradition of finding hope and joy in dark times. A tradition of taking a stand against hatred and bigotry. And a tradition of standing together, hand in hand, as one with our people.

Chag Sameach Purim!

The Holy Ark: Pointing The Way

Parashat T’rumah, Exodus 25:1–27:19   

by Ben Volman, Kehillat Eytz Chaim, Toronto

One of the most intriguing places my wife and I have experienced in Israel is David Ben Gurion’s home in Tel Aviv. The square brick building is not only plain outside; its first floor has sparse, basic furnishings with few touches of color. It almost disdains luxury. But then you reach the second floor and feel you’ve entered the great man’s inner sanctum, his desk, his papers. You sense his presence as he edited Israel’s Declaration of Independence and hosted world leaders. All around you are his books, a vast collection to enrich the mind and heart. All that you knew of this figure, whose indomitable vision led Israel to nationhood, is transformed. 

I’ve had a similar change of heart over the years studying the Mishkan—Israel’s desert tabernacle. At first, all the details seemed ponderously boring. But in time, I became fascinated, especially by the centerpiece, its inner sanctum—the Ark of the Covenant. (Mind you, my studies started a few years before Indiana Jones’s daring pursuit of the Ark in “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”)  Still, no other artifact from Israel’s past has exerted such a hold on our spiritual imagination. This remarkable locus of power and mystery embodies the very heart of God’s purpose in the Mishkan: “that I may dwell among them” (Exod 25:8).

By size, it was not meant to impress: the acacia wood aron (literally a box or chest) covered with gold, was originally built to hold the edut (the “testimony,” the tablets of the law). It was only about three to four feet in length and perhaps two feet high. But the ancients would have definitely understood the significance of its magnificent cover: the elaborate lid of solid gold with the intriguing facing figures of angels (k’ruvim / cherubim) with outspread wings and bowed heads. Despite its otherworldly quality (Moshe “was shown” a vision of the model beforehand, Exod 25:9)—the Ark was very much a creation of its time by skilled artisans trained in Egypt.

The thrones of kings were frequently decorated with pairs of winged angelic beings of a composite nature (animal torsos with wings and sometimes human faces) as supernatural guardians. The aron became known as “the Ark for the covenant of Adonai-Tzva’ot, who is present above the k’ruvim” (1 Sam 4:4; Psa 80:2; 99:1). As God’s throne, it required those who approached it to bow as before a king at his “footstool” (1 Chron 28:2; Psa 132:7).  

It was common practice in this era for kings to place treaties and pacts in the temples of their gods, under their feet. The god both acted as guardian of the pact and oversaw its supervision. (Note how Shmu’el “places before the Lord,” at the foot of the Ark, the ordinances of Israel’s new kingdom in 1 Sam 10:25.)

The word Mishkan shares the same root as Shekhinah, the presence of God. In this sense, Israel’s Mishkan with the Ark was likened to a portable Mt. Sinai that they carried with them. Today, the aron kodesh (holy ark) in our schuls reflects this same pattern—at the heart of our sanctuary is God’s law, the Torah scroll, symbolizing God’s presence and our access to him.  

The Ark as it went before them and then later traveled in their midst was also a symbol of Adonai Tzeva’ot as a warrior: “When the Ark was to set out, Moses would say, ‘Advance, O Lord! May your enemies be scattered’” (Num 10:35, JPS). This song is now integrated into our Torah liturgy but the words hint at the Ark’s hidden power. As it led Israel into battles for the Holy Land, the Ark was seen as God’s chariot. (With a  mysterious power that would strike Uzzah dead when he inadvertently put out a hand to steady the aron on a cart as David led the Ark up to Jerusalem; 2 Sam 6:3–8). 

At the height of its significance, the Ark was where God actively exercised sovereignty through his servant, Moshe. Afterwards, the connection almost seemed lost until the revived spiritual authority of Shmu’el and the eventual rise of King David. It was David’s vision to build a Temple for the Ark at the center of his new capital in Jerusalem. During a visit to Shiloh just a few years ago, our group shared an uncanny sense of God’s presence, commonly felt by people who go there, as if the lingering power of the Ark were still resonant in the surrounding valleys.

Today, the Ark’s continuing place in the living memory of Israel is its role as the “mercy seat,” where all sins were cleansed by the sprinkling of blood on Yom Kippur. It was so central to the rituals of atonement that even when it was gone and the Temple rebuilt, the ritual in the Holy of Holies continued as if it were there. But by the time of Jeremiah, the significance of the Ark as a symbol of God’s protective power over his people had become a problem. Israel’s disobedience to the Torah would bring heavy consequences on the nation in 586 BCE as the people and their blinded king were led to Babylonian exile with the burning city in ruins. 

Israeli archeologist Leen Ritmeyer is convinced that four indented points on the rock (“al-Sakhra”) under the Dome of the Rock are the last remaining signs of the exact setting where the Ark was placed in Solomon’s Temple.  So, what happened to the Ark? Lucas and Spielberg closed their story with a mystery, but the missing Ark still compels believers to hope that it will be seen again. That hope is written into Revelation 11:19, where the Temple of heaven opens and the Ark (or perhaps the model) is revealed. The Scriptural record of the fall of Jerusalem says nothing about the Ark. Jeremiah hid it, according to 2 Maccabees, in the cave where Moshe is buried. Rabbinic traditions say that Josiah had it hidden, but I have read numerous “inside” revelations—that it’s secreted away in hidden passages under the Temple or in Ethiopia.

We take all this with a grain of salt, yet we can never be sure how the Ark will rise again in significance. In 638 CE, after the Caliph Abd al-Malik captured Jerusalem, he demanded to see the “Holy Temple.” The Byzantine patriarch took him to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but the Caliph wasn’t satisfied. Finally, he was taken to the Temple Mount, which had become the city dump. “Here it is,” said his host, “the abomination of desolation.” The Byzantines had presumed this was the end of the story. They were wrong. The story of the Ark is imprinted on the heart of Israel, like the promise of Messiah, an essential reminder of God’s continuing presence on our spiritual journey between exile and nationhood. The Ark pointed the way. All we know is that God in the living reality of Yeshua, alive in the temple of our hearts, will continue to lead us from here.