Monsters, Giants, and Other Formidable Obstacles

Parashat Sh’lach L’cha, Numbers 13:1–15:41

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

I originally wrote this d’var Torah in 2008. I cannot remember what fears I felt forced to confront then, but somehow this commentary feels every bit as relevant today. Much has been said about the fears we faced as we went into quarantine or semi-lockdown mode. But 15 months later we deal with a totally different set of fears on the way out. To vaccinate or not to vaccinate; going back to the office, school, or even synagogue; what are the correct procedures and protocols? And the greatest fear of all, putting on my hard clothes that fit last year. The one thing that has not changed is the nature of fear itself. So, I hope this drash offers some perspective and some hope!

 In the spring of 2002, I went to an art exhibit featuring a group of pictures painted by a good friend who was beginning the process of leaving the safety of a career as a commercial artist and pursuing an art form that was uniquely his own. The collection was entitled quite simply, “Monsters.” I was not prepared for the transition in his work. My friend’s commercial work had always been clean, crisp, and professional and uncluttered. His new art was dark, convoluted, layered and primitive, obscuring warm colors with dark shadows.  

What my friend had done was to take his seven-year-old son’s crayon drawings of monsters and reinterpret them in a more adult, almost surrealist genre. The oil re-creations hung next to the crayon originals in this sophisticated Massachusetts gallery. Though there was no written explanation of the work, it communicated to me an honest, yet often ignored reality of life. The fears, horrors, and insecurities of our childhoods do not disappear with time, as we might imagine, but rather remain buried deep in our psyche only to reemerge in more sophisticated genres and expressions. Unless we deal with, slay, shrink, or unmask the monsters and giants of our past, they make a home next to our “child within.”  

Giants of Old and Now

The Torah portion this week begins with Moses sending out twelve agents, one from each tribe, to examine the land and give a report to the people. They all reported that the land was a good land that did indeed “flow with milk and honey” (Num 13:28). But ten of the twelve tribes saw only the potential for calamity in the land and could not imagine that the God who had guided them to this land might also deliver it into their hands. Their report is very telling: “we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, as so we must have looked to them” (13:33). What is even more telling is the reaction of most of the people, who wept all night and complained about their leaders, imagining that they would have all been better off staying in Egypt. In fact, they even contemplated heading back to Egypt. In their minds they were still slaves, undeserving of freedom.  

On the surface their reaction seems so illogical that it would have been not only silly but also improbable. Of course, their lives in Egypt were a 400-year living hell—beatings, starvation, thankless labor, and often-unceremonious deaths at the hands of ruthless masters. Yet how can we explain that even today, in the midst of our “enlightened” society, there are those who remain under the thumb of abject abuse? Wives and children who are regularly beaten, employees who stay in thankless underpaid jobs, and devotees who remain in systems of spiritual abuse, exhibit the same tendency to endure the hardship of the known, rather than face the giants and monsters that loom so large in their imagination.  

In stark contrast though, the spies of our Haftarah portion, Joshua 2:1–24, give us a renewed sense of hope. They went into Jericho after forty years of wandering and came out with a completely opposite opinion to their predecessors: “Truly the Lord has delivered into our hands all of the land; and moreover all of the inhabitants of the land melt before us” (Josh 2:24). What happened from one generation to the next? How did they conquer their fear? They spent forty years observing that an unseen force nurtured, protected, and preserved them. They came to believe that the God who had delivered them from bondage for the sake of their fathers, and who had promised them the land they were about to enter, could and would bring it to pass. The fact is, fear is to courage as inhaling is to exhaling. It is hope, though, that gives us the courage to do what we are afraid to do. We fear and we hope at the same time; and fear lurks behind hope, just as the bright face of the moon hides its dark side.  

The Many Faces of Courage

Courage has multiple faces. It can mean saying no to compromise, or it can mean making a difficult compromise. It can entail dying a heroic death or living through terrible pain. It can mean fighting a good fight or knowing when it is best for all to concede. But courage always involves facing our fears.

Having courage often means enduring when troubles are upon us. Morrie Schwartz exemplifies this passive kind of courage as recorded in the book Tuesdays with Morrie, by Mitch Albom. Morrie was Mitch’s beloved professor with whom he had kept in sporadic contact. But when Morrie became terminally ill Mitch decided to visit him with regularity. The book documents their every Tuesday meetings and Morrie’s rapid physical decline. But as his condition declined his inner courage became more evident.

The Children of Israel certainly endured much torment during the years of enslavement. Much is made of their lapses of faith and mutinous activities, but not enough is spoken of Israel’s emerging courage. In large measure Israel endured despite endless foes and constant threat to their survival, and so it continues today. Through inquisition, holocaust, pogrom, and jihad, Israel has grown in its passive courage.

But active courage is also essential. This requires us to act well at the risk of danger. We look our fears full in the face and do what we must in spite of it. Israel had to muster this type of courage as they prepared to enter the fortified city of Jericho. It would have been easier to find elsewhere to sojourn. After all they had livestock, and gold and treasures taken from Egypt. Weren’t they the descendants of nomads and, after all, weren’t their encampments in the wilderness vastly superior to their past life of bondage in Egypt? But that would not have allowed them to fulfill their destiny.

Ruby Bridges is no longer a household name. But when the Louisiana public schools were integrated back in the turbulent 1960s Ruby was the first little girl to cross the line and enter a previously segregated public elementary school. Having only sheriff’s deputies and State Policemen between herself and the assembly of bigots who came out to spit and hurl insults, the courageous little girl walked the gauntlet to a new school where she would have no friends, no acceptance, and no comfort. When interviewed, Ruby’s mother described why Ruby did what she did: “There’s a lot of people who talk about doing good, and a lot of people who argue about what’s good and what’s not good, but there were also some other folks who put their lives on the line for what’s right.” Active courage is no more difficult to muster than passive courage, but easier to put off. Much of our procrastination is a sluggish denial of our fears.

Oxford English Dictionary defines courage as “facing danger without fear.” This may be a popular opinion, but I think it’s patently untrue. In fact, I believe only people who are afraid truly exhibit courage. The question is, where do we get the strength to do the things we are afraid of? The answer is hope. The spies in this week’s Haftarah portion in a sense are the reconstituted courage of Caleb and Joshua, who stood up to the masses and their own monsters and giants, and believed the promises of God. Continuing a forty-year journey of monotony, pain, and suffering demanded resolve, courage, and spiritual stamina. As a result, the people of Israel were birthed in a womb of hope. God met all their needs and led them toward his promises. So, in this sense hope was their fear as seen through the lens of their courage.  

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a German pastor who risked everything to fight the Nazis. He was put in prison, and from there he penned letters that give people hope today. In one, he wrote this prayer: “Give me the hope that will deliver me from fear and faintheartedness.” He was given hope and hope gave him courage. The Nazis killed Bonhoeffer anyway. But his hope was not unrealized. The Nazis were defeated, and God was seen, as he always is, as the ultimate victor.  

We are often afraid that we are losing the fight, and we suffer fear and anxiety. But hope brings back a faith that we will win. So, face those fears, large and small, head on, and echo the words of Rav Shaul, “I can do all things through Messiah who strengthens me” (Phil 4:13).

Faith Is Not an Easy Journey

Parashat Beha’alotcha, Numbers 8:1–12:16

by Michael Hillel, Netanya, Israel

 From the time I left the bus, that muggy, dark evening on the 6th of August 1972, I learned the discipline of following orders . . . immediately. I should mention that the bus dropped me and the rest of the passengers in a debarkation area at the Recruit Training Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina. So, from the moment we stepped off the bus and onto the tarmac, we learned that when an order was given, we had to do everything we could to obey it—and whether that order made sense or not did not matter in the slightest. We also learned, fairly quickly, that the time to do said orders was immediately, and without hesitation—unless it was a time-related order like, you will be ready to go in exactly 15 minutes. This learning process continued for the next three months of basic training and then carried on for the next twelve years as I served on active duty in the United State Marine Corps. 

What does this trip down memory lane have to do with this week’s parasha, you may ask? Hopefully it will become clear soon.

This week’s parasha is Beha’alotcha (“when you set up”). There are numerous items covered in this parasha, but I want to focus on Numbers 9:15–23, which begins, 

On the day the Tabernacle was erected, the cloud covered the Tabernacle. By evening until morning, the cloud above the Tent of Testimony had an appearance like fire. It was that way continually. The cloud covered it, and by night it appeared like fire. (9:15–16)

This passage is reminiscent of the scene in Exodus 40 when the setup of the Tabernacle was completed, and it was consecrated.

So, Moses finished the work. Then the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the glory of Adonai filled the Tabernacle. For the cloud of Adonai was on the Tabernacle by day and a fire was there by night, in the sight of all the house of Israel throughout all their journeys. (Exod 40:33–34, 38)

One can but imagine the sight this was. In the very middle of the camp and ringed by the tribe of Levi, who had charge of the Tabernacle (Num 1:50), was the visible Presence of Adonai, surrounded by the rest of the Israelites, as well as by the myriads of those who accompanied them in the Exodus. The Presence appeared either as a cloud by day or pillar of fire by night, and was seen 24/7 in the midst of Bnei-Yisrael, the people of Israel. 

Now comes the connection with my little trip down memory lane:  

Whenever the cloud lifted up from above the Tent, then Bnei-Yisrael would set out, and at the place where the cloud settled, there Bnei-Yisrael would encamp. At the mouth of Adonai, Bnei-Yisrael would set out, and at the mouth of Adonai they would encamp. All the days that the cloud remained over the Tabernacle; they would remain in camp. (Num 9:17–18)

It appears that Bnei-Yisrael moved, not at their own initiative but at the command of Adonai (or Hashem). The passage goes on to state that at times the camp would remain in place for many days, at other times for just a few days, and on occasion, just overnight. In the Word Bible Commentary on Numbers, Philip J. Budd rightly agrees with most other biblical commentators that, while Israel’s history was rife with episodes of obedience and disobedience, in the matter of the Tabernacle in the Wilderness they at least stayed on track. Equally, Israel’s obedience to move or not to move showed a dependence upon Hashem’s right, and even responsibility, to guide Israel through the trials of the Wilderness. I believe Budd’s most important observation, however, is that, “The movement of God, symbolized by the cloud, and God’s times may not always be subject to rational explanation. Man’s (Israel’s and our) commitment is to follow in faith” (p. 104). 

But, as Israel discovered, following Hashem by faith was not an easy journey.  

If any of you have ever gone camping, remember how long it took to set up your camp for the evening, or maybe for the weekend, or even an extended campout. Now multiply that by 603,550 (Num 1:46), plus wives, children, Levites, servants, livestock etc. Finally consider that if you were in that crowd of 600,000 plus, setting up camp, you had no idea if this was going to be an overnighter or if you might be there for a year or even more. With this in mind, words from the author of Hebrews become even more meaningful. “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of realities not seen” (Heb 11:1). 

When walking by faith, we are not guaranteed the knowledge of the “whats and whys” of our walk. Like Israel, we may not know how long that walk might be or what its various stops or detours might be like. We can have our hopes or ideas, but in all things, we must trust in

Hashem and his guidance as we walk out life’s journey. In this life of chaos and confusion, we can hold onto these words from the Psalmist: “For this God is our God, forever and ever! He will guide us to the end” (Psa 48:14). 

In this we can have the assurance that just as Hashem guided and directed Bnei Israel in the Wilderness, with all of the side trips and detours, he will guide us through the wildernesses of our lives as well. Likewise, just like Bnei-Yisrael in the Wilderness, we too should “walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Cor 5:7). 

Shabbat shalom u’mevorach!

All Scripture references are from the Tree of Life version (TLV)

A Cure for Jealousy

Parashat Naso, Numbers 4:21-7:89

by Jared Eaton, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

Parshat Naso contains one of the most difficult and uncomfortable passages in the Bible: the details of the Sotah Jealousy Ritual found in Numbers 5:12–31.

A man becomes suspicious that his wife has been cheating on him. He has no proof, only his feelings of jealousy. So, the husband publicly accuses his wife of adultery and brings her to the temple to perform a ritual to prove her guilt.

The woman is brought before the priest and has her hair uncovered and loosened, not a big deal in our society, but in communities where keeping your hair covered is a sign of modesty, this is the equivalent of being stripped naked.

The husband makes an offering to God and then what almost seems like a magic spell happens. The priest fills a bowl full of holy water then mixes dirt from the temple floor into it. The priest then writes on a parchment, that if the woman has been unfaithful, then God will curse her. He will cause her belly to become swollen and her insides to rot. The woman must agree to this curse and then the priest mixes the parchment into the dirty water and then the woman has to drink the foul concoction. If the woman is guilty of adultery, then immediately the waters will become bitter inside of her and cause her to rot from the inside out. If she is pregnant with another man’s child, the child will die and she will be accursed among her people for as long as she lives, which will not likely be long. The woman will bear her guilt, but the husband will be free of guilt.

Pretty nasty stuff. Even apart from the hideous death it promises to unfaithful women, it seems so humiliating, even to the innocent.  

Is this what the Bible teaches? To brutalize the weak, to treat our wives like property? To resort to superstition and mysticism when dealing out justice? Or is there something deeper going on here?

The Sotah ritual does sound like magic. It’s complex and deeply symbolic and difficult for the modern reader to wrap their head around. So, let’s imagine a contemporary   situation, in which the temple still exists and biblical law is still in effect, to illustrate how the Sotah ritual as interpreted in the Talmud (b.Sotah 2a) might be used.

Meet Sara and Lenny. They have a happy marriage, but lately things have been rough. Sara works at a downtown office, and in recent months has become friendly with one of her coworkers, Bob. Sara and Bob eat lunch together every day, talk on the phone often, and have started to spend time together outside of work.

Lenny isn’t feeling good about this. He feels that Sara and Bob’s relationship is undermining his own relationship with his wife. Lenny asks his rabbi what to do and the rabbi tells him that the Talmud states that he should confront his wife about his feelings and do so in the presence of two close, trusted friends, so there will be witnesses, who can intervene in case things get heated.

Lenny takes the rabbi’s advice. In front of their friends Joe and Jane, he asks Sara to not be alone with Bob anymore. Sara agrees that she won’t see Bob anymore and the issue seems like it’s resolved, but a week later, Joe and Jane are out taking a walk and what do they see but Sara and Bob together? They follow them for a bit and to their dismay they see Sara and Bob walk into a hotel.

They feel obligated to tell Lenny what they witnessed. Lenny is distraught and asks them if they are sure; did they actually see the adulterous act? Joe and Jane have to admit that they didn’t actually witness any adulterous activity; all they saw was the opportunity for adultery.

So once again Lenny confronts his wife. He tells her what Joe and Jane saw. Sara admits, that yes, she went into the hotel with Bob, but it was only to have lunch at their restaurant. She swears that she didn’t do anything else with Bob and that she has been faithful to her husband. 

Lenny and Sara are at an impasse. Lenny has good reason to be jealous. Sara continued her relationship with Bob even after her husband had asked her to end it. Sara insists that she has been faithful but doesn’t have anything other than her word to prove it. What is this couple to do?

Lenny and Sara go back to their rabbi, and he tells them that there are only two possible solutions at this point. Either they can decide to dissolve the marriage immediately, regardless of Sara’s guilt or innocence, or they can choose to re-establish a trusting relationship based on Lenny’s acceptance of his wife’s innocence.

Lenny and Sara love each other, and they don’t want to split up. But how can Lenny trust Sara now? She insists that she’s innocent but there’s no way to prove what really went on after they went into that hotel. There’s no way for Lenny to dispel his lingering doubts. Their marriage seems doomed.

But then the rabbi suggests a solution. There was a witness to what happened in the hotel he says. God! Sara’s innocence can only be attested to by God himself. “How?” they ask. So, the Rabbi tells them about the Sotah ritual.

Lenny and Sara go to the temple and the priest instructs them on how to perform the Sotah Ritual.

First, the husband has to bring an offering for his wife to demonstrate that they are participating in a mutual effort towards reconciliation.  

Next, the priest takes a clay jar, and fills it with water from the sanctuary wash bin, and takes dust from the sanctified earth on which the temple stands.

Finally, the priest writes down the two possible consequences of the Sotah test. If Sara has been unfaithful to Lenny, the water will turn bitter inside her, but if she is telling the truth and has been faithful, the water will not harm her, and she will be blessed with fertility and bear children. Sarah then has to voluntarily agree to the terms of the test. If she doesn’t agree the whole test becomes invalidated.

Finally, the priest places the parchment into the jar, and the writing becomes dissolved into the water, and then comes the moment of truth.

Sarah stands before the priest and has her hair uncovered and let loose over her shoulders. It sounds unnecessarily humiliating, but the rabbis argue that this isn’t done as punishment. If it were, they would have done it in public where everyone can see. Instead, she loosens her hair only once she’s sequestered with her husband and the priest as a symbolic representation of her vulnerability and dependence on the mercy of God.

Sarah holds up the bowl to her lips and tilts it back. At that moment Lenny realizes that this all has been a huge mistake, he realizes he doesn’t care what Sara may have or have not done, she’s the love of his life and he can’t imagine life without her. He doesn’t need some crazy test to tell him that he wants to be with her forever.

Lenny leaps to knock the bowl from Sara’s hands but it’s too late, she’s already drunk the waters. Lenny stands back motionless, unable to even breathe as he waits to see what will happen to his wife. After moment, Sara grimaces and says, “That tasted awful! But otherwise, I feel… pretty good.” Lenny bursts into tears of relief and he rushes to embrace his wife. Sara has passed the test. She has proven herself a faithful woman. And the trust between her and her husband has been restored.

So, what happened here? Is the Sotah test magic? The truth is Sara was never in any danger at all. The water she drinks, while dirty, is completely harmless by itself. In order for the water to harm her, God would have to come down and perform a miracle in order to prove her guilty!

At no point in the whole process is the woman forced to do anything against her will. According to the Talmudic interpretation of the biblical text, if Lenny demanded the test and Sara didn’t want to do it, she always had the option to ask for a divorce instead. In fact, since there was no evidence that she had committed adultery, the divorce would have been considered no fault and Lenny would have to pay her alimony.

The Sotah test can only be taken voluntarily and only an innocent woman would agree to it. If Sara had really been unfaithful, she almost certainly would have taken the option of divorce rather than face the dire consequences of the test. Only a woman who still genuinely loves her husband and wants to restore his trust in her would have the courage and faith in God’s justice to take the test.

When Sara entered the temple, her reputation was in shambles. Her friends, family and coworkers wondered if she was an unfaithful wife and thought less of her for it. But when she emerges from the temple whole and unharmed, hand in hand with her husband she is vindicated before the whole community. Both her reputation and her relationship with her husband have been restored. Soon after, according to Gods promise, she and Lenny conceive their first child and continue on in their journey together.

 I love a happy ending.

The great medieval scholar Ramban notes “there is nothing amidst all the ordinances of Torah that depends upon a miracle, except this matter.” In every other case, God tells us to rule amongst ourselves according to his laws. But when a marriage is threatened, God himself steps off his throne and comes down to deal with it personally.

God’s involvement in the Sotah test demonstrates the level of his presence in every marriage. The union between husband and wife and their faithfulness towards each other is a special object of Gods attention. How much more should we value that relationship ourselves?

The Day that Changed the World

Shavuot 5781

Jared Eaton, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

The Festival of Shavuot has the unique distinction of being the only holiday celebrated in both Jewish and Christian traditions. The church may call it “Pentecost” and their celebration may have a different focus, but Shavuot commemorates the birth of these two religions; at Sinai for the Jews and in Jerusalem for the church.

But despite its importance, compared to other Jewish holidays there aren’t many customs connected with Shavuot. Aside from a few traditions like eating dairy and studying Torah all night, the main mitzvot connected to Shavuot are reading the book of Ruth and hearing the Ten Commandments.

Looking for ideas on how to celebrate Shavuot, I asked some of my pastor friends what they were planning for Pentecost. They all shrugged their shoulders and didn’t have anything special going on.

Shavuot/Pentecost should be one of the biggest holidays in the world, but it seems to me that it’s not given the prominence that it deserves. And I believe this is a result of both Judaism and Christianity missing big pieces of what Shavuot is all about.

In early Judaism, Shavuot was primarily a harvest festival and pilgrimage. The Feast of Weeks marks the time when the wheat fields in Israel were harvested and brought to the temple in Jerusalem. But if you’re not an ancient Judean farmer these ideas aren’t very concrete, and this abstraction coupled with the lack of observances has led to Shavuot being the least known holiday amongst secular Jews, many not even knowing that it exists.

But there is a greater significance to Shavuot. Shavuot takes place fifty days after Passover, and in those fifty days the Israelites who had been freed from slavery in Egypt made their way through the wilderness and traveled to Mt Sinai.

One of the great themes of Passover is freedom, but our tradition teaches us the Jews were not really free when Pharaoh let them leave. They may have been physically free, but in their hearts they were still slaves, unable to come to grips with their newfound freedom.

The Jewish people did not experience true liberation of mind, body, and soul until they came to Mt Sinai, heard the voice of God, and received the Torah. On Shavuot we celebrate not just being given some laws; we celebrate being given our freedom, our identity, and our soul.  

As for Christianity, Shavuot, or Pentecost as they call it, commemorates the events described in the second chapter of Acts. During the festival of Shavuot, when thousands of Jews were gathered in Jerusalem to bring their wheat harvest offerings to the temple, a mighty wind from Heaven rushed down and tongues of fire rested on the assembled followers of Yeshua. They began to speak in all the languages of the world, each one of them proclaiming the gospel and the mighty acts of God. 

The crowds were amazed, and when Peter stood up to tell the people about the death and resurrection of Messiah Yeshua, it’s said that over 3,000 Jews came to faith that day.

From that time on everything was different, and still is to this day. No longer confined to Jerusalem, the gospel spread throughout Israel and into the nations. Empowered by the Ruach HaKodesh, the followers of Yeshua were able to perform miracles, heal the sick, raise the dead. Thousands and thousands of people came to faith, Jew and gentile, and the gospel was preached in every nation and tongue.

The giving of the Ruach was an occasion as momentous as the giving of the Torah. If the first Shavuot was the birth of the Jewish people, this Shavuot marked the birth of the Yeshua movement. What had once been a small, insular group spread and became a worldwide phenomenon that continues to grow to this day and beyond. 

On the first Shavuot, God gave us the gift of his Word. On the second great Shavuot, God gave the gift of his Spirit. We have much to celebrate, yet the world doesn’t seem to pay all that much attention to Shavuot. For both Jews and Christians, Shavuot is at best often treated like a minor holiday, at worst like something that we forget about altogether. Why is that?

The problem is that both sides are only getting half the story. For Jews, we celebrate the giving of the Torah, but the story ends there. This was a one-time gift, never to be repeated. And the church celebrates the giving of the Spirit, but there’s no context involved. For the average Christian, the Spirit was given on just some random day in history.

It’s only when you put the two stories together that you see something greater emerge. Both stories, Sinai and Jerusalem, are amazing on their own and each day changed the world forever. However, when we read these stories together, we see not just some one-off miracles but a story of progressive revelation and a God who gives and continues to give more and greater gifts to the world.

Yes, we celebrate the giving of the Torah for itself. But we also understand that there is even more cause for celebration because God has sent Messiah Yeshua, the Word made flesh, to fulfill the Torah.

And we can celebrate the giving of the Holy Spirit in the full context of God’s revelation to us. First, God sends his Word so that we know his will for us. Then he sends his Son, so that he can dwell with us and love us face to face, and finally he sends his Spirit so that nothing can separate us from his love ever again.

On the first great Shavuot God gave us the gift of the Torah. On the second great Shavuot he gave us the gift of the Holy Spirit. No one can know the hour or the day of Messiah’s return, but perhaps Yeshua will come on a third great Shavuot. How fitting would it be for God to give us the greatest gift of all on a day such as this?

Chag Shavuot Sameach!

The Benefit of Losing Control

Parashat B’har-B’Chukotai, Leviticus 25:1–27:34

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Last week I spent a couple of days on the upper Rio Grande near Taos, New Mexico, along with Rabbi Rich Nichol, my friend Avi, and my son Luke, who has the most experience among us in canoeing and kayaking. After our first day of running the rapids he said that what he loves about boating on the river is how you can use all your skills and all your strength, you can make all the right moves, and it’s still always beyond your control. Sometimes you just end up going wherever the flow takes you. You can navigate the current, but the current always wins out—and he loves that reality.

Luke’s comments about managing (or being managed by) the river reminded me of the Lord’s instructions in this week’s parasha about managing the land of Israel: 

When you come into the land that I give you, the land shall keep a Shabbat to Hashem. For six years you shall sow your field, and for six years you shall prune your vineyard and gather in its fruits, but in the seventh year there shall be a Shabbat of rest for the land, a Shabbat for Hashem. You shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard. You shall not reap what grows of itself in your harvest, or gather the grapes of your undressed vine. It shall be a year of rest for the land. The Shabbat of the land shall provide food for you. . . . (Lev 25:2–6a)

The Israelite farmer does all he can, sowing, pruning, and harvesting, but then, like the kayaker running the rapids, he encounters a limit to what he can control. He must let go every seventh year, to let the land rest from his labors and provide food on its own. This Torah instruction on farm management is a wider lesson on the limits of our own efforts, even the best ones. And if the lesson isn’t clear enough, the Torah mandates a still greater cessation of human effort after seven of these seven-year cycles:  

You shall count seven Shabbats of years, seven times seven years, so that the time of the seven Shabbats of years shall give you forty-nine years. Then you shall cause the shofar to sound on the tenth day of the seventh month. . . . And you shall consecrate the fiftieth year, and proclaim liberty throughout the land to all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you, when each of you shall return to his property and each of you shall return to his clan. That fiftieth year shall be a Jubilee for you; in it you shall neither sow nor reap what grows of itself nor gather the grapes from the undressed vines. (Lev 25:8–11)

Today, with our abundance of stored and stockpiled food supplies, it’s hard to imagine how hard and even threatening it must have been to forego preparing the soil and planting the seed for a whole year. The sages comment on this challenge: 

It is customary for a person to perform a mitzvah for a day, a week, or a month. Does one usually perform a mitzvah for an entire year? Yet the farmer lets the field lie fallow for a year, the vineyard for a year, and remains silent. Is there greater strength of character than this? (Yalkut T’hillim 860, cited in The Mussar Torah Commentary)

This great “strength of character” doesn’t arise from human exertion and competence, but from trust in God. It arises out beyond the limits of all that we can do, out in those beyond-our-control areas of human experience where we learn to fully trust in God. We realize that God is always present and active, especially there, present like the rushing current and far more powerful than our feeble paddle strokes.

The cycle of Shabbat years and Jubilee reminds us of this underlying reality, summarized in these words:  “The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is mine. For you are strangers and sojourners with me” (Lev 25:23). The land we work doesn’t belong to us, but to Hashem; it requires our efforts and our diligence, but in the end, we are resident aliens, dependent on his provision. The limits on our ownership of the land train us in trusting him.

The Torah continues to post these limits to our control and to promote trust in God in an age obsessed with human achievement and technical competence. We’re learning to let go in an age that’s holding on tight, that’s running the rapids with a white-knuckled grip on the paddles. And yet the ability to relax our grip and trust in God remains essential to spiritual wholeness.

Messiah Yeshua calls us to the ultimate in letting go: “Any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:33). It’s clear from reading the full account of the Good News that Messiah is not calling us to necessarily live in poverty and isolation. We still have work to do and responsibilities to fulfill. But he’s calling us to the Jubilee realization that we are resident aliens here, no matter how much we’ve accumulated or accomplished, and that it all belongs to our Master, who reminds us, “The land is mine.” When things threaten to drift out of control, we may sometimes need to paddle harder, or we may need to recognize this anxious moment as an opportunity to trust God more deeply.

Renouncing all that we have doesn’t necessarily mean poverty and marginalization (although it could), but it does remove our excuses for stinginess, holding grudges, self-serving deeds, and greed of all kinds. Renouncing all that we have means we shouldn’t be shocked or scandalized when we’re expected to practice forgiveness, or generosity, or self-sacrifice. Instead of diminishing us, it reminds us that the current of God remains far stronger than our most heroic efforts, and we please him as we learn to entrust ourselves to its flow.

 Scripture references are the author’s translation, based on the ESV.

Photo: New Mexico River Adventures

Are We Finished?

Parashat Emor, Leviticus 21:1-24:23
Chaim Dauermann, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

Leviticus is not typically thought of as a very exciting book. Perhaps this is rightfully so, considering that nearly the entire text comprises descriptions of sacrifices, and rules and regulations for priests and lay people. But with a slight adjustment of perspective, we can see Leviticus as something different, a narrative as compelling, vivid, and disquieting as any horror story. 

Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu are burned alive through the power of God, a consequence for perhaps as little as coming to the tent of meeting while drunk (chapter 10). Elsewhere, a young man blasphemes the name of God, and is stoned to death for it by his community at God’s command (chapter 24). We read of child sacrifice, necromancy, mediumship, and all manner of sexual perversion, including incest and bestiality. In most cases, the prescribed punishment for these transgressions is death, and in other cases, exile from the community. God’s incomparable holiness is portrayed in stark contrast to humanity’s corrupt, fallen nature. The solution that Leviticus proposes for enabling us, in our sinful condition, to approach God is purity, and there is perhaps nowhere in this book where this solution is presented more succinctly and clearly than in this week’s parasha, Emor. 

In chapter 22, the Lord gives Moses instructions for him to relate to Aaron and his sons: “Say to them, ‘If any one of your offspring throughout your generations approaches the holy things that the people dedicate to the Lord, while he has an uncleanness, that person shall be cut off from my presence: I am the Lord’” (verse 3). And then, “They shall therefore keep my charge, lest they bear sin for it and die thereby when they profane it: I am the Lord who sanctifies them” (verse 9). Later, he delivers instructions about offerings, as well:

Speak to Aaron and his sons and all the people of Israel and say to them, When any one of the house of Israel or of the sojourners in Israel presents a burnt offering as his offering, for any of their vows or freewill offerings that they offer to the Lord, if it is to be accepted for you it shall be a male without blemish, of the bulls or the sheep or the goats. You shall not offer anything that has a blemish, for it will not be acceptable for you. (Lev‬ 22:18–20)‬ ‬‬

Leviticus can make for some challenging reading, not because it might seem rather dry to some, but because of what it reveals about us and about the perfection of God. How can we ever measure up? How can we meet God’s standards? How are we to respond to a scriptural reality in which the penalty for transgressions is often a painful and gruesome death, and the result of impurity is exile?

When we mess up, are we done? Are we finished? Is that what it means to follow God?

Rav Sha’ul draws on imagery from Leviticus in his letter to the Romans: “I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship” (Rom 12:1). Sha’ul would seem to be talking about purity here, but is it the same sort of purity that we read about in our parasha this week? 

I was a teenager in the 1990s. If you were as well, or if you had children who were, then the term “purity culture” might seem familiar. It’s a term commonly used to describe a movement within conservative Christian circles at the time to promote an especially rigorous approach to sexual abstinence before marriage, particularly among young people. Encouraging adherence to a biblical standard for sexuality is unambiguously a good thing, but there are some who feel that the purity movement of the 90s may have taken things too far. Some people, particularly women, say that the zealous spirit of that time caused them lasting psychological and spiritual challenges that they struggle with to this day, as their understanding of their value became tied to whatever level of purity they could sustain. “Messing up” by doing or thinking the wrong thing brought with it feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness, a conviction that they, having been so tainted, would be worth less to God, and less to their future spouse. 

I cannot help but think about Romans 12:1 when I think of the zeal and fallout from that time, not only because the verse feels so applicable, but also because it was one of the foundational passages cited for that approach to purity and chastity. To present ourselves as a “living sacrifice” that is “holy and acceptable to God” certainly sounds like an admonishment to be pure, but is this what Sha’ul meant?

Earlier on in his letter to the Romans, Sha’ul uses a first-person perspective in describing humanity’s struggle with sin:

So I find the principle—that evil is present in me, the one who wants to do good. For I delight in the Torah of God with respect to the inner man, but I see a different law in my body parts, battling against the law of my mind and bringing me into bondage under the law of sin which is in my body parts. Miserable man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? (Rom‬ 7:21–24‬ TLV)‬‬

Here, Sha’ul seems to be giving voice to the very sort of anguish we all can face when comparing ourselves to the standard of perfection that God represents. And Sha’ul is well-qualified to opine on these matters, for when he says he delights in the Torah, he speaks as a man who knows the Torah well. I think, here, of his words from Acts 22:3, “I am a Jew . . . educated at the feet of Gamaliel according to the strict manner of the law of our fathers.” As to what that education entailed, we can only surmise. But when it comes to purity, I do find it interesting to note what the sages wrote of Gamaliel: “When Rabban Gamaliel the Elder died, the glory of the Torah ceased, and purity and abstinence perished” (Mishnah Sotah 9:15, emphasis added). 

When Sha’ul cries out in his plea, “Who will rescue me from this body of death?” it is, of course, rhetorical, for Messiah had already come, his sacrifice on the execution stake complete. Knowing this well, Sha’ul follows his lament about his “body of death” with these words: “Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Messiah Yeshua. For the law of the Spirit of life in Messiah Yeshua has set you free from the law of sin and death” (Rom‬ 8:1–2‬ TLV‬). 

Sha’ul understood what the Torah demanded in terms of purity, but he was also a man who deeply comprehended the ways in which Yeshua’s death and resurrection can impact our existence, if we let them, by allowing us to approach God in ways that we otherwise could not. So what does Sha’ul mean in Romans 12:1, when he calls for us to be a “living sacrifice?” Romans 12:2 gives us a glimpse: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.” 

When we sin, we are not cast aside. Just as Yeshua lifts a burden of condemnation from us, he also issues a call to action. With our minds “transformed” and “renewed,” our bodies are a vessel for the purposes of God. He has a will for us. We aren’t finished, and he isn’t finished with us.

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.