Let’s practice holiness, separated from the world, while from a position of strength we exist in the world, exhibiting the love of God to those who are hurting, being the hands and feet of God to those in need, and being the voice of hope and reason in a time that is rife with chaos and confusion.

At the great turning-point of Moses’ life—when God really needed to get his attention—he chose to speak to Moses from out of a thorn-bush of all places. Why not from the wide blue sky, or the starry heavens at night, out there in the wilderness? Or why not from the mountain top, or at least from some big, impressive tree? But a thorn-bush?

The seven weeks of consolation or comfort lead us out from summer’s heat and into the cool of autumn. They take us from the torment of Tisha B’Av to the joy and hope of Rosh Hashanah, a day that not only celebrates the New Year, but is also associated through Jewish tradition with God’s kingship (malchiyot).

In a day of shifting loyalties and unstable commitments, the Lord’s declaration shines out like a beacon: “The mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed.” It’s an unshakable promise that empowers us to make and keep our promises to those around us and those we love.

In the darkest hours we must hold on to the light of promise. That which we choose to ignore maintains power over us. Yeshua’s suffering liberates us from the power of death, and his final words give us the authority together to live life with hope.

As Israel stood listening to Moshe at the edge of the Promised Land, they were still a people whose greatest patriarchs had been nomads buried in a distant cave bought from strangers. So it’s unlikely they could have imagined a future temple of soaring dimensions to the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

Our entire parashah illustrates a valid point for us today: unless we remember the past, our present has no foundation. As our people have put it often, ma’aseh avot, siman l’banim, “what happened to our ancestors in the past is a lesson for us, their descendants.”

I’ve been dialoguing with a Jewish friend of mine who is reading through the Torah and asking me questions. Recently, he asked me something I’ve heard other folks ask as well, “What does it mean that the Jewish people are chosen? Isn’t that kind of self-centered?”

For the Jewish people, summer brings the anniversary of our greatest national trauma. On Tisha B’Av, we don't simply mourn the loss of a building—we grieve the pain of divine abandonment. As Lamentations (the megillah or scroll customarily read on Tisha B'Av) asks: “Eicha?” or “How?—how could all this happen?”

If you love someone, honor them, even at your own expense. Get in the habit of safeguarding others’ honor and reputation. The starting point for this is being in touch with your own infinite value; only one who is secure in their place, who has “reputation to give,” as it were, is able to guard others’ honor generously.