Waters of Chaos, Vehicle of Protection

Parashat Noach, Genesis 6:9 - 11:32

Rabbi David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

It was a dark and stormy night . . . well, actually it started out as a calm and clear night, and then became dark and stormy. The year was 2019, and we brave, few Tikvatites had headed out to the Sukkot camp site to celebrate our frailty and God’s provision in actual tents; the commandment is to construct booths, but camping in tents seemed fitting. Of course, Jewish camping means there are bathrooms with running water close by. But in all other respects, we were vulnerable to the elements, as Hashem intended for this festival. Everyone’s radar said that there was a huge storm heading our way around 3AM. But in the meantime, we were safe and dry. We prayed for protection from the storm. We cooked in tin foil over the open fire based on instructions from our temporary chef and permanent administrator. We shook the lulav, we had smores, we played games. In preparation for the rain, we put everything under a canopy.

The next morning I was awakened around 8AM to our elder Eric sounding the alarm with his voice: “The great flood is upon us!” I was half asleep, I thought he was exaggerating, and I’m not really a morning person, so I didn’t really pay much heed. Eventually, the need to take care of some morning duties overtook my desire to be warm and dry, so I ventured out of our tent around 8:30AM. It turns out that Eric had not been exaggerating. Apparently the campers had all been up since before 6AM, packing up all of the congregation’s and their personal stuff as tiny rivers flowed through our campsite. I heard later that they thought of just letting my tentmate and me sleep, and packing everything up so that when we finally awoke, we’d have thought we somehow missed the last call for some kind of great wooden ship. Afterwards, we did take shelter in the Ark, that is, our vehicles, and later, a nearby Cracker Barrel. Overall, it was a great camping trip, and I couldn’t wait for Sukkot next year. Well, I could wait about a year, I suppose.  

This week we have come to Parashat Noach, which deals primarily with the flood story.  

Sometimes it’s helpful to understand how the ancient near-easterners thought about the structure of the world to get the most out of the creation account and the rest of the Torah. They thought of the world in three parts: the heavens, which was like a dome in the sky, then the earth, and then the waters. They believed that waters were also behind the dome of the sky. When God “separated the waters under the dome from the waters above the dome”(Gen. 1:7) the ancient near-easterners understood that he was keeping the waters of chaos behind the dome of the sky at bay to establish the order and protection of creation. When it rained, water was allowed to break through the protective dome of the heavens. However, remove all the protection of the dome of the sky, and you’ve got yourself a worldwide flood.   

The ancient near-easterners thought of the waters as representing chaos, and ancient creation accounts in Babylon show the gods fighting and struggling with the waters of chaos. What makes the Torah unique (as compared to these other accounts) is that God, Elohim, does not struggle with chaos; his Ruach is over it, he is in total control of the waters of the deep (or tehom in Hebrew) and the waters above (sometimes referred to as the mabbul, or flood).  

In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth. This is a clue that this entire Book is about these two realms and how God eventually brings them together in one place, as they were in Genesis 1-2. And the earth was waste and wild and darkness was over the face of the Deep (tehom), and the Ruach [wind, breath, spirit] of God hovered over the surface of the waters [of chaos]. And God said, let there be LIGHT.  

But that, of course, was last week’s parashah. 

In many ways, the Flood story is a reversal and then restoration of the Creation story. Because of the wickedness of humanity (violence, murder, anger, gross immorality, rejection of God as King and Father and Creator, etc), the waters of chaos are re-released onto the earth, reverting it back to before the beginning.  

Proverbs 8, in which personified Wisdom speaks as the one through whom God created all things, puts it this way:

When He set the heavens in place, I [wisdom] was there.

When He inscribed the horizon on the face of the ocean,

when He established the skies above,

when He securely fixed the fountains of the deep,

when He set the boundaries for the sea,

so that the waters never transgress His command. (Prov 8:27-29 TLV)

We recognize that Yeshua is the Power and Wisdom of God, as the Apostle Sha’ul says; in other words, God created all things through his Word/Wisdom, Yeshua the Messiah. So, there is the sense here that God holds back the waters of chaos to create order in creation, that he released the waters of the deep and the flood from the sky in the days of Noah, but then rescues and restores Creation again afterwards, through his Power, Wisdom, and Protection.

In Hebrew, Noah’s giant vehicle is called a Teva, unlike the vehicle I used during the flood of Sukkot in 2019, which is called a Kia.  Guess where teva appears again?  

Now a man from the house of Levi took as his wife a daughter of Levi. The woman conceived and gave birth to a son. Now when she saw that he was delightful, she hid him for three months. But when she could no longer hide him, she took a basket [teva] of papyrus reeds, coated it with tar and pitch, put the child inside, and laid it in the reeds by the bank of the Nile. (Exodus 2:1-3 TLV)

The Lord himself is our Ark, our vehicle, and our hope. Remember, he has power over the waters of chaos. His life-giving Ruach hovered over the waters in Creation; his Ruach blew back the waters so that Noah could leave the ark; and his Ruach split the waters so that Israel could go through the Red Sea. 

The fullness of the revelation of the God of Israel, Yeshua the Messiah, walked on water, just as Elohim hovered over the waters of chaos, and he calmed the wind and waves with just his voice.  His students’ reaction to this is particularly striking: “They were struck with awe and said to one another, ‘Who is this? Even the wind and the sea obey Him!’” (Mark 4:41 TLV). Indeed, the Word of the Lord commands even the strongest forces of destruction to be silent.  

Remember the three-tiered universe we mentioned in creation? Here’s the end of the story of Heaven and Earth in Revelation 21:1:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more.

If you had never read anything about the waters of chaos, you would see this and go, “What’s so terrible about the sea? Why no waters in the new creation?” But we know the whole story. He is putting an end to the powers of chaos and he is renewing the Heavens and the Earth, so that they are once again in the same place. The Lord creates, the Lord cleanses, the Lord rescues, and the Lord re-creates after we mess things up.

Facing Our Other Side, East of Eden

Parashat B’reisheet, Genesis 1:1-6:1

Rabbi Paul Saal, Shuvah Yisrael, West Hartford, CT 

As we begin to explore this story of humankind outside the Garden of Eden, we, like Cain, should be uncomfortable that our first encounter there is fratricide. Yet if we are honest with ourselves, we need to admit that we walk away with less emotional investment into this narrative than we put into the average Super Bowl. Lamentably, those of us who are most committed to the inspiration and historicity of the Genesis accounts often accept a pale one-dimensional rendering of these stories that strips away the great complexity of human drama.

Why then does the inspired writer force us at the outset of the human journey to confront such a violent accounting of sibling rivalry? I believe that the answer lies between the lines of the terse narrative found in the fourth chapter of B’reisheet. The sages engaged in a homiletic enterprise called midrash, which comes from the word that means “to search.” By developing stories that filled in the missing details to the biblical narratives, they searched out the unanswered questions that arose. Far more important than the static details of the stories themselves, are the challenges that they pose to the hearer, and the lessons they teach about the divine-human encounter. If this form of exposition sounds familiar, it should. The inspired authors of the Brit Chadashah, including Yeshua himself, used midrash, and engaged the existing “midrash-like” stories of the day.

If we approach the fourth chapter of Genesis in this way, we may be challenged by some perplexing questions.

• What is the nature of Cain and Abel’s relationship?

• Why does God accept Abel’s but not Cain’s offering?

• What happened when the brothers confronted one another at the climax of the story?

• Does Cain ever regret killing his brother?

• And does he ever experience the forgiveness and peace of Hashem?

Tantalizing questions such as these invite us to respond personally to what is in many ways our own story. 

Bonding With Another Bonds Us to Hashem

Even the opening words beckon us to be immersed in the narrative. V’ha’adam yada et-chavah ishto, “Now the man had known his wife Chavah (Eve).” The verb yada, “to know,” is more than a mere idiom for sexual relations; rather it expresses a genuine intimacy that joins companionship to procreation. Only through this relationship between man and woman can there be true reverence for the mystery, dignity, and sacredness of life. Companionship is the first and primary end of the male-female relationship. The Torah declares, “Hashem created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them” (Gen 1:27). This expression of primacy suggests that male and female are distinct, unique, and equal halves in the design of human totality.

One midrash suggests that the first person was created androgynous, with a male and a female side, two-faced and unable to see one the other until Hashem severed the two sides so they might face each other and truly come to “know” his/her other side (Genesis Rabah 8:1). Torah states, “Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and cleaves to his wife, and they become one flesh” (Gen 2:25). This midrash illustrates that a wife is a man’s other self, and vice-versa, but the Creator is at the center of this wholeness and intimacy.

The narrative of chapter four goes on to state that the woman conceived and bore Cain, saying, Kaniti ish et-Hashem, “I have acquired a man with Hashem.” What a strange expression! The great medieval commentator Rashi elaborates, “My husband and I were created by Hashem alone, but through the birth of Cain we are partners with Him.” So by this reckoning the Creator is the unseen senior partner in the intimacy, and the man and woman are the junior partners in the work of sustaining creation outside the garden.

 Finding Ourselves East of Eden

 The sacred narrator remarks, “And additionally she bore his brother Abel,” almost an afterthought, an asterisk in the story of Cain. His Hebrew name Havel means a wisp or a shadow, and he is in fact a shadow of his older brother in this story. Though Abel brings the favored sacrifice, it seems only to illustrate the failure of Cain. Abel neither speaks nor protests until his blood, spilled by Cain, cries out from the ground, an obvious alliteration: the dam (blood) of adam (man) cries out from the adamah (earth).

Immediately following the birth of the brothers the narrator had informed us of their occupations. Like most people today the narrator seems more interested in the roles they play than in who they are. But they are the classic herder and farmer. Abel the herder would be the nomad, the one who would transverse the land. Cain on the other hand is tied to the land; staid and stable. But when Abel is murdered, he and his voice are permanently tied to the earth. Cain, on the other hand, is destined to wander the earth and essentially become his brother.

 Responding to Adversity

 Our brothers are destined to bring out the best or the worst in all of us. The contrast between Cain and Abel, two sides of one embryo, is further accentuated by the offerings each made and Hashem’s response to them, acceptance of one and rejection of the other. All the inspired author tells us of Cain’s reaction are these few terse words: “Cain was very angry and his face was downcast” (4:5). If only Cain could talk to us now, he might have said, “I’ve been wronged; I believed this world was created in goodness, but now I can see that good deeds are not rewarded. Hashem rules this world with an arbitrary power; why else would he respect Abel’s offering and not mine.”

There may be no adequate answer to give to Cain. Perhaps the Almighty is communicating one of the most important lessons about living outside the Garden. This world we live in is fraught with inequalities. There is simply no guarantee that our best efforts will be rewarded or appreciated.

Hashem again confronts Cain as his brother lies dead in the dust. Cain responds, “I do not know.” We began this chapter with the man knowing his wife, implying a certain intimacy and bonding. Here Cain replies “lo yadati,” translated either “I do not know” or “I did not know.” Cain suggests that he had neither knowledge of what transpired nor what was expected of him in relation to his brother. So Hashem gives him a last chance to face his actions and asks, “What have you done?!”

The earth, which is the symbol of his stability, is taken from Cain and he becomes a wanderer, a drifter, a wisp like his brother. In killing his brother he becomes his brother. According to one midrash, Abel’s dog became Cain’s dog wandering the earth with him (Breshit Rabbah 22:13). Still another legend suggests that Cain shared Abel’s fate and was later killed by Lamech, a blood relative five generations removed. “Cain and Abel could be compared to two trees that stood side by side, when a strong wind uprooted one, it fell upon the other and uprooted it” (Jubilees 4:31).

Perhaps Cain might better reflect on the lesson learned as we imagine his improved response, “My brother and I are one, I can learn from his lesson! He is not my foil, he is my compliment. Truly if I do well then the Creator, blessed be he, will reward my best efforts in kind! I am my brother’s keeper!”

 A Better Word

We still live with the reality of human struggle and complexity. We live with the conflict between good and evil, and we wrestle with the apparent inequalities in our world. At times we bemoan our station and our fortune, as if to figuratively wave our fist in the air, as if challenging the design of the Master Architect. Sometimes the challenge is within ourselves, as we sense the tug of war between our God-breathed inclination and our propensity to sin, and at other times our brothers cover us like a reproaching shadow, replicating our own dark side. The Eden of our dreams, at times seems like a lifetime away.

But the promise of the letter to the Hebrews is that we can live in the light of the Age to Come.

On the contrary, you have come to Mount Tziyon, that is, the city of the living God, heavenly Yerushalayim; to myriads of angels in festive assembly; to a community of the firstborn whose names have been recorded in heaven; to a Judge who is God of everyone; to spirits of righteous people who have been brought to the goal; to the mediator of a new covenant, Yeshua; and to the sprinkled blood that speaks better things than that of Hevel. (Heb 12:22-24 CJB)

Cain the son of the first person is every person; human, vulnerable, sinful, even potentially violent; yet I believe he is able to grow. As he reconciles himself with his past and moves on, we are challenged to confront ourselves, our relationships with others and with Hashem. Are we willing to receive the grace of the Creator through the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Havel? Do we have the courage every day to allow the Spirit of Hashem to make essential changes in ourselves, so we are not destined to live out our lives as we are today? Will we move beyond the inevitable pain of disappointments and rejection, and receive healing, wholeness, and the peace of our Creator?

How to Stay in Your Sukkah

Shemini Atzeret 5782

by Rabbi Russ Resnik

Shelter is a primal human need, along with food and clean water and air to breathe. We’re constantly reminded of this need in most of our cities, where folks we label as “homeless” create encampments of tents and lean-tos to protect themselves from the elements. Beyond our primitive need of shelter, however, we might find ourselves yearning for a deeper shelter, which our observance of Sukkot hints at.

In the weeks leading up to Sukkot we read Psalm 27, which opens:  

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
    whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
    of whom shall I be afraid?

“My light” alludes to Rosh Hashanah, the anniversary of creation, which began with light. “My salvation” alludes to Yom Kippur, which commemorates the atonement that saves us from sin and its ravages. Sukkot makes its appearance a few verses later: “For he will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble; he will conceal me under the cover of his tent; he will set me high on a rock” (Psa 27:5).  

His “shelter” in this verse is sukkah in Hebrew, an apt reminder of the joyous festival that follows Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, but a surprising word in this context nevertheless. In the preceding verse David sings of the “house of the Lord” and the “temple,” or heykhal in the Hebrew, kingly terms befitting the God of Israel. To “inquire in his heykhal” speaks of approaching a sovereign enthroned amidst signs of his power and lordship. But God will shelter us in his sukkah, a simple hut, “like a sukkah in a vineyard . . . a lodge in a cucumber field” (Isa 1:8). 

When we build a sukkah for the festival, it’s supposed to be a bit flimsy, with the stars shining through the roof at night. David says that on the day of trouble, God will shelter us in just this sort of structure, lending a profound insight into the nature of our God, and of the shelter that he provides for us. He is the great king, who dwells within the heavenly courts in glory beyond anything we can imagine, but he also meets us in the most ordinary surroundings. Indeed, he not only meets us there, but he surrounds us with his own presence in such circumstances. The great nineteenth-century rabbi, Samson Raphael Hirsch, writes, “The simplest sukkah, the lowliest hut which will give me shelter, is sukko [his sukkah] to me. It is to me a shelter which He Himself has prepared for me. Yea, it is His tabernacle, the abode of His presence; it encompasses His presence even as it surrounds my own person.”  

Now, our practice of building and living in a sukkah is a response to Hashem’s instruction: “You shall dwell in booths for seven days. All native Israelites shall dwell in booths, that your generations may know that I made the people of Israel dwell in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God” (Lev 23:42–43). But, paradoxically, in the entire account of our wanderings in the wilderness, apart from this one reference, the Torah never actually says God “made the people of Israel dwell in booths.” As the Jewish Study Bible notes, “The notion that God housed the Israelites in booths in the wilderness is not attested elsewhere.” What is attested, however, is that the glory-cloud of God’s presence went with us throughout our wanderings in the wilderness, leading some of our sages to claim that the sukkah represents the glory-cloud, as Ben Volman pointed out in last week’s commentary: “R. Eliezer says they were booths, literally; R. Akiva says they were clouds of glory” (Sifra, Emor 17:11).

Just as the literal sense of “sukkah” as a simple, makeshift booth points to the true source of shelter throughout the year, so does this more imaginative sense of “sukkah” as the glory-cloud. And so we might ask, as Sukkot draws to a close, how do we stay in this sukkah, not just for eight days, but every day?

The instructions for Sukkot hint at an answer to this question. The festival concludes with Shemini Atzeret, an eighth day of assembly, as ordained in Leviticus 23:36: “For seven days you shall present food offerings to the Lord. On the eighth day you shall hold a holy convocation and present a food offering to the Lord. It is a solemn assembly—atzeret—you shall not do any ordinary work.” Rashi comments:

This is analogous to a king who invited his children to feast with him for a certain number of days, and when the time came for them to leave, he said, “My children! Please stay with me just one more day, for it is difficult for me to part with you!” 

The sukkah we build and inhabit each year reminds us that we’re not going to find our security in wealth, influence, man-made power, or the reliability of this present world-system, but only in God-our-shelter. So how do we stay in this sukkah? Shemini Atzeret reminds us that God wants to meet us there even more than we want to meet him. Just as he places his glory-cloud in the midst of Israel in the wilderness, so he places himself with us in our wanderings each day. When we physically move out of our worldly shelters during Sukkot, we can move out spiritually as well. We enact this reality for eight days each year, but we can remember its truth every day of our year: our real shelter isn’t in the human resources we amass, but in God himself.  

Just as we gather the materials and build the sukkah with our own hands, so we can build a daily encounter with God. Step one is realizing that God desires this encounter even more than we do. Christian writer Albert Haase speaks of “God’s ardent longing and enthusiastic invitation to a deeper relationship” (in Becoming an Ordinary Mystic). As we remain aware of that invitation, the next step is to find a specific time and place each day to respond. We move out of the worries, preoccupations, and endless distractions of our own houses, at least for a few moments, and present ourselves to him. We tune out the endless noise of information and disinformation and quietly listen for the voice of the Spirit, both in Scripture and within our own souls, knowing we are under God’s cloud.  

Rabbi Hirsch notes that the sukkah encompasses God’s very presence, and Rashi notes that God wants to be with us there. I’ll add that the sukkah’s lowliness hints at Messiah Yeshua, who comes to bear God’s presence among us, not in the unapproachable glory of the temple courts, but in the simplicity of a sukkah, in a form like our own. He appears within the long tale of human history as a simple Galilean, Yeshua the Nazarene, but he bears the glory of God. He brings us into the very presence of God, as we turn from our ways to reunite with him.

As we conclude the eight days of Sukkot, let’s resolve to stay within this sukkah each day in the year ahead.

The Courage of Our Joy

 Sukkot 5782

Ben Volman, Kehillat Eytz Chaim, Toronto

My treasured memories of spending time in Jerusalem at Sukkot always bring to mind those inspiring commands from D’varim/Deuteronomy: “Rejoice at your festival. . . . Adonai your God will bless you . . . so you are to be full of joy” (Deut 16:14,15, CJB). Joy doesn’t have to be overly exuberant—but I can’t recall a time that so filled me with a rush of gratitude for a living faith, the intimate joy of knowing my Messiah in Zion. 

In Jerusalem, on the verge of autumn, the air is refreshing in the mornings and pleasantly cool by night. In a city where it seems that you’re surrounded by people literally wearing their religion on their sleeve—from a pair of petite, blue clad nuns to the tall Hasid with long curls framing his beard—everyone strolls comfortably through the golden sunshine. I recall taking a city bus with a friend, up from the German Colony toward the Old City. We’re surrounded by dark-suited yeshiva bochers, intimate young couples, and families, large and small, enjoying the school holiday. When we reach the Jaffa Gate, we look for a favourite route atop the old stone walls before we stop at Christ Church, then through the market to the Kotel. Along the way each of us points out the cleverly varied sukkot—on rooftops, in alleyways, and even crowded balconies.  

Our tradition records a controversy between Rabbi Eliezer and his celebrated student, Rabbi Akiva, on the key verse instructing us to celebrate the feast by building sukkot: “So that generation after generation of you will know that I made the people of Isra’el live in sukkot when I brought them out of the land of Egypt” (Lev 23:43 CJB).  

The rabbis’ responses (in typically brief summation) are in striking contrast: “R. Eliezer says they were booths, literally; R. Akiva says they were clouds of glory.” The statement that follows the opinions doesn’t say either view is preferred: “We are hereby taught that even the sukkah is a reminder of the Exodus from Egypt” (Sifra, Emor ch. 17:11). The common opinion is that R. Eliezer adheres to a Torah-rooted, practical view of our responsibility—as down-to-earth as the stuff of the schach we place on top of the sukkah (it must have grown in the ground). But Akiva’s visionary understanding broadens our spiritual purpose by encouraging us to celebrate the Shekhinah presence that “covered” Israel the length of their journey. R. Eliezer wants to make sure that we build a sukkah; R. Akiva wants us to do it with a heart of joy.    

Both are correct. The experience of erecting the family or congregational sukkah gives us a tactile connection to our ancient forebears in Sinai, but also to the memory of loved ones who raised sukkot in their own past seasons of joy. So many wonderful memories are attached to our family sukkah—surrounded by children’s decorations, seasonal fruits, songs, laughter; the pleasure of family, friends, and our family of faith gathering with all the communal joys of the festival—isn’t this the living reality of the Ruach HaKodesh among us?  

Our inspired joy isn’t just fixed in the past, or momentarily alive depending on how things look in the present. We take joy knowing that the future of Jerusalem—and we’re blessed to be in a generation that’s certain of its future—will make God’s glory even more visible in a world struggling to find reasons for joy. The Haftarah portion for the first day, Zechariah 14, thrusts us into one of the most powerful prophetic visions in the Tanakh.  Of course, as Messianic believers, we’re already familiar with Zechariah 12:10 ff., describing how Israel will “look to me, whom they pierced” (CJB).  Chapter 14 declares the full impact of God’s crowning victory over the nations: “On that day Adonai will be the only one, and his name the only name” (v. 9, CJB)—reminding us of that familiar refrain in the liturgy: “B’yom hahu. . .”  

I admit, memories make it easier to raise a heart of joy than the world we’re coping with right now. But days like these call us to new inspirations for joy—the courage of faith, the courage to walk in joy. I’m confronted with new questions: how did my parents and grandparents celebrate in the shadow of war and the aftermath of times described by a beloved mentor, Rachmiel Frydland, “when being Jewish was a crime”? 

I take joy when I recall the courage of Bishop Michael Solomon Alexander—our brave Jewish Messianic forebear, resolute and unbowed to raise up that remarkable edifice of blessing we call Christ Church. Despite years of local resistance, years of Turkish bureaucratic bungling and the local Pasha’s insistence it could not be done! Alexander and his determined associates were more than a century ahead of their time, but we’ve lived to see that unique “Jewish chapel” become a centrepiece for a thriving Messianic testimony to Israel.  

And I take joy when I read the wonderful account of our Messianic sister, Pauline Rose, who built a garden on Mount Zion. When she and her husband, Albert, determined to move into the war-torn, bullet-ridden building that they made into a home, they faced every possible resistance from the Israeli authorities. It was the early 1960s, while Jerusalem was a divided city prior to the Six Day War. Their windows literally faced the guns of the Jordanian army, yet she used her incredible faith, will, and God-given horticultural skills to create the most beautiful garden in the city. Her little book, Window on Mount Zion, includes the marvelous story of celebrating their first Sukkot with a decorative wooden booth on their balcony held together with burlap. The local rabbi came by to bless the sukkah and then the UN representatives arrived: “We’ve had complaints from the Jordanians that new military fortifications were being built on Mount Zion.” Barely able to hold back their smiles, Pauline and Albert brought the men out to the balcony to show the “new fortification . . . and they joined us in our laughter as they looked through the [burlap] window at the heads of the Arab soldiers behind the sandbags not many yards away” (Vine of David edition, p. 81). 

When I think back to the courage of our forerunners, the courage to keep believing when everyone around you says, “It’s impossible,” I feel joy. Not just the joy of the past, or today’s tentative joys that struggle to lift their head—but the joy to keep walking in the faith of these men and women—to make the hope of my Lord a living reality, despite the winds blowing against my own fragile sukkah of faith. And today, let’s encourage each other, “as long as it’s called today,” to fulfill the word of the Lord from Moshe Rabenu, and believe in the promises of our prophets.  Let’s have the courage to seize hold of joy and celebrate the Feast!

Brokenness: We’re All in It Together

Yom Kippur 5782

David Nichol, Ruach Israel Congregation, Needham, MA

It’s been told in my family that a defining point in my grandfather’s relationship to Judaism came during Al Chet (“For the sin…”), a confessional prayer that we repeat several times during Yom Kippur. 

For the sin we have committed before You by running to do evil, and for the sin we have committed before You by gossip. . . .

For the sin which we have committed before You by vain oaths, and for the sin we have committed before You by baseless hatred. . . .

For the sin we have sinned before You by scorn, and for the sin we have sinned before You by evil speech.

As the story goes, my grandfather thought to himself, “I didn’t do all these! Why am I even saying this?” From there it was but a short step to, “This religion isn’t for me.” 

Do not separate yourself from the community

Perhaps you’ve asked yourself similar questions. Why do we recite these together? I can’t remember any “running to do evil” or “baseless hatred” from the past year. Even if we still participate, saying the words year after year, it’s difficult to invest the prayer with emotional depth. Should we just recite the lines that apply to us?

At very least, praying in such a way puts us in good company. Similar supplications are found in the mouths of biblical heroes (see Ezra 9, Exodus 34).  Some of the quintessential prayers of this season are taken from the words of Daniel:

O Lord, great and awesome God, who stays faithful to His covenant with those who love Him and keep His commandments! We have sinned; we have gone astray; we have acted wickedly; we have been rebellious and have deviated from Your commandments and Your rules . . . all Israel has violated your teaching and gone astray. (Dan 9:4b-5, 11 JPS)

No doubt these words sound very familiar if you have spent time (and paid attention?) in High Holy Day services, or have prayed the selichot (penitential prayers) that we say leading up to Rosh Hashanah.

You may have already noticed that Daniel, who is generally seen as a deeply righteous person himself, does not say, “All of my nudnik neighbors have sinned”; rather, he includes himself. Whether he himself has personally done these things is apparently beside the point. 

We might be inclined to think of his prayer as intercession, or intervening on behalf of another. Perhaps Daniel, out of loyalty to his people, is asking God to be compassionate to them as a personal favor, as it were. It’s as if Daniel were the mayor who intercedes with the police chief when his son gets in trouble. Or perhaps it’s like a character witness who testifies during the sentencing phase of a trial, so the guilty party might be shown some leniency.

However, this intercessory mode feels wrong to me. Daniel is truly making confession. He is in sackcloth and ashes, acting as if he himself were the guilty party. In the intercessory mode the intercessor is still separate from the accused; they step in, but their life is not quite on the line in the same way. There is a separation, a power imbalance. The character witness in the trial walks free regardless. 

Not so Daniel, who says, “The shame, O Lord, is on us, on our kings, our officers, and our fathers, because we have sinned against You. To the Lord our God belong mercy and forgiveness, for we rebelled against Him, and did not obey the Lord our God by following His teachings that He set before us through His servants the prophets” (9:8-10).

If Daniel is in fact righteous, why does he do this? He certainly has what it takes to do pretty well for himself in Nebuchadnezzar’s court. Yet he takes a posture of unity with his people. Note that his paradigmatic prayer isn’t “thank you for the good food and my nice apartment in the palace,” even though that may reflect his situation just as well. He rejects that vision of his situation, and sees himself as inextricably tied to the situation of the Jewish people. 

Likewise, describing Yeshua as one who simply intercedes for us does not do justice to his work. He did not put in a good word for us, but emptied himself of his own nature, becoming one of us; not in a show of unity, but in the essence of unity, even to death (Phil 2:6-11). 

One reading of Philippians 2 is that Yeshua’s exaltation was in fact because he identified with Israel so radically: “For this reason God highly exalted him…” (TLV). What if what makes Daniel righteous is not his behavior before or after this prayer, but this prayer itself—or at least, that he lived in a posture of unity with his people despite the fact that he could have walked away?

Your brokenness is not yours alone

We can see the virtue of identifying, even radically, with our people. From here it looks like the right thing to do. But such mental gymnastics! How can we, as modern people who live in the world of individuals, really change our mindset so profoundly?

Fortunately, this is not a “mind-over-matter” moment, where we need to convince ourselves of something helpful, whether it’s true or not. Far from it! Rather, our connection with our people—or to go further, the interconnectedness of the created world—is a deep truth that we insulate ourselves from. 

You don’t need inside information to be aware of the brokenness in the world; nor do you need to watch all five seasons of The Good Place to wrestle with our own complicity in the suffering, oppression, and hopelessness that seem inescapable. I went fishing recently, and saw with new eyes the struggling of the worms not to get hooked. It’s like they know what’s happening. To put a hook through a worm struggling, squirming for its life, is heartbreaking if we allow it to be. And the hooked fish fighting for its life! It’s much easier to buy a container of whitefish salad. But is that any better? The fish still gets eaten! What about the environmental cost of the container, or the low wages of the people who make the whitefish salad? I may retweet a Facechat post about the Uyghur genocide, but that doesn’t stop me from buying cheap goods made in factories that support their oppressors. 

No, we are not isolated from the brokenness of the world. It is our brokenness. In the words of our tradition, “We are not so brazen-faced and stiff-necked as to say before you, we are righteous and have not sinned; rather, we and our ancestors have sinned.”

But sublimating the deep pain of the soul is second nature to us. Even if we have the inclination to dwell on the dissonance of life, the disappointments, and the sorrows that we encounter, we rarely have the time. So it’s almost a reflex to push those things aside and focus on what is in front of us: the problems we can fix, or at least the distractions that can give us momentary relief. The Days of Awe, culminating in Yom Kippur, are a time to reject this reflex; instead, to pry open the cap we put on our hearts. To let it out. To acknowledge that we are part of the brokenness, and that we need help.

Paradoxically, confessing that we are part of the problem is part of the solution. If the story of Yeshua is any guide, then even God did not redeem the world by separating from it, but by descending into it. So we identify with the brokenness, not as a helpful mindset, but as a truth that can set us free. We identify with our people’s mistakes, because they are ours as well. 

If we cannot stand with Israel in oppression, how can we participate in the freedom that follows? If Yeshua accepted the punishment of our people, how can we exempt ourselves? If he did not open his mouth to defend himself, how can we? Shall we not drink from the cup that he drinks?

Paul the shaliach did not write Philippians 2 to make a theological point, but to encourage us to imitate Yeshua’s humility. So let us take this time to acknowledge our complicity in how the world is: as individuals, members of families, representatives of a people, and part of the world. Let us lean into our responsibility, confess it . . . and with God’s help, find freedom—even joy!

Chazak! Be Strong and Holy

Parashat Vayelech, Deuteronomy 31:1–30

Michael Hillel, Netanya, Israel

It is often said that when something is repeated in Scripture, we should pay attention to it, and even make an effort to apply it to our lives. One example of this is the concept of being holy.

For I am Adonai your God. Therefore, sanctify yourselves, and be holy, for I am holy. You are not to defile yourselves with any kind of creeping thing that moves on the earth. For I am Adonai who brought you up out of the land of Egypt, to be your God. Therefore, you shall be holy, for I am holy. (Lev 11:44–45)

Speak to all the congregation of Bnei-Yisrael and tell them: You shall be kedoshim (holy), for I, Adonai your God, am holy. (Lev 19:2)

You are to be holy to Me, for I, Adonai, am holy, and have set you apart from the peoples, so that you would be Mine. (Lev 20:26)

Four times in these four verses, Israel, the covenant people of Hashem, are commanded to be holy just as Hashem himself is holy. In other words, Israel is to be set apart, dedicated, and consecrated to Hashem. Notice that these verses are not simply focused upon the Kohanim and Levites, those responsible for the care, upkeep, and service of the Mishkan and later the Temple. These verses are not simply focused on those in leadership or authority. Instead the command to be holy, separate, and dedicated to Hashem was and still is incumbent upon all of Bnei Israel, regardless of rank or status wherever they might live. Before anyone states, fine, this is a Tanakh or Old Testament concept, not an Apostolic Writings or New Testament one, consider these verses, first from Rav Shaul and then from Peter:

I urge you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice—holy, acceptable to God—which is your spiritual service. (Rom 12:1)

Instead, just like the Holy One who called you, be holy yourselves also in everything you do. (1 Pet 1:15)

While it can be said that the passages from Leviticus may have been focusing upon Israel, the Apostolic Writings extend the need to be holy, separate, and dedicated to Hashem to the nations of the world as well, as they are grafted into Israel.  

With this introduction, let’s consider this week’s Torah portion, Vayelech, Deuteronomy 31:1–30, which is the shortest portion in the yearly reading cycle, only thirty verses. Three times in these thirty verses, however, Moses utters the phrase, “Chazak! Be courageous!” The first time he was speaking to all Israel, urging them to trust in Hashem’s leading and protection as they entered into the Promised Land.  

Chazak! Be courageous! Do not be afraid or tremble before them. For Adonai your God—He is the One who goes with you. He will not fail you or abandon you. (Deut 31:6)

The second time was in front of all Israel, as Moses commissioned Joshua to lead the people into Canaan in his stead.

Then Moses summoned Joshua and said to him in the sight of all Israel, “Be strong! (Chazak!) Be courageous! For you are to go with this people into the land Adonai has sworn to their fathers to give them, and you are to enable them to inherit it. Adonai —He is the One who goes before you. He will be with you. He will not fail you or abandon you. Do not fear or be discouraged.” (Deut 31:7–8)

This second Chazak! was an encouragement not only to Joshua but to all the people as Moses reiterated Hashem’s promises to be with the people as they enter the land of Canaan to possess it. He also was repeating the promise “He (Hashem) will not fail you or abandon you.”

Finally, there is the third time, when Moses actually commissioned Joshua to replace him.

Then he commissioned Joshua son of Nun and said, “Chazak! Be courageous! For you will bring Bnei-Yisrael into the land I swore to them—and I will be with you.” (Deut 31:23)

One has to wonder whether Joshua needed a little extra encouragement to take over the leadership of Bnei Israel, knowing all that Moses had had to put up with over the last thirty-eight to forty years.  

There are a couple other verses that focus on Hashem encouraging his people to Be Strong, such as the words of the prophet Isaiah to Israel during the first exile: 

Say to those with anxious heart, “Be strong, have no fear!” Behold, your God! Vengeance is coming! God’s recompense—it is coming! Then He will save you. (Isa 35:4) 

In Psalm 27, which we have been reading daily during the month of Elul in preparation for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the psalmist states with assurance, no matter what the situation, 

Wait for Adonai. Be strong, let your heart take courage, and wait for Adonai. (Psa 27:14)

And finally, Rav Shaul writes these words of encouragement to the Yeshua-believers in Corinth,

Be on the alert! Stand firm in the faith! Be men (and women) of courage! Be strong! (1 Cor 16:13)

I began by stating the repetition of certain concepts or statements in Scripture should cause us to take notice and even make an effort to apply them in our daily lives. I looked at the dual concepts of being holy and being strong, and I believe these two concepts are intertwined. First there is holiness, being separate from the ways of the world and dedicated to the ways of Hashem. This is not a monastic separation, living apart. Rather it is exemplifying the holiness of God in our daily lives and interactions with our fellow man. Instead of following the ways of the world that says everyone for themselves—focusing always on individual rights and freedoms—it is following the two-fold commandment of loving God and loving our neighbor, looking to the good of others instead of only ourselves.

Then there is the aspect of being strong, and by this I am not meaning Hercules or Charles Atlas (dating myself); rather it is depending on the strength of Hashem, knowing that because he is with us, together we can face anything the physical or spiritual world throws at us.

Therefore, let’s make a point to 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. Be holy as Hashem is holy, thereby being strong and courageous in a very needy world.

 Shabbat Shalom and tikatevu v’techatemu!

God Goes with us in Our Wanderings

Seventh Haftarah of Comfort, Isaiah 61:10–63:9

Rabbi Russ Resnik

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?  

Midrash Rabbah records a long discussion on this question, and here’s my favorite response: 

It says in the Prophets: In all their affliction he was afflicted (Isa 63:9). God said to Moses: “Do you not realize that I live in trouble just as Israel live in trouble? Know from the place whence I speak unto you—from a thorn-bush—that I am a partner in their trouble.” (Exodus Rabbah 2.5)

This midrash is citing the final verse in the Haftarot of Comfort, which we’ve been reading the past seven weeks. It’s the bottom line to Isaiah’s whole message of hope and consolation for Israel.  

In all their affliction he was afflicted,

and the angel of his presence saved them;

in his love and in his pity he redeemed them;

he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old.

Now, before we consider this bottom line in more detail, I should let you know that this translation—“in all their affliction he was afflicted”—is disputed and may read differently in some of your Bibles. I’m building here on a traditional Jewish reading, as reflected in the midrash above, which goes back to the early centuries of this era. Some readers have a hard time with this translation because it’s just hard to think of a God who suffers, who doesn’t always bail us out of our disasters, but instead goes through them with us. Still, this translation seems right for two big reasons:  

First, it’s consistent with the entire second half of Isaiah, which looks ahead to the Babylonian exile and God’s promise to return the exiles and restore Jerusalem. This section of Isaiah, which is the source of all seven haftarot of comfort, opens with the words, “Nachamu nachamu ami—comfort, yes, comfort my people!” because the time of restoration is at hand. Then Isaiah hears a voice crying out:  

In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,

make straight in the desert a highway for our God.

Every valley shall be lifted up,

and every mountain and hill be made low;

the uneven ground shall become level,

and the rough places a plain.

And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,

and all flesh shall see it together,

for the mouth of the Lord has spoken. (Isa 40:3–5)

This highway through the wilderness leads back to Jerusalem, and what will be seen on it? Not people, but the Lord’s glory. Isaiah sees heralds stationed on the high places around Jerusalem, announcing God’s return on this highway (40:9–10). If God is returning, where has he been? In exile with his people! That’s an amazing idea and a great source of comfort. God goes with his people, even into exile: “In all their affliction he was afflicted.” 

Second, this picture of God in exile is consistent with the rest of the verse in which it appears: “and the angel of his presence saved them; / in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; / he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old.” 

The angel of his presence appears elsewhere as the “angel of the Lord,” which brings us back to the burning bush story. There “the angel of the Lord appeared to [Moses] in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush,” and then “God called to him out of the bush” (Exod 3:2ff). Is it the angel or the Lord calling to Moses? It’s hard to distinguish between them, and that’s exactly the point. God is so involved in Israel’s redemption that he came to them as the angel or messenger of his very presence—and “lifted them up and carried them” himself.  

What kind of God is this? He’s a God who won’t insure us against all possible disasters, who won’t provide an alternate route around all the possible setbacks and defeats. But he will go into the disaster ahead of us and carry us through. He’s a God who doesn’t keep his distance from his people, even if we’re headed in the wrong direction, a God-in-exile who sends a Messiah-in-exile to gather us back to himself.  

So if Messiah Yeshua is in exile—unrecognized, cast out, a source of embarrassment among his people Israel—he’s still our Messiah, the key to our redemption. If we’re loyal to this exiled Messiah, we should be as loyal as he is to the people from whom he’s exiled. As followers of Messiah, we don’t separate ourselves from our Jewish people, but we remain in and among them to welcome Messiah back into our midst. We express our faith in Messiah, and invite other Jews to join us, in ways that honor and support the Jewish people and our tradition. And we’ll be there to join in welcoming Messiah back at his return, when we say, Baruch ha-ba b’shem Adonai, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Matt 23:39).

God meets us where we are and wherever we go, even in our wanderings. We might well ask how we are to respond to this reality, especially as we make our final inward preparations for the Days of Awe, which begin with Rosh Hashanah early next week. Isaiah gave three directives to the faithful remnant of his day, which can help us remain faithful in our day:

1.  Stand firm. To remain loyal both to Israel and to the Messiah who is currently in exile from Israel is not the most popular or polite option around. It requires us to stand firm against the social and religious currents pushing against us, the forces of assimilation and relativism, just as the faithful remnant in Isaiah stood firm against the social-religious tide of their day.

2. Take the long view. Isaiah’s remnant wasn’t disheartened by the reversals and difficulties at hand, but looked far into the future to see the renewal that God would bring. So should we. We are still struggling to see a multi-generational Jewish people movement for Yeshua. We are living in times of great peril for Israel, and indeed for all nations. We need to fight the good fight, but always with a vision of the promised restoration, which Isaiah repeats many times over.  

3. Find God’s joy. It’s striking how often Isaiah reminds the faithful remnant to rejoice in the midst of all their troubles. They face all kinds of temptations and hardships, but in the Lord they have an endless source of all they need. So for us: don’t get sucked into the false joys of materialism and secularism, but also don’t get sucked into a joyless world-rejection. Joy is evidence of God’s presence amidst the gloom and doom of our times. Taking the long view doesn’t mean escape from such circumstances, but living amidst them with strength and positivity.

On that note, since we opened with the final verse of this week’s haftarah, let’s conclude with its opening words: I will greatly rejoice in the Lord, my soul shall exult in my God (Isa 61:10). May we celebrate the coming holy days with joyful awareness of God’s presence wherever we may be.

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

Between Rebuke and Redemption

Parashat Ki Tavo, Deuteronomy 26:1–29:9
6th Haftarah of Comfort, Isaiah 60
Chaim Dauermann, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT
 

The musician, author, and actor Henry Rollins once called August “the summer’s last messenger of misery.” Sometimes I think there’s nowhere where that is more true than New York City. While the summers here are uniformly hot and humid, by August things feel as if they’ve moved up by an order of magnitude. The heat seems to emanate not only from above, but from the city itself. In early summer, the subways can be a cool respite from the heat above ground, but by August, the reverse is true—no matter how hot it may be above ground, the subways are surely hotter. Months of residual heat transforms them into a veritable furnace. As August winds down each year and fall approaches, I try hard to remind myself that the relief of cooler weather is right around the corner. But when I’m sweating on a subway platform, waiting for my train, that relief can feel very far away, even unreachable. It’s hard to believe it’s coming.

Living in New York City—“the other Holy Land,” as my father would call it—I often think about the changing of the seasons in relation to the progression of the Jewish calendar, and for these past few weeks we have found ourselves amidst one of the most interesting times in the year. After Tisha B’Av—what’s thought of as the saddest day on the entire calendar—there ensue “seven weeks of consolation” (or comfort) with seven haftarot to match. In the northern hemisphere, these seven weeks 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). 

As the last few parashiot of the year lead us through the final narrative in Deuteronomy, toward the eventual end of B’nei Yisrael’s wilderness wandering, the haftarot of comfort take us through uplifting passages from Isaiah that describe God’s ultimate fulfillment of his promises to Israel. This week’s parashah, Ki Tavo, contains one of the most bitter passages in all of Torah: Deuteronomy 28:15–68, a section which, along with a similar passage in Leviticus 26, is known as the tochechah (“the rebuke”). It is a litany of curses that will befall Israel should they not obey God’s commandments:

But if you will not obey the voice of the Lord your God or be careful to do all his commandments and his statutes that I command you today, then all these curses shall come upon you and overtake you. Cursed shall you be in the city, and cursed shall you be in the field. Cursed shall be your basket and your kneading bowl. Cursed shall be the fruit of your womb and the fruit of your ground, the increase of your herds and the young of your flock. Cursed shall you be when you come in, and cursed shall you be when you go out. (Deut ‭28:15–19‬)

The passage goes on to graphically describe profound deprivation, defeat at the hands of enemies, and, in the end, exile from the land that B’nei Yisrael will soon be entering. It’s a haunting passage, made all the more sobering by the fact that the Jewish people have, at times, suffered many pains that have appeared to echo these very curses. It seems fitting to be reading this passage soon after Tisha B’Av, when we read the book of Lamentations: “Judah has gone into exile because of affliction and hard servitude; she dwells now among the nations, but finds no resting place; her pursuers have all overtaken her in the midst of her distress” (Lam ‭1:3‬)‬‬. When we read this book, we think of not just one exile, but many. We think of the first Temple destroyed. We think of the second Temple, also destroyed. We think of our people being scattered to the winds—rootless and wanting—time and again. 

The rebuke in Deuteronomy could not be more bleak. And yet, its counterpart haftarah is the opposite. If Deuteronomy 28 is suffering, the sixth haftarah of consolation, Isaiah 60, is ultimate relief. On the one hand, we have a description of Israel’s disobedience and its consequences; on the other, we have God’s unfathomable grace and faithfulness:

Foreigners shall build up your walls, 

and their kings shall minister to you; 

for in my wrath I struck you, 

but in my favor I have had mercy on you. . . .

Whereas you have been forsaken and hated, 

with no one passing through, 

I will make you majestic forever, 

a joy from age to age. 

You shall suck the milk of nations; 

you shall nurse at the breast of kings; 

and you shall know that I, the Lord, am your Savior 

and your Redeemer, the Mighty One of Jacob. (Isa ‭60:10‬, 15–16) ‬‬

These words come toward the end of a passage of Isaiah that deals intimately with malchiyot—the kingship of God on earth, the Messianic Kingdom, in which all that is broken will be made right, ushering in a time of peace and understanding.

Above, I describe a tension between two elements: the consequences of Israel’s disobedience, and the promise of God’s grace. Our readings this week create a space for us to sit within that tension and learn from the perspective that it affords us. It is quite easy—although also painful—to look at the tochechah of Deuteronomy and understand it as a tangible reality, for the Tanakh goes on to record the application of those very curses upon the Jewish people. We can look at all of these things and believe God. (Truly, what easier path is there to fearing God than seeing him follow through on a threat?) And yet, believing in God’s rebuke, and understanding the reality behind it, necessarily compels us to look further and look forward, for if we believe in God when it comes to his rebuke, surely we must also believe in his promises, even if those have not yet come to fruition.

Yeshua stands with us in this space within this tension, and in seeking him out here we can see these lessons all the more clearly, and from them draw strength. In the Olivet Discourse (Matthew 24–25, Mark 13, and Luke 21) Yeshua anticipates the coming destruction of the Temple in 70 C.E., which was at the time of his speaking 40 years hence. We can see the accuracy of his words with the benefit of our future perspective. But then he moves on from this prediction of destruction to one of ultimate hope—his return, and a final redemption. Indeed, even as he describes the signs of his coming, he recalls imagery from Isaiah 60:19–20 when he tells his disciples, “the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken” (Matt‭ 24:29‬).‬‬

So, this Shabbat, when we look at the tochechah of Deuteronomy 28, and the consolation of Isaiah 60, let us be strengthened by the one who stands at our side: Yeshua, the embodiment of God’s faithfulness to us. Rav Sha’ul, in his letter to the Galatians, speaks of how Yeshua redeemed us from the very curses of Deuteronomy 28 “by becoming cursed on our behalf” (Gal 3:13 CJB). And it is in Yeshua that our hope for the future lies, and in whom the promises of God will be fulfilled. “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away” (Rev‬ ‭21:4‬).

Scripture references, unless otherwise noted, are from the English Standard Version. 

Overcoming Commitment Hesitancy

Fifth Haftarah of Comfort, Isaiah 54:1–10

Rabbi Russ Resnik

One of the most consistent trends in modern America has been the increasing age at which people first get married. According to the US Census Bureau, the median age for a first marriage is now just over 30 for men and 28 for women. Go back just 40 years to 1980 and it was about 24 for men and 22 for women.

It’s an undeniable and significant trend, with many factors behind it, like the shift in focus from home and family to career and financial success; and a shift in moral values that makes it easy to remain unmarried but sexually active. But without a doubt this trend reflects the simple reality that it is harder than ever, in an environment of constant change, to commit long-term to anything at all. When you’re talking about marriage, a commitment that is meant to be not just long-term, but life-long, it’s no wonder that we hesitate. And this hesitancy to commit pervades not just relations between men and women, but all our relationships and activities.

During the current month of Elul, it’s customary to give extra attention to the state of our souls as we prepare for the coming Days of Awe, Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur (September 6–16 this year). During this time of self-examination we might check into our own avoidance of commitment, and how it’s affected the way we relate to our friends and family members, to our co-workers and colleagues, and to brothers and sisters in the worshiping community. Commitment hesitancy can impair all these relationships, and our haftarah reading for this week provides the foundation for overcoming it.

Our reading opens with the Lord comforting the “barren one,” Jerusalem, which symbolizes the people of Israel as a whole in this section of Isaiah. Jerusalem is currently childless and apparently abandoned. But the Lord says, “Fear not, for you will not be ashamed. . . . For your maker is your husband, Adonai Tsva’ot is his name” (Isa 54:4–5). God has made a commitment to his people, a commitment like the unbreakable covenant of marriage, so that it is not shaken, despite the failings of Israel. Their current state looks like barrenness, shame, and widowhood, but God provides reassurance:  

“For the Lord has called you
    like a wife deserted and grieved in spirit,
like a wife of youth when she is cast off, says your God.

For a brief moment I deserted you,
    but with great compassion I will gather you.
In overflowing anger for a moment
    I hid my face from you,
but with everlasting love I will have compassion on you,”
    says the Lord, your Redeemer. (Isa 54:6–8 ESV)

Note the contrast between the “brief moment” of abandonment and the “everlasting” quality of God’s compassion. When one is suffering and alone, it doesn’t feel like a brief moment, and we shouldn’t use these words to minimize or invalidate suffering, whether our own or another’s. But we can use these words to evoke the hope that endures beyond all suffering. More to the point, we can remain confident in God’s unshakable commitment to his people, including us, despite his momentarily hidden face. The Lord continues,

“This is like the days of Noah to me:
    as I swore that the waters of Noah
    should no more go over the earth,
so I have sworn that I will not be angry with you,
    and will not rebuke you.
For 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,”
    says the Lord, who has compassion on you. (Isa 54:9–10 ESV)

The context of Isaiah’s prophecy is the Babylonian exile, and Israel’s return from exile, which the prophet says is close at hand. Israel’s restoration after exile will be like the restoration of the whole earth after Noah’s Flood, when God promised that he would never again judge the earth by water (Gen 8:11–16). There may be transgression and judgment after the Flood, but never again judgment that entails a reset, reverting back to the first day of creation when the waters covered the earth (Gen 1:2). Instead, even necessary judgment will be framed in God’s compassion and forbearance.

Isaiah foresees a future return that will be far more profound than the return from Babylon. He foretells the coming of a Servant-Redeemer who will embody God’s compassion and bring this return to completion, even at the cost of his own life (Isa 49:5–6; 52:13–53:12; 59:20). When this Redeemer appears centuries after Isaiah’s prophecy, he reminds Jerusalem of her unfaithfulness, but says he will not leave her behind in the end: “You will not see me until you say ‘Blessed is he that comes in the name of the Lord’” (Luke 13:34–35). He will come, not bringing judgment, but in response to his people’s welcome. God’s compassion will not fail, even if his people wander far, and he will not complete his plan of redemption without them.

Since the days of Elul are days of personal reflection and renewal, let’s bring this home to a personal level. Simply put, God’s unshakable commitment to us as his people is the foundation on which we can build commitment to others.

As a rabbi and counselor I’m often involved in reconciliation—between a husband and wife whose marriage has been devastated by infidelity, or within a congregation wracked by betrayal and division. I’ve learned that making a commitment and following through on it is one of the most powerful ways to build trust or to restore trust that has been broken.

John struggled with drug and alcohol abuse as a young man, but has done well in recent years. Lately, however, he’s taken to going out “for a couple of beers” with the guys after work, and not coming home until one or two in the morning, drunk and abusive. When Sally confronts him, he admits his wrongdoing. He’s about to promise to never drink again, but instead he has the wisdom to make a specific commitment: “I’ll come home every night after work in time to have dinner with you and the kids.” This promise alone doesn’t win Sally’s trust, but if he follows through on it, it gradually will. But making that commitment is scary, especially since following through on it is a make-it-or-break-it deal. How’s John going to overcome his hesitancy and make a real commitment? By remembering and relying on God’s commitment to him, he can take that vital step. By trusting in God’s empowering presence, he can become trustworthy himself.   

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.

“Why have you forsaken me?”

Week Four of Consolation

by Rabbi Paul L. Saal, West Hartford, CT

For millennia, the historical church has read and studied the “last words” of Yeshua’s crucifixion during Lent and in preparation for the Easter Holy week. But I think this tradition has a special and unique value for Messianic Jews and those who affiliate with us. In fact, I think it has the potential to help us contemplate anew that great sacrifice of the Messiah, and also to restore the Jewish context of the Besorot (Gospels) and bring Yeshua into the preparation for the Jewish High Holidays.

Perhaps this needs a little more explanation. Between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av (usually in July in North America), the Jewish calendar enters a period of mourning for the destruction of the temple, and three haftarot of admonition are read. Following the 9th of Av there is a cycle of seven haftarot of consolation from the Book of Isaiah leading up to Rosh Hashanah, acknowledging that God has promised to never leave nor forsake Israel. Many Messianic Jewish congregations have adopted a lectionary that correlates three readings from the Besorot which commemorate Yeshua’s death and seven that commemorate Yeshua’s resurrection during this last quarter of the Jewish calendar. This reading cycle points us to the truth that Yeshua, as the one-man Israel, embodies in his person the meaning of the temple, the holy city, and Jewish history as a whole. His suffering sums up and purifies Israel’s suffering, and his resurrection will bring about Israel’s ultimate restoration.

So why read and study Yeshua’s dibberot acharit or last words? Why should we prolong the agony of crucifixion when we can elaborate the glory of resurrection? I believe it is in the recognition and engagement with trauma that we become liberated from it. 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.

Here are the seven statements that I have been contemplating during this period of consolation:

Week 1 – “Father forgive them for they do not know what they are doing.” Luke 23:34

Week 2 – “Truly I tell you that you will be with me in Gan Edan.” Luke 23:43

Week 3 – “Woman behold your son. . . . Behold your mother.” John 19:26-27

Week 4 – “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Matthew 27:46

Week 5 – “I am thirsty.” John 19:28

Week 6 – “It is finished.” John 19:30

Week 7 – “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” Luke 23:46

This being the fourth week of consolation, let’s examine this horrific, yet familiar statement: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”  

These words draw us into the life and suffering of Israel, a life of trauma and humiliation. As those who have lived through ancient occupations and genocides, crusades, inquisitions, pogroms, and the European Holocaust, we should not be surprised by the words of Yeshua the Jew, Yeshua King of the Jews. But it cannot be ignored that for the last two millennia most of Israel’s suffering has been at the hands of those who claimed to march under the banner of Christ!

Sholem Asch, the famous Yiddish playwright and novelist, draws a compelling comparison in his controversial monogram One Destiny: An Epistle to the Gentiles.

Hemmed in by a ring of death with bayonets and rifles on the streets of the ghetto, huddled in burning synagogues along the crusaders’ paths, and on the way to the inquisitors’ stakes, Jewish martyrs prayed, sang and cried out to God. The same outcry that was heard on the cross from he who gave his life to save the world, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachtani?”—“My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

 Marc Chagall also identifies the suffering of Yeshua with the suffering of Israel in his 1938 painting, “White Crucifixion.” The painting depicts a crucified Yeshua with a tallit girding his loins, towering over a horrified shtetl engulfed in flames. Yeshua does not replace the totality of Israel’s past, present, and future; rather he gives amplified meaning to these. In these final dibberot he invites us into the life of marginalization but also offers us the hope that comes with endurance, the endurance of Israel, the endurance of God’s only begotten Son.  

Jewish theologian Michael Wyschogrod wrote in his seminal book Body of Faith,

The hope of Israel is in the deliverance of its Messiah, the hope that prevents the past from gaining complete hegemony over the present. Because there waits in the future a transformation of the human condition such as has never been known before. The saving acts of God will be unexpected, revising much of the previously held wisdom, bringing into being a new heaven and a new earth in which not only the body of Israel will be circumcised but also its heart. The circumcised body of Israel is the dark, carnal presence through which redemption makes its way in history. Salvation is of the Jews because the flesh of Israel is the abode of the divine presence in the world. It is the carnal anchor that God has sunk into the soil of creation.

Yeshua’s last words are often our own words. During life’s trials, we can call out with that same desperate echoing of Psalm 22. This has been a year of endemic challenge. The pandemic that has already claimed over four million lives worldwide is again surging and multiplying; wildfires engulf the Pacific Coast states and every quadrant of the planet. Too often we respond with anger and recrimination of ourselves, others, and eventually even God. Yet we can choose to have confidence that the Holy One who was present with Yeshua is present with us through every challenge. Yeshua’s cry is not that of dereliction; rather it is the empathic voice of Israel’s long-awaited Messiah.  

So as we contemplate this week the final dibberot of Yeshua we can also meditate on the words of the shaliach concerning him,  

Who, though existing in the form of God, did not consider being equal to God a thing to be grasped.  But He emptied Himself—taking on the form of a slave, becoming the likeness of men and being found in appearance as a man. He humbled Himself—becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.  For this reason, God highly exalted Him and gave Him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Yeshua every knee should bow, in heaven and on the earth and under the earth, and every tongue profess that Yeshua the Messiah is Lord—to the glory of God the Father. (Phil 2:6–11 TLV)