Jacob’s Death and God’s Design

Parashat Vayechi, Genesis 47:28–50:26; Haftarah, 1 Kings 2:1–12

Dr. Vered Hillel, Netanya, Israel

Better . . . the day of death than the day of birth. . . . The end of a matter is better than the beginning of it. (Eccl 7:1b and 8a)

What do these aphorisms from Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) have to do with this week’s Torah portion? At first glance, we see that both Torah and Haftarah readings for Vayechi deal with the death of leaders, Jacob and Joseph in Genesis and David in 1 Kings. A closer look at the texts reveals that both deal with the approaching death of Jacob and David and their final words to their sons. Both fathers pass on their final instructions, exhortations, and prophetic pronouncements, two of which have messianic dimensions (Gen 49:10 and 1 Kings 2:4, 12 referring to 2 Sam 7:12–26).  

A deeper dive into the literary characteristics of the last three chapters of Genesis allows us to appreciate the Torah as literature, reinforces the conviction that Israel’s formation is part of Hashem’s design, and reveals the depth and intricacies of Hashem’s care, excellence, and attention to details and broad strokes.  

For example, three distinct narrative cycles come to an end in Vayechi: 1) the patriarchal period begins with the divine promise of nationhood to Abraham (Gen 12:2), and the fulfillment of that promise is expressed through the twelve tribes of Israel (Gen 49:28); 2) the Jacob narrative commences with a promise from Hashem that Jacob will have numerous offspring (Gen 28:14), and fittingly concludes with the death-bed scene of Jacob surrounded by his sons and grandsons (Gen 49:28); 3) the narrative of Joseph, which began in Genesis 37, concludes with the death of Joseph (Gen 50:26). The literary construction reinforces the biblical teaching that Israel’s formative age was not simply a chain of random coincidences but was a series of events ordered according to Hashem’s design. Nothing happened accidentally; all the events, and the biblical record of them, attest to Hashem’s choice of Israel and Israel’s part in his plan of consummation and salvation.  

Jacob’s Testament (Gen 49) demonstrates the value of literary structure, techniques, and conventions for mining the depth and intricacies of the Torah. Generally, this chapter is known as “The Blessings of Jacob,” because it contains Jacob’s blessing of each of his twelve sons. Yet, this chapter is so much more. It contains blessings and curses, admonitions and praise, and geographical and historical observations—all in the form of biblical poetry. The chapter is a collection of aphorisms in poetry form. In fact, it is the first sustained piece of Hebrew poetry in the Torah. Though the overall genre of this passage is poetry, it contains three additional literary genres: 1) the deathbed blessings, seen earlier in Isaac’s blessing of Jacob (Gen 27:27–29 and 28:1–4) and indirectly in God’s blessing of Isaac after Abraham’s death (Gen 25:11); 2) the farewell address, such as those of Joshua to the elders of Israel (Josh 23) and of David in this week’s haftarah (1 Kings 2:1–12); and 3) the tribal poem like those in Deuteronomy 33:6-35 and Judges 5.  

The Testament of Jacob (Gen 49) is one of the most difficult passages in Genesis, due to the uncertainty of meaning, extreme allusiveness, and double entendre (open to two different interpretations) of the aphorisms. Nevertheless, the context and setting of Jacob’s Testament impose an external unity that gives the poem cohesion and significance.  

The poem is situated in the midst of a prose framework about the death of Jacob, which in turn provides the appropriate setting within the narrative about Joseph. From the time Jacob settles in Canaan after returning from Haran, his life is completely intertwined with Joseph’s. The number 17 establishes the broader literary framework. The beginning of Jacob’s time in Canaan is noted by a chronological designation that Joseph was 17 at the time, and the end of his time in Canaan is noted by the 17 years Jacob had lived in Egypt (47:28). This setting supports the origin of the tribes and the basic unity of the nation of Israel as presented in Genesis. Further supporting this idea is the equal distribution of the use of the names “Jacob” and “Israel” in this chapter; each appears five times, symbolizing the dual character of Jacob and his sons. They are both individual personalities and the personification of their tribes; together they are the personification of the nation with its tribal components (Gen 49:27). The aphorisms in this chapter are presented as prophetic pronouncements that will ultimately determine the character and destiny of the tribes. Of course, the actions and behavior of Jacob’s twelve sons also leave an indelible imprint on their descendants that affects the course of history.   

The careful design of the literary structure is also seen in the tribal order of the poem. The order in Genesis 49 does not correspond to the birth order as recorded in Genesis 29:31–30:25; 35:16–18 or to any other list in the Torah. Instead, the children are listed according to their mothers:  Leah’s six sons are addressed first, then the two sons of Zilpah and the two sons of Bilhah, and lastly Rachel’s two sons. With the exception of Issachar and Zebulun, each group is presented in descending order of seniority. Genesis begins with the creative power of the divine word and ends with the power of the inspired predictive word of Jacob.  

Through the literary structure, techniques, and conventions in Vayechi, we see how the end of a matter can be better than the beginning. Genesis, however, is not the end of the matter; it is just the beginning of the canonical narrative. The ultimate power and expression of the divine word came in the enfleshment of Yeshua. Yet, even Yeshua’s enfleshment is not the end of Hashem’s plan. We still look forward to its consummation. Until then, we remember that Hashem is concerned about the broad plans and the fine details, the beginning and the end, and everything and everyone in between.

The Ties that Bind

Parashat Vayigash, Genesis 44:18–47:27

Rabbi Paul L. Saal, Shuvah Yisrael, Windsor, CT

It has been said that blood is thicker than water. This proverbial wisdom would suggest that family ties, though frequently tried, are stronger than any other relational bonds. After all, no judge would allow the sibling of a defendant to sit on the jury empowered to impartially try him or her. And which of us would not suspect a miscarriage of justice if such a situation were to be allowed? Even if the verdict were to go against the defendant, it might suggest severe animosity between the siblings. For, as many of us have observed, when the strong knots of family ties are broken, they are often the most difficult to repair.  

Such is the prologue to the profound theater of today’s parasha. Joseph, Israel’s favorite son, sits in judgment of his brothers. These same brothers had many years earlier sold Joseph into slavery, as a jealous response to their father’s privileged treatment of him. Though Joseph suffered many years of hardship, providence elevated him to a position of authority, vizier over all of Egypt and second only to Pharaoh. His position was a reward for his God-given wisdom, insight, and vision that saved Egypt and in effect the surrounding nations from the deadly results of a great famine. After correctly interpreting Pharaoh’s dreams, Joseph had urged the ruler to prepare for seven years of famine during seven prior years of prosperity. How could he have known that his own brothers would seek audience with him in an effort to purchase food to sustain the lives of themselves, of their father Jacob and their youngest brother Benjamin? And how could they have known that the great man who controlled their very lives was their brother whom they had betrayed a lifetime ago? 

At first glance it seems odd that they would not recognize Joseph. But it was a boy, after all, which the sons of Israel had sold to a passing caravan, not a fully matured man. Before them stood a middle-aged cosmopolitan Egyptian, not a young nomadic Hebrew. His clothes would have been the soft raiment of pampered wealth, not the course garb of a shepherd. His soft bathed skin and shaved face would never have betrayed his true pedigree.  

Yet Joseph remains their brother. The filial bonds are not dependent upon their recognition or acknowledgement of him. Joseph like them is a son of Israel, and has been chosen by God to be their deliverer, not their judge. It is not surprising that they fear him more when he reveals himself to them as their forgotten brother than when he is disguised as a foreign ruler. And this fear will not pass easily. Years later upon the death of Jacob they will still fear his vengeance, and appeal to him for continued mercy. Yet he assures and consoles them, “Don’t be afraid. Am I in the place of God? You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives. So then, don’t be afraid. I will provide for you and your children” (Gen 50:19–21). 

In a strange economy of mutual blessing, Joseph the deliverer of Israel is hidden among the gentiles and becomes the provider of their salvation as well. But some 400 years later when the new Pharaoh forgets Joseph and oppresses the children of Israel, the Holy One, the God of Israel will break the back of Egypt. Egypt as the prototypical nation learns that you cannot receive blessing from the God of Israel if you do not honor the children of Israel.  

Another strange and somewhat ambivalent relationship exists between Joseph and Judah. It was Judah years before who had devised the plan to fake Joseph’s death and sell him into slavery. He did so to prevent his brother’s from killing Joseph. And it is also Judah who becomes the protector of Benjamin, offering himself in slavery so the youngest of Jacob’s sons might be spared from the wrath of the vizier prior to Joseph revealing himself. Judah is truly a prince among his brothers; the one whose descendants Jacob prophetically announces will continue to carry the scepter of Israel. Judah is the ancestor of Jesse, the father of David, who was the quintessential King of Israel, the forbearer of the Prince Messiah. Judah is the ruler among his brothers. Joseph on the other hand is a ruler among the gentiles, a suffering servant for the sake of his brothers. Joseph is to Judah as the dark side of the moon is to its bright face.  

It is no wonder then that when the sages wished to reconcile the disparate pictures of the Messiah in scripture, the lowly servant who would arrive on the foal of a donkey, and the victorious king who would come upon the clouds, they looked to the strange interrelationship between Judah and Joseph. The rabbis of old determined that if Israel were meritorious, we would receive the victorious Messiah, Mashiach ben David. But if we were not, we would receive the suffering Messiah, Mashiach ben Yosef—two messiahs each coming once—one to suffer, one to reign. Never could they have imagined one Messiah who would embody both, Yeshua, Israel’s greatest son, both suffering servant and conquering King.  

When Yeshua was resurrected he still bore the wounds of crucifixion. Before he ascended to the right hand of God’s throne his disciples asked him, “Lord are you at this time going to restore the kingdom to Israel?” (Acts 1:6). Yeshua affirmed that the restoration of Israel’s glory was a divine appointment—but one that would have to wait. Instead, he commissioned them to go among the nations as his body, the quintessential sons of Israel to suffer as he did and to announce the great deliverance that is to come.  

Throughout history, the pain of the Jews, like the suffering of Joseph and the martyrdom of Yeshua, has paradoxically been contributing to the redemption and reconciliation of humanity. Sholem Asch, the famous Yiddish playwright and novelist, paints 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?”

We Messianic Jews are a remnant of Israel, partners in the historical suffering, and messengers for the world. We may at times be made to feel outside the family, not always recognized by others within the family of Israel, but we are part of the family, nonetheless. We are brothers of Messiah, redeemed by his sacrificial acts; therefore, we must bear the marks of his suffering. So, we become servants for the sake of our brothers, as Joseph did, as Yeshua did. We must neither condemn our brothers, blame them, nor separate ourselves from them.  

The great Jewish theologian and philosopher Martin Buber wrote,

From my youth onwards I have found in Jesus my great brother. That Christianity has regarded and does regard him as God and Savior has always appeared to me a fact of the highest importance which, for his sake and my own, I must endeavor to understand. . . . My own fraternally open relationship to him has grown ever stronger and clearer, I am more than ever certain that a great place belongs to him in Israel’s history of faith and that this place cannot be described by any of the usual categories.

Sometimes it can feel difficult to live out such a thankless and misunderstood identity. To the Nations we are Jews, and worthy of the misunderstanding and scorn that they often inappropriately feel for Jews. To our brothers we are often unrecognizable as family. We don’t embrace this identity because it’s easy, and certainly not for the lavish rewards it provides. Rather we do so because we are compelled to. Still, we can take heart in the words of Rav Sha’ul, “It is because of the hope of Israel that I am bound with this chain” (Acts 28:20). 

To our brothers, though, we can echo Joseph’s words of assurance, a precursor of Yeshua’s promise “God sent me ahead of you to preserve you for a remnant on the earth and to save your lives by a great deliverance” (Gen 45:7). 

As servants of a blessing, we stand in the place of the King—sons of Israel, brothers of Messiah, children of the covenant, an aristocracy of humility.

 Scripture citations are from the New International Version, NIV.

Photo: rosovconsulting.com

Being Credible in an Age of Distrust

Parashat Mikketz, Genesis 41:1–44:17

Rabbi Russ Resnik  

Who can you trust these days? As a rabbi and counselor I talk with people every day who’ve been let down, disappointed, or even betrayed by others. On the public level, trust is rapidly eroding everywhere, with experts, political leaders (sorry, I’m thinking of both parties), business icons, and celebrities of all sorts proving themselves untrustworthy. Sadly, we have to recognize that religious leaders, and people of faith in general, are often numbered among the least trusted. But rather than bemoaning this fact, it might be more fruitful to ask how ordinary people of faith—ourselves included—can legitimately earn the trust of others. How do we become credible in an age of distrust?  

Just the other day, I was talking with a younger man with whom I’m very close. He has a good moral compass that he follows even if it costs him. He recognizes the spiritual dimension of life. But, like so many of his generation, he has little use for “organized religion” and for most religious people. He says, “I get turned off when they start speaking their insider language that doesn’t mean anything to people on the outside.” And of course he mentioned hypocrisy, the biggest trust-buster, noting how people of faith love fancy talk, but don’t live it out. They’re just not credible.  

The opening scene of this week’s parasha sheds light on these issues, and it raises a couple of related questions that stick with me every time I read it.

Pharaoh, king of Egypt, had a pair of dreams, and “in the morning his spirit was troubled, and he sent and called for all the magicians of Egypt and all its wise men. Pharaoh told them his dreams, but there was none who could interpret them to Pharaoh” (Gen 41:8). Now, it’s possible that Pharaoh’s dreams totally stumped his magicians and wise men and they just stood around dumbfounded. But it seems more likely that they would have tried to interpret his dreams, because this was part of their job description. Earlier in our tale, Pharaoh had thrown two of his servants into the prison where a young Hebrew named Joseph was also held captive. These servants both had disturbing dreams, and were dismayed because there was “no one to interpret them” in their dungeon (Gen 40:8), which implies that dream interpreters were normally available. Indeed, as commentator Gordon J. Wenham notes, “while a dreamer might have a hunch whether a dream was auspicious or not, he had to rely on experts for a detailed explanation.” So Pharaoh’s staff of wise men probably included dream experts, but somehow Pharaoh didn’t find them credible. And that’s my first question: how does Pharaoh know that the interpretations of his own experts fall short?  

This leads to my second question. One of the imprisoned servants was Pharaoh’s cupbearer, and now he’s back in service. He suddenly remembers how his fellow prisoner, Joseph, had accurately interpreted his dream a couple of years earlier, so he recommends him to Pharaoh. Joseph is whisked out of his dungeon, cleaned up, shaved, and presented to the King, who tells him, “I have had a dream, and there is no one who can interpret it. I have heard it said of you that when you hear a dream you can interpret it.” Joseph answered Pharaoh, “It is not in me; God will give Pharaoh a favorable answer” (Gen 41:15–16). 

This Joseph fellow is a man of faith; as far as we know, the only person in Egypt who worships the one true God. He doesn’t claim to be a dream expert, but instead boldly invokes God’s expertise. He tells Pharaoh that his two-fold dream is foretelling seven years of plenty for Egypt followed by seven years of famine. Then he goes beyond dream interpretation to outline a strategy for surviving the famine, to be executed by a “discerning and wise man” appointed by Pharaoh. At this, the king turns to his advisors in amazement: 

“Can we find a man like this, in whom is the Spirit of God?” Then Pharaoh said to Joseph, “Since God has shown you all this, there is none so discerning and wise as you are. You shall be over my house, and all my people shall order themselves as you command. Only as regards the throne will I be greater than you.” (Gen 41:38–40)

So here’s my second question: Why does Pharaoh turn everything over to Joseph, before he even has time to see whether his interpretation bears out? Why doesn’t Pharaoh wait for the seven years of plenty to start to materialize, at least until year three or four, before he entrusts everything to this unknown, whom his own cupbearer had described in zero-status terms as young, Hebrew, and a servant (Gen 41:12)? 

I believe that Pharaoh couldn’t trust his own advisors and whatever interpretations they came up with because they just fell flat. But when Joseph speaks, Pharaoh can sense power and reality. Somehow this pagan king feels awe, a sense of transcendence, around this man “in whom is the Spirit of God.” This is the first time in Scripture that a human being is described in these terms, and it’s exactly what’s lacking among Pharaoh’s magicians and wise men.  

My two questions yield this insight: We gain credibility when others can sense something genuine and real in our lives. And we gain credibility when we don’t call attention to our lives, but to a power beyond. 

When Joseph says “It is not in me; God will give Pharaoh a favorable answer,” it’s not just religious talk—it’s credible. Joseph’s words reflect the trust in God that has sustained him through betrayal by his brothers, through the false accusations of Potiphar’s wife, and through long years in the dungeon.  

Joseph’s God-talk is credible—as even Pharaoh can sense—because he trusts in God. That’s a lesson for us today: if we act out of our fears and insecurities, we’ll never gain the trust of others. We become trustworthy, credible, as we deepen our trust in God.  

Joseph is credible because he trusts God enough to make room for God’s Spirit to work in his life. We read Parashat Mikketz during or close to Hanukkah every year, and the haftarah reading for Hanukkah also speaks of the Spirit: “This is the word of the Lord to Zerubbabel: Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the Lord of hosts” (Zech 4:6). This Hanukkah slogan also works as the slogan for those who rely not on the powers and resources of this age but on a Messiah resurrected from death itself by the Spirit of God.  

This Spirit is ever-present and always at work, and it’s when we’re not relying on what we can accomplish by might or by power, that the Spirit is most evidently at work in and through us. We cultivate this reality in our lives by remaining alert to the guiding presence of the Spirit each day, and by reminding ourselves of how much we need that presence. Active reliance on the Spirit produces credibility—especially if we don’t try to draw attention to it. Joseph’s simplicity is our model: “It is not in me; God will give the answer.” 

A final point on credibility for now: Joseph doesn’t just come up with some good ideas; he follows through. He not only interprets Pharaoh’s dreams, but he engages with Pharaoh and his concerns. He develops a response plan—and pours himself into it when Pharaoh puts him in charge. Likewise, we become trustworthy and credible when we make and follow through on commitments, especially those that cost us. Here is a secret to healing damaged relationships, and also a key, in a world filled with disappointments and distrust, to being a person of credibility.

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

No Escape—Only Rescue

Parashat Vayeshev: Genesis 37:1-40:23
Chaim Dauermann, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

Parashat Vayeshev represents a turning point in the Genesis narrative, when the focus shifts to the story of one man, and stays there for the rest of the book. The last four parashiot of Genesis tell the story of Joseph, how he came to be in Egypt, and how his experiences and decisions ultimately led to all of Abraham’s descendants living in Goshen, setting the stage for the rest of the Torah narrative. As in any epic story, there are bit players who seem to support the action rather than drive it. Reuben’s role in the narrative is a minor one, comprising but a few lines. While he may seem to take a back seat to the more significant roles of Joseph, Benjamin, and Judah, what he does in this story (and, ultimately, what he doesn’t do) raises interesting questions.

Genesis 37 tells the story of Joseph’s unfortunate fate at the hands of his brothers. Driven to jealousy over Joseph’s favored status with their father, and angered over his prophetic dreams which they’ve interpreted to be boastful, Jacob’s sons conspire to kill Joseph. It is then that Reuben, Jacob’s firstborn, intervenes.

But when Reuben heard it, he rescued him out of their hands, saying, “Let us not take his life.” And Reuben said to them, “Shed no blood; throw him into this pit here in the wilderness, but do not lay a hand on him”—that he might rescue him out of their hand to restore him to his father. (Gen 37:21–22)

His motives seem on the surface to be pure, motivated by care for his brother and love for his father, for it was known that Joseph was the most favored among his sons. But a careful reading of the surrounding text may lead one to question whether Reuben’s motivations may have had a more selfish nature. In Genesis 35:22, we read: “While Israel lived in that land, Reuben went and lay with Bilhah his father’s concubine. And Israel heard of it.” This is a deed that cannot come without consequence, but it is not addressed directly until Genesis 49, when Jacob withholds preeminence from Reuben, saying, “Unstable as water, you shall not have preeminence, because you went up to your father’s bed; then you defiled it” (49:4). There are issues at play here that go far beyond personal affront. Reuben’s actions with Bilhah directly challenged his father’s position and authority, and the consequences of those actions threatened the benefits that Reuben expected as the firstborn of the family.

After Joseph is thrown into the pit, Reuben leaves the scene. His brother, Judah, leads the others in lifting Joseph out of the pit and selling him to Midianite merchants. When Reuben later returns to the pit only to find it empty, he becomes distraught and tears his clothes in mourning and grief. But for whom does he mourn? He goes to find his brothers, and says, “The boy is gone, and I, where shall I go?” (37:30). It seems that even in his grief, his own fate remained very much on his mind. Between the time of his transgression with Bilhah and his father’s final blessing, Reuben was left to wrestle with the impact of his actions.

Jewish tradition wrestles with Reuben’s actions right along with him. The Talmud (Shabbat 55b) records the sages discussing Reuben’s sin and culpability. Some struggle with reconciling the image of Reuben as a righteous person with the sin he has committed. Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar says:

Is it possible that his descendants are destined to stand on Mount Eival and say: “Cursed be he that lies with his father’s wife; because he uncovers his father’s skirt. And all the people shall say, amen” (Deuteronomy 27:20), and this sin will come to be performed by him? Is it conceivable that the members of a tribe would curse their ancestor? How then do I establish the meaning of the verse: “And he lay with Bilhah his father’s concubine”? It is understood as follows: He protested the affront to his mother. He said: If my mother’s sister Rachel was a rival to my mother, will my mother’s sister’s concubine be a rival to my mother? He immediately stood and rearranged her bed so that Jacob would enter Leah’s tent.

This text goes on to report further debate around sleeping arrangements, and the relative sinfulness of the moving of beds. The biblical text itself, however, clearly indicates adultery, and the generational consequences that Reuben cannot escape speak to this being the case. But the instinct of the sages here, in reframing Reuben’s behavior as a lesser transgression related to the positioning of beds, ought to be understandable to any of us. Indeed, as unfair as it may seem for the standing of Reuben’s descendants to be marred by his transgression, as unjust as it might strike us that God would think to “visit the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and the fourth generation of those who hate me,” or as reprehensible as we might believe it to be that the consequences of sin could be visited on all of creation on account of one sinful forefather (Rom 5:12), we should not ignore how these scenarios parallel our modern concerns: Throughout the western world, countries are grappling with the question of whether the citizens of today should pay for the wrongs committed by their forebears. Here in the States, this conversation has been centered on the question of slavery for as long as I can remember. Yet it is hard for many of us to grapple with this issue when we know our country to be a good one.

Who can blame the rabbis for rearranging Reuben’s furniture? The problem of sin, after all, has to be dealt with somehow, and this can be all the more difficult when the sin seems notably out of character. But we can be thankful that there is another way of looking at this matter:

Reuben’s furtive rescue plan was doomed to fail from the start, for returning Joseph to his father would not have covered up his earlier sin. Moreover, as we learn later in the story, had Joseph not ended up in Egypt, Israel and his sons may have starved in the great famine that was to come. The story of Joseph has long been seen as a type—a parallel, prophetic representation—of the Messiah, Yeshua. Joseph saved his family, and the entire nation that would rise up from them afterwards, but he could not repair the generational consequences that Reuben brought upon himself. But just as we can look to Joseph’s story and his character for shadows of the Messiah to come, we have Messiah Yeshua to look to when it comes to repairing the impact and the legacy of sin.

Ultimately, what lies at the heart of this whole discussion is rescue. Rescue for Joseph from the pit. Rescue for Reuben from his transgression. Rescue for Jacob and his household from a famine. And rescue for us all, from our broken human state. In thinking of Reuben’s situation, and the sages’ speculations about the positioning of beds, I am reminded of the popular saying about rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Rearranging furniture can have utility for a time, but on a sinking ship, rescue is the only fruitful long-term plan.

In the Company of Angels

Parashat Vayishlach, Genesis 32:4–36:43

Ben Volman, Kehillat Eytz Chaim, Toronto 

Why are there always angels around Ya’akov? And why, at the climax of his spiritual journey, is “the angel” not an angel?  

Few of us have ever been aware of encountering the malakhim—those divine servants and agents of God who surround his throne and do his bidding. But others, believers like Ya’akov (Jacob), seem to experience them everywhere. From the day he leaves the tents of his father to his last days, laying hands of blessing on the sons of Yosef, he can testify: “the God who has been my own shepherd all my life long to this day, the angel who has rescued me from all harm, bless these boys” (Gen 48:15–16 CJB).   

Even when he draws near to Kena’an (Canaan) after twenty years of absence, Ya’akov is greeted by angels—and this is after “the angel of God” guided him to success while overseeing his uncle’s flocks and herds (Gen 31:11f.).  Despite their help, Ya’akov always saw his life as a painful journey—as he would later tell Pharaoh, his years had been “few and hard” (47:9).  

In his youth, Ya’akov’s quieter nature cast him in the shadow of an older twin, ‘Esav, the brawny hunter who was his father’s favorite. After years of being the second-rate son, Ya’akov had finally bested ‘Esav—deceiving his father to take his brother’s blessing. Then, while ‘Esav plotted his murder, Ya’akov fled to Haran, only to find himself laboring for a covetous uncle. Finally, he was compelled to answer God’s call and return home (Gen 31:3, 11–13).  

This new life must begin by facing his brother. The Chinese people have a saying: “When you bow, bow low.” Ya’akov’s message to ‘Esav struck that humble note: “Your servant Ya‘akov says, ‘I have been living with Lavan and have stayed until now. I have cattle, donkeys, and flocks, and male and female servants. I am sending to tell this news to my lord, in order to win your favor” (Gen 32:4–6). In other words, “I’ve been a hired worker and have returned with what I earned as a sojourner in a distant land.” There’s no mention of his extensive family.  

Ya’akov’s message could be seen as a deception, minimizing his success. But in another way it reveals Ya’akov’s inner doubts—how will ‘Esav measure him now? What does he have that’s worthy of his promised legacy or the stolen blessing? He’s little more than “a wandering Aramean” (Deut 26:5). 

‘Esav’s answer arrives, and it’s chilling: “he is coming to meet you; with him are four hundred men” (Gen 32:7).  From that moment, Ya’akov’s fear and anxiety drive his actions, including the division of his family into “two camps” so that even if the worst happens, some may flee to safety. He adds a final beseeching prayer, throwing himself on God’s mercy: “Adonai, . . . I’m not worthy of all the love and faithfulness you have shown your servant, since I crossed the Yarden with only my staff. . . . Please! Rescue me from my brother ‘Esav! I’m afraid of him, afraid he’ll come and attack me, without regard for mothers or children. You said, ‘I will certainly do you good’” (Gen 32:10–13 CJB). 

As Ya’akov prepares to meet his brother, we sense his mixed feelings about himself, his life, and even his uncertain relationship with God. It is all rushing toward this compelling climax as he prepares to cross at the fords of the Yabok. Then, after sending over everyone else, his path is blocked by a stranger—simply described once, with a single word, “ish.” In the CJB it’s translated as “some man,” though for Ya’akov, this stranger is anything but “a man.” This divine being is, however, like no “angel” he has ever met before.  

The angels in his past had comforted, guided, advised and inspired him. They had nurtured the chosen son of Yitzhak and Rivkah, when he was cast into the world from the only world he’d ever really known, and had barely any reason to believe in his own worth. The blessing he held might have been taken in deceit, but the legacy of God’s blessing to Avraham now rested on him. The angels understood his significance in the larger story even if he could not. But this is no such angel. 

This one dares to stand in his way and must be fought. Ya’akov is strong from his work in the fields, but the stranger can’t be thrown. We’re reminded of the twin boys fighting in Rivkah’s womb. Ya’akov and the stranger battle all night to a draw, until the challenger wrenches Ya’akov’s hip at the socket—inflicting terrible pain. Still, Ya’akov refuses to release his grip.  

When I was younger, I saw the stranger as an adversary, but I no longer see him this way. There is an aspect of rebirth here. Ya’akov is facing neither his nemesis nor an enemy. He’s wrestling for his life, but this opponent will not destroy him; he’s come to force Ya’akov to confront himself—he cannot go any further without believing that he’s worthy of his birthright. And so Ya’akov demands from him what he’s never authentically received from his father: “I won’t let you go unless you bless me” (32:27). 

Hearing Ya’akov’s name, the man tells him that he is no longer Ya’akov (“supplanter”). He is now “Israel; because you have shown your strength to both God and men and have prevailed” (32:29). The stranger refuses to tell his own name, but gives the blessing as demanded. Because this “man” enigmatically refuses to tell his name and yet Ya’akov believes that he has wrestled “face to face” with God, “yet my life is spared”, and because he calls the place P’ni-El (“face of God”; 32:31), there are many who believe that this man is Yeshua. 

At last, though, Ya’akov can finally lay claim to his own unique spiritual identity worthy of his legacy. Rabbinic tradition has identified the supernatural figure in various ways, including ‘Esav’s guardian angel, with Ya’akov’s success against him as a warning against the attacks of future enemies on Israel and his descendants (Gen Rab 77.3). But this is a very different victory; the triumph is in Ya’akov’s heart.  

In his remarkable book on maturing into the second half of life, Falling Upward, Fr. Richard Rohr points to a unifying event in all truly heroic journeys: “There is always a wounding: and the great epiphany is that the wound becomes the secret key, even ‘sacred,’ a wound that changes them dramatically” (18–19).   

In the chapter’s final scene, we have one of the great images in all literature: Ya’akov limping past P’ni-El, broken but blessed under the waking dawn. The blessing and his brokenness will both free and empower him. Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi and R.S. Miller explain in their book, From Age-ing to Sage-ing, that each of us, having come into new potential in the second half of life, will find greater meaning—as a mentor, a teacher, a spiritual leader, and a bridge-builder to the future (69 ff). 

As he enters the land of promise, Israel’s higher purpose will not be attached to what he acquires—though God has blessings yet to fulfill. But as the bearer of an authentic blessing, he can now freely give as he’s received. Indeed, through him the legacy of the patriarchal blessings, nurtured by God through angels and a “man” who came to wrestle with Israel by night, will go on.

The Perfect Jacob

Parashat Vayetse, Genesis 28:10 – 32:3

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

We often speak of Yeshua as the “Perfect Isaac,” the one to whom Isaac and his sacrifice point forward. We also speak of Yeshua as the prophet greater than Moshe, as the Living Torah, and as the Perfect Passover Lamb. But I propose that we can also think of Yeshua as the Perfect Jacob. 

We have in our parashah this week Jacob’s enigmatic dream about a ladder reaching into the heavens. Many questions arise from this text. There is a wealth of rabbinic and midrashic texts that attempt to unpack the meaning of this dream. Rashi focuses on the description of the angels’ movement. Scripture says that they were ascending and descending upon it. Rashi asks “Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t they be descending from heaven and then ascending back up?” There are some texts that provide possible answers to this question. 

Targums are Aramaic translations and expansions upon Scripture. They are akin to the Amplified Bible, published some decades ago, that provides additional wording in an attempt to more fully provide the original meaning of the Hebrew and Greek texts. Targum Neofiti provides us the following:

And he dreamed, and behold, a ladder was fixed on the earth and its head reached to the height of the heavens; and behold, the angels that had accompanied him from the house of his father ascended to bear good tidings to the angels on high, saying: “Come and see the pious man whose image is engraved in the Throne of Glory, whom you desired to see.” And behold, the angels from before the Lord ascended and descended and observed him.

Here it explains that the angels were traveling with Jacob to provide him protection. So they have to ascend the ladder to heaven to talk with other angels and invite them to come see Jacob’s face, which is the face on God’s throne. So this explains the issue of first having to go up the ladder, but what is this about Jacob’s face on the Throne of Glory?

This is in reference to Ezekiel’s vision of the Merkavah, the Heavenly Chariot of God. The Merkavah is propelled by four “living creatures,” each of which has four faces; human, lion, ox, and eagle. There are texts that assert that the human face is specifically Jacob’s face. Apparently Jacob is so pious that his face is engraved on God’s throne. Jacob has a heavenly image that matches his earthly image. His guardian angels are inviting the angels in heaven to come see the earthly image of the one that matches the heavenly image. Why is it Jacob’s face? Most likely the association is with his piety, held in high regard by the early mystics, and also the fact that he is worthy to see God’s face. In Genesis 32 he wrestles with an angel all night long and names the place Peniel (Face of God) because “I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared.”

Lamentations Rabbah, a 4th century midrashic text, not only refers to Jacob’s face on God’s throne, but also describes it as having some priestly and protective function. In Chapter 2, verse 2 it states:

Similarly spake the Holy One, blessed be He, to Israel: Do you not provoke Me because you take advantage of the likeness of Jacob which is engraved upon My throne? Here, have it, it is thrown in your face! Hence, He hath cast down from heaven unto the earth the beauty of Israel.

This text is akin to Yochanan the Immerser’s declaration that Israel cannot rely on the fact that they are descended from Avraham. God can raise up a people from the very stones! (Luke 3:8). Likewise, here, God warns Israel that they cannot rely on Jacob’s piety and casts his image from his throne down to earth as he sends Israel into exile.

Note here that the midrash refers to “the beauty of Israel.” Later texts describe the face on God’s throne as not only Jacob’s but the face of all the Children of Israel, as Jacob’s name was changed to Israel. And this is where we get to the crux of the matter. Medieval Jewish mystics expand the human face on God’s throne to all of us. We all have a heavenly visage. When we are born, God creates our image based on what he would like for us to be and do in this life. 

This is expressed in the Zohar:

When the Holy One, blessed be He, draws forth a soul to send it down to earth, He impresses upon it many warnings and threats to keep His commandments, and He also takes it through a thousand and-eight worlds to see the glory of those who have devoted themselves to the Torah, and who now stand before the King in a robe of splendor in the form which they possessed in this world, beholding the glory of the King and crowned with many diadems. . . . Before it enters into the body of a man, the holy King crowns it with seven crowns. If it sins in this world and walks in darkness, the Torah is grieved for it and says, All this honor and all this perfection has the holy King delivered to the soul, and she has sinned before Him! 

Like Jacob then, we have a heavenly face and an earthly one. The question is how well our earthly face matches the heavenly one. Are we living up to the ideal that Hashem set for our lives? If so, then our earthly face matches our heavenly one, as Jacob’s did. If not, then we have work to do. This matches my long-standing belief that there is a True Self, created in God’s image, at the core of our being that is often occluded by our egos and sinfulness. Many people fear what God may call them to, but the reality is that he only calls us to be true to who he made us to be. 

We each have our own unique talents and mission in this world. Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5 states that human kings stamp their image on coins and they all look the same. But the King of Kings stamps his image on each person and yet they all look different. Making our earthly image match our heavenly image brings us true shalom, for we are not truly whole until we become who we were meant to be.

Returning to Yeshua as the Perfect Jacob, Genesis Rabbah 68:12 asserts that the angels were ascending and descending not on a ladder but on Jacob himself! This is exactly what Yeshua declares in Yochanan 1:51. He is the Perfect Jacob, the ladder that connects heaven and earth. In fact, the Hebrew word for ladder used in describing Jacob’s dream is sulam. This is the only place in the Torah where it is used. In like manner, Yeshua is the only ladder that takes us to the Father. He not only ushers us into Hashem’s presence to obtain forgiveness as our High Priest, he also takes us into the heavens to see our ideal face carved on God’s throne so that we can understand more fully God’s design for our lives.

Yeshua indeed is the Perfect Jacob. His heavenly face indeed matches his earthly face, perfectly fulfilling his Father’s mission for him. He is the ladder upon which angels ascend and descend. He brings us into God’s throne room through the power of his sacrificial blood as our Kohen Gadol. He also shows us, through the power of the Ruach Ha-Kodesh, our heavenly face, urging us on to our own individual destinies.

May we each discover our True Face; what God has destined us to become in this world.

May we grasp our Heavenly Ladder, Yeshua Ha-Mashiach, with both hands, and find support in him for our feet.

May we each work to make our earthly face match our image carved on Hashem’s Throne of Glory.

Then we will merit many crowns and robes of righteousness as we spend eternity with the Perfect Jacob! 

Isaac’s Simple Path to Significance

Parashat Toldot, Genesis 25:1-28:9

Haftarah, Malachi 1:6-9; 2:1-7; Brit Chadashah, 2 Timothy 2:14-26

R. Mordechai ben Shaul, Devar Emet Messianic Synagogue

We strive for a life of significance. This striving isn’t exclusive to naïve youths; on the contrary, I have witnessed even elders deceiving themselves to believe that the world would soon end and they would merit the restoration of the world (or the destruction of it), eager to find their own meaning. The world simply wouldn’t be able to go on without them – could it? We want to be the ones who start something new and fresh or see what was started reach its completion, for we see this as the source of our own significance. However, is it not completely possible for us to simply be a vessel to carry someone or something else a step forward? This small step may appear insignificant to us, but it is our share in God’s plan. 

It is for this reason that I have always taken an interest in Isaac. As a Patriarch, Isaac is greatly underrepresented in the Torah. While Abraham has three parashiot and Jacob has two, this parashah is the only one that tells much of Isaac’s story and it is still shared with Jacob and Esau. So, while there is much that could be discussed this week about the twins, I’m going to focus on our second Patriarch, Isaac, and how he is a model that we should seek to follow in our lives. 

First, Isaac was committed to his family and prayed for them. Isaac never doubted his own value in God’s plan. From the first verse of the Torah portion, Isaac is affirmed as the son of Abraham to carry forward his responsibility: “Now these are the genealogies of Isaac, Abraham’s son. Abraham fathered Isaac.” (Gen 25:1). Isaac fulfilled the first part of our Brit Chadashah reading in 2 Timothy 2:15: “Make every effort to present yourself before God as tried and true, as an unashamed worker cutting a straight path with the word of truth.” In fact, he was quite literally a living sacrifice, having been raised up on an altar and almost killed! Yet, even with that confidence, the Torah stresses Isaac’s continued prayer for his wife, Rebecca, for twenty years – not because he had a lack of faith, according to one midrash, but because he knew that God would provide him a child. It was possible, however, that this child would not come through Rebecca. Thus, he was committed to his wife. God responded to his prayer: twenty years of being barren and then suddenly they had twins! 

Second, Isaac committed to living out God’s expectations for him even though he wouldn’t see the benefit. God commanded Isaac not to go to the lush land of Egypt but to remain in the Land of Israel. How much easier Isaac’s life could have been if he were allowed to take his wealth somewhere where he would be appreciated: perhaps lower taxes, lower consumer costs, folks that would value him. And yet, he remained in the Land of Israel and essentially became the first victim of proto-antisemitism. Consider Genesis 26:14-16:  

[Isaac] acquired livestock of sheep and livestock of cattle, and numerous servants. Then the Philistines envied him. All the wells that his father’s servants had dug in the days of his father Abraham the Philistines stopped up and filled with dirt. So Abimelech said to Isaac, “Go away from us, for you are much more powerful than us.”

First, the Philistines envied Isaac and committed downright destruction of property in violation of a promise that they had made to Abraham. Then they limited his access to residency. Even after Isaac dug wells himself, his neighbors quarreled over the water. And then, to top it all off, Abimelech and the Philistines requested a treaty with Isaac, acting like their actions thus far were somehow justifiable. What a premonition of what a Jew might experience even today!  

What is Isaac’s response to his mistreatment? He avoids the ignorant disputes and quarrels. He knows that God will provide and allows himself to be mistreated by the wider public, in keeping with what our Brit Chadashah reading from 2 Timothy challenges us to do. Avoid meaningless disputes. Rather, we should pursue righteousness, faithfulness, love, and peace. Why? So that we too, like Isaac, can be vessels of honor for our Lord. 

What does pursuing righteousness, faithfulness, love, and peace look like? It means doing what God wants you to do – even when you won’t benefit!

This is similar to the kohanim and Levi’im who were called out in our Haftarah portion. Just as Isaac had a responsibility to reside in the Land and raise up his family, a kohen as a leader was similarly responsible to teach the people. And yet, our priests ultimately failed in their responsibilities – they sought more glory via power, as evidenced by the corruption of the Hasmoneans and the corruption of the Second Temple. And unfortunately, much of our leadership in the Jewish community, the wider body of Messiah, and our Messianic Jewish community has failed in this responsibility to teach and carry us forward. We seem caught up in temporary and meaningless disputes rather than seeking a common goal with one another and raising up our communities and our families. And this failure of leadership has permeated how we lead our families. We think we are ready for Messiah to come right now . . . but how might we change our actions if he would come in our grandchildren’s generation? We would hopefully act a lot like Isaac.

Maybe we have had it wrong this whole time: as a Messianic Jewish community we’re not some great explorers in uncharted waters. We are simply small, little boats ferrying the Lord’s mission a little closer to the Final Restoration. We are simply vessels and should not be surprised or offended when the rest of our neighbors do not respect or understand us. And we shouldn’t seek glory for our sacrifice. Rather, we should focus on our family and community and commit to God’s expectations for us. That, in and of itself, is our significance and it is an honor.

Scripture references are from the Tree of Life Version, TLV.

How Shall We Serve?

Parashat Chayei Sarah, Genesis 23:1–25:18

David Nichol, Ruach Israel Congregation, Needham, MA

A couple weeks ago, in parashat Lech L’cha, we read that God commanded Abram (later Abraham) to leave his homeland and go—without much detail about where to go. But God did provide some motivation, or at least a clue of what is to come:

I will make of you a great nation,

And I will bless you;

I will make your name great,

And you shall be a blessing. (Gen 12:2 JPS)

What this blessing looks like, Abraham likely can’t fathom. But it seems to motivate him. He immediately obeys and (as R. Russ Resnik wrote a couple weeks back) takes great risks to follow this path.

Later, in Vayera, we learn more about what God is intending for Abraham: “For I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of the LORD by doing what is just and right (tzedakah umishpat)” (18:19). Long before Jake and Elwood in the Blues Brothers, Abraham is on a mission from God.

This mission seems to be on Abraham’s mind in this week’s parasha, Chayyei Sarah, as he takes steps to find a wife for Isaac. He calls in his senior servant (identified by some commentators as the same Eliezer mentioned in chapter 17), and solemnly charges him to retrieve a wife for Isaac from his kinsfolk back in his Mesopotamian homeland. He is emphatic that Isaac should not go back there himself, and that this wife should not be from the Canaanites or nearby peoples.

These stipulations are telling (as is, perhaps, Isaac’s absence from this meeting). Why are Canaanite women out of bounds for Isaac? After all, Abraham may eventually take a Canaanite wife himself (see Ramban on 25:6)! And why not let Isaac go back to Haran, and maybe get some time with the grandparents and Uncle Laban? 

Even if we don’t know exactly what is going on in Abraham’s head here, he is clearly motivated by God’s promises. It’s not really about Isaac’s marital bliss: it’s to ensure this legacy of tzedakah umishpat, righteousness and justice; of being a great nation and a blessing to all nations. Whatever Abraham’s rationale for avoiding Canaanites, it’s clear that his actions are being filtered by their compatibility with the legacy of promise. 

I find this servant, Eliezer, particularly inspiring. He doesn’t stand to benefit the way Abraham does, yet he is committed to the vision and to the mission. His trip to find a wife for Isaac meets with spectacular success, with God’s help. Upon arriving, he asks for help, a miraculous sign . . . and it works! He is led to Rivka, a girl of exceptional character, who is even Abraham’s close relative (yes, back then this was a good thing)! 

Perhaps even more miraculous is that when Eliezer explains the situation to Rivka’s parents and brother, they agree that it is clearly God’s providence, and that she should return with him to marry Isaac. The only friction arises in the story when, after a good night’s sleep, Eliezer wants to set off right away: 

Then he and the men with him ate and drank, and they spent the night. When they arose next morning, he said, “Give me leave to go to my master.” But her brother and her mother said, “Let the maiden remain with us some ten days; then you may go.” He said to them, “Do not delay me, now that the Lord has made my errand successful. Give me leave that I may go to my master.” And they said, “Let us call the girl and ask for her reply.” They called Rebekah and said to her, “Will you go with this man?” And she said, “I will.” (Gen 24:54-58 JPS)

Why does the servant insist on leaving immediately? To a modern reader this may seem like a minor disagreement, but the fact that they asked Rivka to be the tie-breaking vote indicates otherwise. After all, nobody bothered to ask her opinion on the long-distance arranged marriage. What does Eliezer’s determination to return to his master tell us?

What do you think? Would you be in such a hurry?

Here are two possibilities, and I suspect both are factors. First, Eliezer understands the gravity of Abraham’s mission, of the big story that he’s witness to. Imagine being close to greatness, but being consigned to a supporting role—like being a ballboy in the Wimbledon final. Are you the kind who chases down every ball with gusto, not letting up, executing your humble role with passion and vigor? Read this way, he embraces his (minor) role because he sees the big picture. 

Another way to understand Eliezer is as one who cares about Isaac’s future because he truly loves Abraham. He may know that this wife-hunt is of profound historical import, but it doesn’t matter. His loyalty and love drive him. He would rather see joy on Abraham’s face, see Isaac comforted after the loss of his mother, than get a few extra days partying with the Chaldeans.

So what can we learn?

At our best, we are more Eliezer than Abraham—minor characters in this drama. Certainly matchmaking may be in our wheelhouse, but so are many other things: keeping Shabbat, showing hospitality to those who are lonely, declaring God’s unity twice daily in the Shema, bearing the burden of our neighbor, visiting the sick . . . the list goes on. We also are part of this same mission. 

Honestly, as characters in this story, we are only guessing at what will happen next. We may think we see the story unfolding before our eyes: the birth of the modern state of Israel; the widespread agreement that righteousness and justice (however defined) matter; more people entering relationship with the God of Israel through Yeshua; wars and rumors of wars. But we’re kidding ourselves if we think we see the last plot twist. 

Eliezer certainly does not know how making one shidduch (match) will result in the redemption of the world; he only sees what’s in front of him. He has a simple job, and he wants to accomplish it with zerizut (alacrity, enthusiasm) and anavah (humility). He loves his master and takes joy in executing his task.

Perhaps this is why, instead of being named, he is referred to throughout the entire story as “ha’eved,” the servant. His faithful service reminds us of Yeshua, who initiated his students into this mission by taking on the role and dress of a servant (John 13).

Therefore let us serve, not by looking for the grandiose or inspiring roles, not with an expectation that we know how the future will unfold, but by accomplishing what stands before us. What stands before us? The shaliach Peter tells us:

So be self-controlled and sober-minded for prayer. Above all, keep your love for one another constant, for “love covers a multitude of sins.” Be hospitable one to another without grumbling. As each one has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of the many-sided grace of God. Whoever speaks, let it be as one speaking the utterances of God. Whoever serves, let it be with the strength that God supplies. So in all things may God be glorified through Messiah Yeshua—all glory and power to Him forever and ever! Amen. (1 Peter 4:7b-11 TLV)

Covenantal Kvetching

Parashat Vayera, Genesis 18:1-22:24

Rabbi Isaac S. Roussel, Congregation Zera Avraham, Ann Arbor, MI

People are often shocked and a bit unsettled when they learn that there is a long Jewish tradition of arguing with God. It somehow seems disrespectful to challenge the Creator of the Universe; after all, who are we to argue? It is true that there are Jewish texts that highlight the grandeur of God over us mere mortals. For example, in the Weekday Shacharit we say, “What shall we say before you? Are not all the mighty like nothing before you, the men of renown as if they had never been, the wise as if they know nothing, and the understanding as if they lack intelligence?”

But Jewish tradition holds in balance the recognition of God’s greatness over us—his transcendence—with his deep care for us and desire to have a relationship with us, that is, his immanence. Perhaps we have this perspective and Christians often do not because we have a more solid understanding of covenant. I have been reflecting on this in recent months. I think that this lack of understanding might be the root of a number of misunderstandings, including Replacement Theology. My reflection started when a pastor friend of mine asked me what was a good translation of the word “Chesed.” He gave me several options from different English translations. Here was my response:

I would prefer "loving covenantal faithfulness." Because Christianity has historically ignored by and large God's relationship with Israel, the concept of "covenantal bond" is missing from much of Christian theology. This is such a key tenet of Judaism. God lovingly chooses Israel through no merit of its own and makes a covenantal bond to her, tying his destiny to hers. This covenant is what the nations are grafted into, not replacing. So Chesed is like a loving and attentive husband living out his commitment to his wife. It's a beautiful image and one that I think accurately reflects Scripture. 

Because Hashem has chosen to be in relationship with Israel and by extension, the Church, we can feel free to argue and question him. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, in his book Lonely Man of Faith, says it thus:

He [God] joins Man and shares in his covenantal existence. . . . The element of togetherness of God and Man is indispensable for the covenantal community. . . . The very validity of the covenant rests upon free negotiation, mutual assumption of duties and full recognition of the equal rights of both parties.

This truth is expressed in a midrash that I often quoted to my kids on Erev Shabbat when they were little. The midrash asks “Why did God make mud and not bricks, and wheat not bread?” The answer is that he wants us to be partners with him in the continuing unfolding of Creation. We are junior partners, so to speak. 

While God is infinite and we are finite, because of this covenant, we can question and even challenge. This is evidenced in today’s reading, where Avraham argues with God to save innocent people (if any can be found) in Sodom and Gomorrah. With great chutzpah, he haggles with God, trying to get him to be as merciful as possible. Our tradition views it as Avraham’s greatness that he would be willing to do this. The authors of the Psalms and the prophets do not hesitate to question or challenge either. The Talmud questions God. There is the famous story of Achnai’s Oven, where the rabbis are arguing, and a bat kol, a voice from heaven, states which one is correct. This declaration is rejected by the rabbis because “the Torah is not in Heaven.” This tradition continues to this day with people putting God on trial for the Shoah.

Many years ago I gave a Rosh Hashanah sermon where I read a cancer-ridden rabbi’s demand that God needed to seek his forgiveness. This may seem to be a lot of chutzpah, and it is, but it is very Jewish.    

In fact, in our parashah today God invites Avraham into the decision, wanting him to give input. He asks himself, since he has chosen Avraham, “Shall I conceal from Avraham what I am doing?” 

A midrash interprets God’s statement to Moshe after the sin of the Golden Calf as inviting him into his decision making about destroying the people. In Shemot Rabbah, it says that when God tells Moshe to leave him to stew in his anger, it is actually God inviting argument. The midrash likens it to a king who is angry with his son and shouts that he is going to kill him. The prince’s tutor says to himself, “Why did he shout it, instead of just killing him? It's because he really wants someone to talk him out of it.”

We are part of this covenant, along with those who have been grafted in. We, therefore, can feel free to argue, question, and even rant and rave at God, just as our ancestors did. This is not hubris or rebellion, it is what those in a relationship do. Even Yeshua did it. As he is dying, he cries out in his pain and distress, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

I think that I have told the story before of a time when I was very upset with God. But I refused to be honest about my feelings. He very clearly said to me to cut it out, that I was angry with him. This released a torrent from me of accusation and anger about my situation. I consider this a watershed moment of my spiritual life. I learned that to be in a true relationship, I cannot wear masks. 

As I have practiced this kind of openness over the years, what I have often found is that only by expressing it do I often realize my own wrong thinking. If I am glossing over it, God's not able to break through my walls and reveal things to me.

But this can also make us great intercessors, just like Avraham. We should be moved and angered by the injustices, evil, disease, and death that permeate our world. We can come boldly to God’s throne and appeal for him to act; to pray on behalf of those who suffer. In Hebrews 4 it says that because Yeshua experienced the same trials as us, that we can come boldly before God’s throne seeking help. Seeking help can be a request, but it can also be a demand for action.

So I encourage you today to seize upon the Covenant and be honest and open with God. Yes, acknowledge that he is Ribbono Shel Olam, the Master of the Universe. But express your feelings, wants, desires. Question him, challenge him. Kvetch to him. Be real in prayer. I assure you that you will discover a richer and deeper relationship with the One who is both Avinu and Malkeinu, our loving Father and our King. 

In the Risky Footsteps of Abraham

Parashat Lech l’cha, Genesis 12:1–17:27

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Whenever I hop into the car, I make sure to buckle up. I always wear a hi-vis yellow helmet when I ride my bike. I even refrain from kvetching about my face mask as I’m cruising the aisles at Trader Joe’s. These all seem like reasonable ways to reduce risk and play it safe. But I also recognize that our ancestor Abraham was not particularly intent on playing it safe. When the situation called for it, he took great risks, and he reaped great rewards, as we see in this week’s parashah: “After these things the word of the Lord came to Abram in a vision: ‘Fear not, Abram, I am your shield; your reward shall be very great’” (Gen 15:1).  

Why does Abraham need this admonition against fear? Because this encounter with Hashem comes right “after these things,” probably referring to his risk-filled raid on four invading armies to rescue his nephew Lot.  

Abraham had taken risks for God before, starting with his initial calling, which opens Parashat Lech L’cha. Hashem said to him, “Lech l’cha, Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. . . . So Abram went, as the Lord had told him” (Gen 12:1, 4). Abraham, of course, is our exemplar in the way of faith, and we can learn something about risk-taking faithfulness from him. 

1.     Pursuing God will require risk at the most critical moments.

A well-known midrash explores God’s command to go forth:  

R. Berekiah said: What did Abraham resemble? A phial of myrrh closed with a tight-fitting lid and lying in a corner, so that its fragrance was not disseminated; as soon as it was taken up, however, its fragrance was disseminated. Similarly, the Holy One, blessed be He, said to Abraham: “Travel from place to place, and thy name will become great in the world”; hence, Get thee, etc. (Genesis Rabbah 39.2)

As long as Abraham was safely ensconced in his own country, among his kindred, and in his father’s house, he was safe enough, but he had no impact in the world. But as he embarked on the risky journey to destinations unknown, he spread forth the knowledge of God and became the source of blessing to all nations. We might miss some of the impact of this midrash if we forget that myrrh is a precious substance, something to protect, and that popping open the lid entailed risk of losing its value—even as its real value, its aroma, spread forth. 

Likewise, if we opt to play it safe in our walk with God, we’re unlikely to have much impact on the world around us. If we focus on just surviving, we can forget about ever thriving.  

2.     Don’t hesitate to factor God into your risk assessment.

After God promises a reward, Abraham, who responded with wordless obedience to the command “lech l’cha,” finds his voice again . . . and lodges a complaint with the Almighty: “What kind of reward can you give me, since I remain childless and have no true heir?” God says “Look toward heaven, and number the stars, if you are able to number them. . . . So shall your offspring be.” And he believed the Lord, and he counted it to him as righteousness (Gen 15:6).

In his letter to the Romans, Paul explores the dynamics of this faith:  

Abraham did not weaken in faith when he considered his own body, which was as good as dead (since he was about a hundred years old), or when he considered the barrenness of Sarah’s womb. No unbelief made him waver concerning the promise of God, but he grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God, fully convinced that God was able to do what he had promised. (Rom 4:19–21)

 Abraham knew it was biologically impossible for him and Sarah to conceive, but he factored God into the equation and was enabled to believe his promise, despite the risk that the whole thing would fall through, and he’d end up disappointed and ashamed. We might assess ourselves by this measure: “When was the last time I really trusted God for something that seemed humanly impossible?”  

3.     Risk-taking for God is a life-long venture.

The phrase “Lech l’cha” appears only twice in all of Scripture: at the very beginning of Abraham’s story, and again near the end, when God commands Abraham, “Take now your son, your only one, whom you love, Isaac, and lech l’cha to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you” (Gen 22:2).  

Lech l’cha grabs Abraham’s attention at the beginning of his journey and again toward the end, so this phrase and his response to it characterize his entire life’s journey.

• Both times Abraham is directed to an unknown destination.

• Both times he refrains from speaking, but accepts God’s word in silence.

• And both times he acts on that word by setting out without delay.

As Abraham gets older, he doesn’t go easy on himself or expect a safer relationship with God, and neither should we. From the beginning to the end of his journey, Abraham demonstrates faith or faithfulness—the Hebrew term can be translated either way—as an example for us. As one Christian writer notes:  

Faith is a verb, not a noun; it is a way of living, not simply believing. It is our response to God’s invitation to a deeper relationship. We let go of the past’s familiarity and comfort. We also renounce the ego’s need to understand and rationalize that offers so much false security and, like Peter, take that agonizing and precarious step onto water (Matthew 14:29). (Albert Haase, Becoming an Ordinary Mystic)

We could also say, “We renounce the ego’s need to understand and rationalize and, like Abraham, take that agonizing and precarious—and risky—step toward the place that God will show us.” Abraham’s faith leads him into uncharted territory, the sort of territory that we have to traverse in our days as well. And it’s this faith that God accounts to Abraham as righteousness.

. . .

Some of the Jewish sages ask why it’s such a big deal that Abraham believes God—he’s a prophet, after all, and he’s already seen God’s mighty provision for his life, so of course he believes. But now he believes God’s promise in the very thing that’s the hardest to trust God for, his lack of an heir, and this believing is accounted to him as righteousness.  

It’s when we believe God concerning the matter that is most difficult, most pressing, of the highest stakes, that our belief is accounted to us as righteousness.  As Paul tells his fellow Yeshua-followers in Rome: 

The words “it was counted to him” were not written for Abraham’s sake alone, but for ours also. It will be counted to us who believe in him who raised from the dead Yeshua our Lord, who was delivered up for our trespasses and raised for our justification. (Rom 4:23–25)

Today we can risk believing in, and being faithful to, the message of a crucified and risen Messiah, as unpopular and unenlightened as that message sounds to the dominant culture. When we do, God brings us into a right relationship with him, which is the only really safe place to be.  

All Scripture references are from the English Standard Version (ESV) with occasional modifications.