Between the DeMille and the Deep Red Sea

Parashat B’shalach, Exodus 13:17–17:16
Chaim Dauermann, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

When I first came to faith in Messiah, I was disheartened by what I saw in others. Namely, it was nominally religious folks who did not “uphold their end of the bargain,” as I saw it. This disturbed me. It did not shake my faith, but I found myself dismayed. I was filled with godly fervor, and wanted to see the same reflected in the world around me. The idea that someone could glimpse the truth and power of God in any measure and not respond with appropriate zeal made me despondent, and I feared for the world. Although I do not feel nearly the same angst now, the dynamic I observed then isn’t any less present. What calmed me was understanding two key realities: First, that God’s power is not subject to our belief. He can accomplish his goals with any number of people at his side, or even none at all. Second, that the righteous are almost exactly like everyone else, except for one key difference. And this difference is what defines us. In the Bible, it is what separates the heroes from ordinary men and women. 

Speaking of heroes—let’s talk about Moses. 

Moses is famous. Even people who don’t quite know what Moses did, know his name. I remember a conversation I had with a friend of mine when I was a teenager. He was raised in an atheist home, having no religious education whatsoever. One day, I casually mentioned Moses in the course of making a point. “Moses!” my friend exclaimed. “I know who that is! That’s the guy with the big boat, right?” But most everyone else knows the story of the Exodus—it has transcended its biblical roots and populated the realm of popular myth, inspiring blockbuster films, such as Cecil B. DeMille’s 1956 epic The Ten Commandments, or the (absolutely delightful) animated film The Prince of Egypt. 

In light of such Hollywood sources, one would be easily forgiven for conceiving of the historical Moses as a handsome super-man. Whether played by Charlton Heston, Ben Kingsley, or Christian Bale, the Moses of the popular imagining is a man wielding great power—calling up plagues upon the Egyptians, parting the Red Sea with little more than a wave of his hand, and liberating an entire nation from the bondage of slavery. 

But that’s not the real Moses. The real Moses was a shy octogenarian with a stammer. When God called to him from a burning bush, the real Moses had been hiding from Egypt for forty years, herding sheep. The real Moses was so unsure of himself, initially, that God called upon his brother, Aaron, to be his mouthpiece and speak for him. The real Moses was absolutely riddled with doubt.

In this week’s parasha, B’shalach, Moses has somewhat improved in confidence. With God’s instructions, Aaron’s help, and the mighty power of ten plagues, the Hebrews have successfully been liberated and are on their way out of Egypt, with Moses at their head. But what Moses may now possess in confidence, the children of Israel lack. They have doubts.

They said to Moses, “Is it because there are no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us in bringing us out of Egypt? Is not this what we said to you in Egypt: ‘Leave us alone that we may serve the Egyptians’? For it would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness.” (Exod‬ 14:11–12‬ ESV)

What a moment this must have been! After everything Moses had done, and after everything the children of Israel had seen, still they were unconvinced. It’s nothing that Moses had not heard before. He seemed to understand his people’s doubtful nature, for when God recruited him, Moses was not only casting doubt on his own abilities when he said, “But look, they will not believe me or listen to my voice. They will say, ‘Adonai has not appeared to you’” (Exod 4:1‬ TLV‬). God later calls the Hebrews am k'she oref —a stiff-necked, or obstinate people (Exod 32:9). They not only doubted Moses’s judgment in this moment—in declaring that they would “die in the wilderness,” they doubted God’s ability to deliver them.

That they would continue to rebel and doubt was not lost on God. He did not choose them, however, for their obedience, but for his own purposes (Deut 9:6). He knew everything they would do from that point forward—a future full of disobedience and idolatry—and saved them anyway. And in that moment beside the Red Sea, he did not need their belief in order to accomplish their deliverance.

In chapter 10 of his letter to the Romans, Rav Sha’ul draws an interesting parallel as he wrestles with the mystery of Israel’s disobedience. Citing Moses’s words to an obstinate Israel, Sha’ul begins:

But I ask, did Israel not understand? First Moses says, 

“I will make you jealous of those who are not a nation; 

with a foolish nation I will make you angry.”

Then Isaiah is so bold as to say, 

“I have been found by those who did not seek me; 

I have shown myself to those who did not ask for me.” 

But of Israel he says, “All day long I have held out my hands to a disobedient and contrary people.” (Rom‬ 10:19–21‬ ESV)

Here, Sha’ul is exploring, not Israel’s stubbornness in the wilderness, as they were led by the prophet Moses, but rather their failure to heed the words of another prophet Moses foretold—Yeshua (Deut 18:15–19).

Israel’s disobedience was not recent or novel, a point that Sha’ul drives home in the next chapter of his letter, making reference to yet another time in Israel’s history:

Or do you not know what the Scripture says about Elijah, how he pleads with God against Israel? “Adonai, they have killed your prophets, they have destroyed your altars; I alone am left, and they are seeking my life.” But what is the divine response to him? “I have kept for Myself seven thousand men who have not bowed the knee to Baal.” (Rom‬ 11:2b–4‬ TLV).

And so, we see in this that God does not require everyone to be behind him in order to accomplish his purposes. Sometimes it takes just seven thousand righteous men out of an entire nation. Other times, it might take only one. Let us return to Parashat B’shalach as an example. The Israelites have fled the Egyptians, and now have their backs against the Red Sea. They have despaired. They have given themselves up as dead. But Moses—awkward, reticent Moses—replies, ‬“Don’t be afraid! Stand still, and see the salvation of Adonai, which He will perform for you today” (Exod 14:13a‬ TLV‬).

Then, in faith, he steps out toward the sea, and he stretches out his hand . . .

Moses believed God. And that made all the difference.

Faithful in Small Things

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1-13:16

Dave Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

My heart is not proud

Perhaps the most difficult time of day in my house is getting the kids out the door to school in the morning. On the days I take them to school, all I really want is for them to be ready, coats and backpacks (and masks) affixed, shoes on their feet, waiting patiently for me outside, lined up and at attention. A parent’s dream is to tell their kids, “Let’s go!” and to have everyone outside within a couple minutes without any major drama. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask, right?

Well, as any parent knows, it never happens this way. Someone will need (read: want) help putting on their shoes, or can’t find their mask, or needs to draw one last picture before leaving. Chaos always asserts itself in some measure. 

In this week’s parasha, Moses prepares the Israelites for leaving Egypt. He has them literally get their shoes on and their walking sticks in hand (Exod 12:11) so they are ready to go when the moment comes (masks were probably unnecessary). 

But unlike my instructions to my children on school mornings, Exodus 12 is not limited to practical matters. It’s not so much, “Wait by the door while Moses grabs the keys to the Red Sea,” as much as, “Let’s talk about the calendar and the detailed instructions for remembering this moment across countless generations. Also, matzah!”

Even while redemption is still future-tense they are commanded to sit and eat. Despite the fact that they haven’t even left slavery yet, there is a meal with rules and regulations—the first seder, before the Exodus! We can’t wait for the bread to rise, but there’s time for a communal sacrifice, a public display, and memorial. Even before their redemption they are beginning to act out their role as God’s witnesses.

What can we learn from this unexpected ordering of events?

Nor do I go after things too great . . .

For one thing, it is a clue that the Exodus is not fundamentally about freeing slaves as we might understand it today. The freedom narrative is certainly part of the picture, but it is subordinated to a greater purpose. The opening verses of our parasha fill out the bigger picture:

Then ADONAI said to Moses, “Go to Pharaoh, because I have hardened his heart and the heart of his servants, so that I might show these My signs in their midst, and so you may tell your son and your grandchildren what I have done in Egypt, as well as My signs that I did among them, so you may know that I am ADONAI. (Exod 10:1-2)

You can almost imagine Moses saying, “Wait a minute . . . go to Pharoah, because he’s not going to let us go? How does that make sense?” And it doesn’t make sense unless there’s a greater purpose beyond one people’s freedom. Rabbi Russ Resnik recently commented on parashat Va’era how this greater purpose includes Israel’s calling to God’s service (avodat Hashem).

Freedom—like justice, truth, equity, honor, and love—is not an end unto itself. Rather, it is a concept that requires some context to be meaningful. Is justice “an eye for an eye” or “turn the other cheek”? Notice that in the Hebrew, God does not demand that Pharaoh free the Israelites, but rather that he send them off to serve God instead (e.g. Ex 9:13, “vaya’avduni”). Is freedom simply serving the right master, or is it fulfilling our destiny? If the latter, who decides our destiny?

Such concepts as freedom and justice are useful for serving God, and God demands that we prioritize them. But pursued in a vacuum, outside of the context of our relationship with God, they can become idols on one hand, or blunt weapons on the other. Meted out by humans, one person’s justice is another’s oppression. Freedom’s dark side, as manifested today, is an epidemic of atomization and loneliness. Ask those who spent time in the Soviet gulags about equity, or those who went under the guillotine in the French Revolution about liberty. What is “justice” to the many Americans incarcerated for minor crimes who would have walked free if they could afford a decent lawyer?

And love? While God may be love (1 John 4:8), love is no god.

If these lofty concepts are only tools or signposts on the way, then what are they pointing to? If freedom, love, or justice are not the ultimate goal, then what is? The one thing worthy of seeking, and the one thing that cannot be truly grasped: God’s very self.

. . . or too difficult for me

Of course, you might say, how is “seek God” more practical than seeking justice or freedom? What is more ineffable than God? How do we reach out to the one described by the kabbalists as Ein Sof, “without end,” being beyond even the broadest description? If Moses could not behold God, how can we?

This is where faith comes in. For many people today, it is easier to believe in the existence of God than to believe that we can have a relationship with him. But if we can, it probably looks the way it was described by King David:

A Song of Ascents. Of David.

ADONAI, my heart is not proud,

nor my eyes lofty,

nor do I go after things too great

or too difficult for me.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul—

like a weaned child with his mother,

like a weaned child is my soul within me.

O Israel, put your hope in ADONAI

from this time forth and forever.

(Psalm 131)

There is great freedom in recognizing what small cogs we are in this infinite world. Put yourself in the place of our ancestors the eve of the first Passover. The fear and anticipation must have been overwhelming. It might have been a relief to start thinking about acquiring a lamb and the other supplies, and reviewing the regulations to make sure it’s done right (“Udi, get your phone and google hyssop”). 

Performing mitzvot—following commandments, even if we don’t understand them—provides a concrete way of connecting to God, making us into divine instruments of redemption, even if it takes great faith to believe that our small actions matter. 

It is certainly incumbent on us to weigh the effects of our actions and take seriously our obligation to do justice, speak truth, and act out of love. But if that is too big for us, at the very least we can observe the Pesach k’hilkhato, according to its regulations. If it is too overwhelming a responsibility to be God’s witnesses, at least we can sing praises to him daily and say shema morning and evening. We are too small to see all the consequences of our decisions. The big picture is beyond us, but we have the marching orders that we need right now.

As the descendants of Israel, our calling is our task. It is too small a thing to be redeemed from the house of bondage; a greater calling is on us. This is why the act of redemption is inseparable from the giving of the Torah.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul

Perhaps there is a lesson for me as a parent as well. As I bustle children out the door to school, it would probably help to remember that getting to school on time is not itself the most important thing: how we do it also matters. Can I do it without raising my voice? Can I summon the wisdom to take the time to teach them to treat me and their siblings with respect and forbearance, even at the risk of being a couple minutes late? Can I stop for a minute and take joy in being with the most beautiful and beloved people in my world, even as my task list piles up?

But I have calmed and quieted my soul. . . .

O Israel, put your hope in ADONAI,

from this time forth and forever.

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

Worship: Who You Gonna Serve?

Parashat Va’era, Exodus 6:2–9:35

Rabbi Russ Resnik                                                                                        

 Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you’re gonna have to serve somebody. (Bob Dylan, Slow Train Coming)

Exodus is the Torah’s book of worship. It takes Israel from the scene of oppression in Egypt, to Mount Sinai where they become a kingdom of priests, to the building of the tabernacle in the wilderness, where the Lord will meet with his people in the midst of the camp. Thus, when the Lord first calls Moses from the burning bush and sends him to deliver his people, he says, “This shall be a sign to you that I have sent you: When you have brought the people out of Egypt, you shall worship God on this mountain” (3:12).

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

Here in three Hebrew words we have the theme of the entire book of Exodus: Shalach ami v’ya’avduni—“Let my people go, that they may serve [worship] me.” The first half of this phrase, “let my people go,” describes the first half of Exodus, in which the God of Israel forces Pharaoh to release his people “by trials, by signs, by wonders, by war, by a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, and by great terrors” (Deuteronomy 4:34). This half concludes with the crossing of the Red Sea. The second half, “that they may worship me,” includes the encounter at Sinai, and the building of the tabernacle, where Israel worships the Lord who dwells in their midst. 

This drama of worship in the book of Exodus teaches us much about our worship today.   

1)   Man is a worshiping being, created for a relationship with God.

Adam walks with God in the Garden, in a simple intimacy with God that is at the heart of all worship. After the expulsion from the Garden, men build altars, present offerings, and call upon the Lord. Worship is at the center of who we are as human beings. Hence, we are to worship with our whole being, not as an isolated event, but as we spend our energies, time, and passions to increase God’s glory. We sometimes hear the phrase “praise and worship” used to describe the musical component of a service. Such language pictures worship as a mood or an experience or a component, but in truth, the entire service is worship, and the service should reflect our entire lives given to worship.  

2)    There is a cosmic struggle for our worship.

We would like to imagine ourselves as autonomous beings, who may choose whom to worship or whether to worship at all. But Exodus reveals that, as Bob Dylan sang, “You’re gonna have to serve somebody”—God or Pharaoh. So when Moses makes a modest demand of Pharaoh to release Israel for three days to worship the Lord in the wilderness (3:18; 5:3), Pharaoh cannot compromise. If he acknowledges God’s claim here, he loses his claim on the very souls of the Israelites.

The temptation of Messiah (Matt. 4:8–11 CJB) reveals this same tug-of-war over worship.  

Once more, the Adversary took him up to the summit of a very high mountain, showed him all the kingdoms of the world in all their glory, and said to him, “All this I will give you if you will bow down and worship me.”  “Away with you, Satan!” Yeshua told him, “For the Tanakh says,

 ‘Worship Adonai your God, and serve only him.’” 

 Then the Adversary let him alone, and angels came and took care of him.

The adversary seeks to draw our worship away from the Lord, thus diminishing his glory and disrupting the divine order established at creation. He entices us with worldly power and comfort. Scripture does not promote asceticism or a narrow religiosity, but it does alert us to the power of the materialistic culture that surrounds us. We need to resist the images of greed, lust, and vanity that bombard us in the name of entertainment or success. The adversary does not insist on being worshiped directly; he is satisfied to simply divert our worship away from the God of Israel.  

3)    This struggle for worship centers upon Israel.

In Exodus, the Lord identifies Israel as his firstborn son, and contends with Pharaoh over Israel. Israel is representative humanity, the priestly nation. If their worship can remain diverted, then the worship of the rest of the nations will be as well. This contest over worship may help explain the intense struggle that has characterized Jewish history over the centuries, and continues today. It is a struggle not just over Israel’s destiny, but over the fulfillment of God’s plan for all humanity.  

4)    Falsely directed worship results in bondage.  

So the Egyptians made the children of Israel serve with rigor. And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage––in mortar, in brick, and in all manner of service in the field. All their service in which they made them serve was with rigor. (Exod. 1:13–14 NKJV, emphasis added)

The Hebrew root avad – serve or worship – appears five times in these two verses, to highlight the bondage of misdirected service. In contrast, through the sacrifice of Messiah, we are delivered out of the bondage of alienation from God and brought near to him. This personal story of salvation is just a part of the Big Story of the restoration of humankind to God. The message of Scripture proclaims deliverance to all who are serving false gods—whether the gods of paganism, or the gods of secular materialism.

5)    We are set free from bondage to worship the true God.

The goal of our deliverance is not autonomy, but worship. God leads Israel out of Egypt not just to enjoy freedom and prosperity, but to establish the tabernacle and priesthood; Messiah comes not just to forgive us from sin, or to bring us into God’s blessing, but to restore us as worshipers.

The biblical drama ends with worship. The book of Revelation is the New Covenant counterpart to Exodus as the book of worship. There we see, 

a great multitude which no one could number, of all nations, tribes, peoples, and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed with white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, saying, “Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!” . . . These are the ones who come out of the great tribulation, and washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore they are before the throne of God, and serve Him day and night in His temple. And He who sits on the throne will dwell among them. (Rev. 7: 9–10, 14–15 NKJV)

We are created from the beginning to worship, and worship is our destiny in the end. The first man and woman were placed in the Garden of Eden to walk with the Lord in the cool of the day. In Messiah, we will be restored to such intimacy in the age to come when the purpose of creation is fulfilled.

For the journey: Am I a worshiper, or just someone who squeezes a few minutes of worship into my busy schedule? Does my worship on Shabbat, or Sunday, or other “religious” times, reflect a life of worship through the week? Do I spend my time, abilities, and energies to increase God’s name and reputation?

From Creation to Completion: A Guide to Life’s Journey from the Five Books of Moses, Lederer Books, 2006.

Fruitful Hope amid Outrageous Fortune

Parashat Shemot, Exodus 1:1–6:1

Daniel Nessim, Kehillath Tsion, Vancouver, BC

When we experience the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as Hamlet put it, how are we to understand it all? Before recounting Jacob’s death, B’reisheet had ended with Jacob’s manifold blessings over his sons. Now, stranded in Egypt, his descendants felt far from being blessed. What caused Pharaoh, the king of Egypt, to oppress and enslave them? What caused our ancestors to leave Egypt? 

Shemot tells us that we cried out for deliverance when Pharaoh oppressed us (2:23), but says nothing about us wanting to leave Goshen, the land of Rameses, the most fertile part of the land of Egypt. Leaving Egypt, it seems, was God’s idea (3:8). Perhaps Israel had forgotten God’s promise to the patriarchs. Perhaps they were afraid to ask for so grandiose, so magnificent a deliverance from Egypt to the promised land of their ancestors.  

Oppressed though they might be, after centuries Egypt was our ancestor’s home, or so they thought. Horribly as they were being treated, it was familiar. They had, in fact, assimilated to a large degree. Now, after hundreds of years in Egypt as Ezekiel tells us, they were worshiping the gods, the idols, and the detestable things of Egypt. But God had bigger plans for them than they had hope or faith to believe in.  

Something kicked off the story of the Exodus, something that precipitated the Israelite’s cry for deliverance. That something is that before Pharaoh ever repressed and enslaved them, they were fruitful. Very fruitful. Shemot tells us that they were fruitful and prolific; they multiplied and increased very greatly, so that the land was filled with them (Exod 1:7). The statement echoes word for word the blessing, indeed command, spoken to Adam and Eve that they should be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth (Gen 1:28).  

This is a Gezerah Shavah of sorts. Gezerah Shavah refers to a known rule applying to a new case based upon an identical word or phrase in both cases. It can be limited to principles on which to base halakhic (legal) decisions, but in a wider sense it is generally used to establish a connection between texts just as we have here. There is an undeniably intentional echo in the same words being used at creation and now with Israel in Egypt. The implication is that something new is being created and being done in Egypt.

In the creation story, on the third day God created all living vegetation. Yet he did not bless it to be fruitful and multiply. Ramban suggests that this is because it is the nature of vegetation to multiply. One plant typically has many seeds and can bring forth many other plants. One tree has hundreds of fruit. One tree has tens of thousands of seeds or even a hundred thousand seeds each season. Multiplication is the nature of vegetation.

Again, on the fifth day, God created the swarming creatures of the skies and the seas. He gave them the blessing to be fruitful and multiply. The argument for why God did not bless the cattle and beasts of the earth in this way is less obvious, but perhaps it is to draw a distinction between other animals and mankind, who were not only to be fruitful and multiply, but also to rule over the fish, the birds, the cattle, the whole earth, and everything that creeps on it.  

It was the brilliant medieval commentator Rashi who emphasized that if the Almighty had said “Be fruitful” only, one creature might have brought forth a single one, and no more; therefore he added ur’vu “and multiply,” implying that one should bring forth many.  

This brings us back to Shemot, our parasha. For Israel, the blessing given at creation was being amplified. Israel was very literally being fruitful and multiplying. Their population was exploding. Moses says they were fruitful and then adds the word prolific. He says they multiplied and then emphasizes that they increased “me’od me’od”—very greatly. And the earth (in this case the land of Rameses, the land of Goshen), was filled with them (Exod 1:7). On this, commentaries suggest that it was common in those days for the Hebrew women to have six children at a birth. Sextuplets even. Multiplying, in other words. So now in Egypt, the heavenly blessing and command for all mankind was being fulfilled at least in part in the people of Israel.  

It is this that kicks off the story of Shemot. The blessing of God over Israel arouses the opposition of the powers that be. God’s blessing on Israel arouses the fear of the nations. The nation of Egypt reacts with opposition; it is the first national scale, organized, systematized, antisemitic persecution in history. There is no indication that the Israelites felt blessed. Their large families were overshadowed by the murder of their male children. The favorable location in a bountiful part of Egypt was overshadowed by their forced servitude to the taskmasters of Egypt. For them, life did not seem at all blessed.  

There is no doubt, however, especially in light of the language of fruitfulness echoing the language of fruitfulness in the creation account, that the Almighty was at work. Whether they knew it or not, good was coming out of the evil that they were enduring. That work of the Almighty was what was behind their fruitfulness and behind their oppression by the king of Egypt. Was God being vindicated? For forty years Israel cried out because of the oppression, while Moses grew into a man. For forty more years they would cry out while he shepherded sheep in Midian and started his own family there. No wonder by the time Moses and Aaron began to intercede with Pharaoh on their behalf the Israelites were full of doubts, and no wonder they had fallen into idolatry. They weren’t seeing God’s power. 

But God was indeed at work. It is like so many other times in the story of Israel and individuals featured in the Tanakh. While people struggled with their issues of faith and struggled through the difficulties and torments of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, there was yet something happening behind the scenes. Even Moses gets to the point where he is exasperated, frustrated, and losing hope, but our parasha ends with God’s reproof to him at that time: “Now you shall see what I will do to Pharaoh”  (Exod 6:1).

Paradoxically, Shemot begins a stage of blessing for Israel that will redound to the blessing of all the nations of the earth. As deep as their trials and tribulations were, so much greater were the positive results that came out of it. The blessing of God over Israel begins the story of Israel’s redemption that we later find is the paradigm and key to redemption for the nations. As Rav Shaul once declared on a personal level, “I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.” He then continued on a cosmic level, that even all of creation would be “set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God” (Rom 8:18–21). 

No matter how unfruitful, how adverse and unproductive life might seem today, we can surely trust that as he has in the past, the Almighty is indeed working behind the scenes towards a good that will make the present troubles fade into insignificance.

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!