From Head Counting to Healthy Community

Parashat Shekalim, Exodus 30:11–16

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Leaders like to count heads. The US government has conducted a census every ten years since 1790, based on Article I, Section 2 of the Constitution, and even the theocracy established in Israel ages earlier required a census. The Torah’s guidelines for this census are surprisingly relevant to creating healthy communities today.

In Exodus 30:11–16, Hashem instructs Moses to take a count of the tribes of Israel. We read these instructions each year on Shabbat Shekalim, the first of four special Shabbats leading up to Passover, as the Jewish Study Bible explains:

In Second Temple times [these instructions] became the basis of an annual impost for maintaining the Temple. . . . Since the payment was due in the month of Adar (early spring), in order to announce it the present law, called “the Section concerning Shekels” (Parashat Shekalim), was added to the weekly Torah reading on the Sabbath of, or preceding, the New Moon of Adar (m. Meg. 3.4), and the Sabbath is called “the Sabbath of Shekels” (Shabbat Shekalim).   

We’ve kept the custom of reading Parashat Shekalim for over nineteen centuries, to remember the half-shekel ransom paid at this season every year since the destruction of the Temple. The Temple is gone, the priesthood scattered, but we maintain this tradition, which helps maintain us as a people, a living community. As we follow these readings in the micro-community of Messianic Judaism, we express our solidarity with the macro-community of Israel through the ages.  

The instructions in Parashat Shekalim open with this:  

And the Lord spoke to Moses, “When you count heads for the Israelites according to their numbers, every man shall give ransom for his life to the Lord when they are counted, that there be no scourge among them when they are counted.” (Exod 30:11–12)

Counting heads, apparently, is a perilous business. When you take a census, each person has to give a ransom (or atonement, kopher) for his life. Why is this? Throughout the ancient Near East, a fear of exposure to malevolent forces was connected to counting people, and this might be in the background here. Counting implies ownership, which can stir up jealousy and mischief in the demonic realm. Before we write this off as superstition, we need to recognize the reality of an unseen realm in which spiritual forces are at work, for ill as well as good. And there’s another substantial truth here. Counting implies ownership, which risks making persons into objects, into quantities instead of souls of infinite value.  

On one level, then, paying the ransom avoids directly counting people, so that we total the weight of silver (shekel is originally not a coin but a measure of weight), not the actual number of human beings. “This practice survives in a Jewish custom for determining whether a prayer quorum (‘minyan’) of ten is present: ten words of a biblical verse, rather than numbers, are applied to those being counted” (Jewish Study Bible).

But why a ransom or atonement exactly? Because every person belongs to Hashem, but the one who counts might think they belong to him. This may be the background to the story of David’s disastrous census in 2 Samuel 24. When humans take count of Israel, they are required to pay a ransom (kopher) to signify that each person actually belongs to the Lord.

This custom strikes me as an essential key to healthy community and to healthy family as well—the first key of four I’ll outline. 

1.     The community (or family) needs human leaders, but it belongs to God.

When we’re introduced to a new congregation, one of the first questions we’re liable to ask is how many members it has. We want to quantify it, and that’s not altogether irrelevant, but we need to guard against quantifying people, turning them into objects to be tallied up as if they belonged to us. And those of us in leadership, as much as we love and devote ourselves to the congregation, need to remember who it really belongs to.

As we continue through the instructions of Shekalim, we learn a second key to healthy community. 

2.     Every member has something essential to contribute. 

“This shall each who undergoes the count give: half a shekel by the shekel of the sanctuary—twenty gerahs to the shekel, a donation to the Lord. Whosoever undergoes the count from twenty years old and up shall give the Lord’s donation.” (Exod 30:13–14)

Every person brings a “donation” or terumah, with the word repeated three times in verses 13, 14, and 15. When the idea of terumah was introduced earlier, in Parashat Terumah, it was defined as a freewill offering, from the heart, not a tax or fee, but a matter of lifting up to God, as its name implies (Exod 25:2).

Each member has something essential to contribute to the community. And yet, paradoxically, the donation is the same amount for every person.  

“The rich man shall not give more and the poor man shall not give less than a half a shekel [when they give a terumah to the Lord] to atone for their lives.” (Exod 30:15)

This is our third key to healthy community. 

3.     The same inherent value applies to every single member.

The same honor and respect are due to each member. Each one bears the divine image, and answers to the same Shepherd, regardless of socio-economic or religious status, and regardless of how much or how little they appear to contribute. And this leads to our fourth key. 

4.     The community is sustained by the gifts of all its members. 

“And you shall take the atonement money from the Israelites and set it for the service of the Tent of Meeting, and it shall be a remembrance for the Israelites before the Lord to atone for their lives.” (Exod 30:16)

The offerings are not one-time gifts, but gifts that enable the ongoing service of the holy place, demonstrating that healthy community requires the steady contribution of each member. No one is a spectator or a consumer in the house of Hashem, and this full-bodied contribution is a “remembrance” for every member “before the Lord.” It provides atonement, keeping each member close to him.  

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Rav Shaul applies these principles to the Messianic community:  

Speaking the truth in love, we will in every respect grow up into him who is the head, the Messiah. Under his control, the whole body is being fitted and held together by the support of every joint, with each part working to fulfill its function; this is how the body grows and builds itself up in love. (Eph 4:15–16 CJB)

Not only does “each part” have an essential function, but the whole community belongs to Messiah as a body belongs to its head. In the Tabernacle community of Exodus, the gifts of each member constitute a “remembrance before the Lord.” In Messiah these gifts also constitute the very growth and building up of his body. Healthy community isn’t just a collection of countable heads, but a living remembrance of the Messiah who gives it life.

Citations of Exodus are from Robert Alter, The Five Books of Moses.

Illustration: cubiclebydesign.com. 

Who Doesn’t Like a Nice Sandwich?

Parashat Ki Tissa, Exodus 30:11–34:35

Rabbi David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

Sonny, true love is the greatest thing in the world. Except for a nice MLT, a mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe. They're so perky, I love that. —Miracle Max

As Miracle Max declares, there’s nothing better than true love, except perhaps a great sandwich. Perhaps, though, a sandwich can be true love, and true love a sandwich. Let me explain.

Whenever I have something meaty to explain to someone, I always try to deliver what I call a sandwich, interspersing it with the bread of affirmation and compassion. I also love it when I receive a sandwich, like when my wife (hypothetically) says, “I appreciate you taking initiative with the mess in the kitchen. Next time, make sure you check underneath the big pan to wash off all the soap. Thanks for doing the dishes.” My wife is from New Jersey, though, where they just tend to tell it like it is, so sometimes I’m fortunate to get even an open-faced sandwich in this completely hypothetical situation, but hey, it’s something. I know not everyone needs or appreciates a nice verbal sandwich, but for me, it’s my love language; it’s like a verbal hug of affirmation and encouragement.

This week’s parasha, Ki Tissa, contains the episode where Aaron gives in to the people’s grumbling and impatience and forms a golden calf for Israel to worship. Admittedly, this is bad. The sages traditionally connect the covenant at Sinai to a marriage between God and Israel, with the Torah being the ketubah. In this analogy, what happens here is akin to cheating on your spouse on the wedding night. Some sages also paint this story as analogous to the rebellion in the garden when Adam and Eve ate the fruit and brought sin, death, and chaos into God’s good world. The 1st century Jewish historian Josephus, when he tells the Sinai story, leaves this part out, perhaps for fear of antisemitism.

But look at the surrounding narrative context of this; it’s a giant tabernacle sandwich! Before this incident, you have page after page of instructions for the tent of meeting, and after this episode, page after page of the actual construction. The first grand gesture of God dwelling in Israel surrounds this debacle, like a giant hug of affirmation.

There are also links to the sandwich-esque love of God in the story itself. Aaron appeases the people’s impatience by saying this: “Have your wives, sons, and daughters strip off their gold earrings; and bring them to me” (Exodus 32:2). These same words for “gold” and “earrings” (zahav and nezem) are are used in next week’s parasha for the offering to build the tabernacle:

Then the whole Israelite community withdrew from Moses’ presence, and everyone who was willing and whose heart moved them came and brought an offering to the Lord for the work on the tent of meeting, for all its service, and for the sacred garments. All who were willing, men and women alike, came and brought gold jewelry of all kinds: brooches, earrings, rings and ornaments. (Exodus 35:20-22, NIV, emphasis mine)

In this case, we see the redemptive opposite of the golden calf blunder: folks contributing from the same gold earrings to build a tabernacle so that God can dwell among Israel, with his people. Instead of melting them to build an idol, they are melting them to build the vehicle for God’s presence among and within them. The same word for gold and a similar Hebrew word for ring are used later in the actual instruction and construction for the tabernacle, for the curtains to be held together; this, too, is a callback to the golden calf in a restorative way. So, the very thing that was used for idolatry is now used to draw them near to God.

Furthermore, the presence of the tabernacle sandwich indicates that God’s response to our rebellion is actually the opposite of what we expect and deserve: when we fail, God draws near. When the first humans eat the forbidden fruit, God responds by pursuing them, asking Adam “Where are you?” and covering them up with animal skins.

The Scriptures surrounding this week’s parasha are composed in this way: 1) Plans for God to dwell among Israel, 2) golden calf, 3) God directs Moses and Israel to actually follow those plans and get to building. God’s response to the golden calf, to our failures, is to draw near. This sandwich invites us to reframe our mistakes in light of his continued pursuit of us, in light of our irrevocable value and calling, and in light of his unimaginable love and grace.

Remember the picture of the wedding between Israel and God with the Torah as a ketubah? There’s another way to frame the story in this week’s parasha of Moses destroying the first tablets after finding out what they’ve done. A midrash about this sheds light on what may be going on here—perhaps more than mere frustration.

When the Israelites committed the sin of the Golden Calf, God sat in judgment to condemn them, as Deuteronomy 9:14 says, "Let Me alone, that I may destroy them," but God had not yet condemned them. So Moses took the Tablets from God to appease God's wrath. The Midrash compared the act of Moses to that of a king's marriage-broker. The king sent the broker to secure a wife for the king, but while the broker was on the road, the woman corrupted herself with another man. The broker (who was entirely innocent) took the marriage document that the king had given the broker to seal the marriage and tore it, reasoning that it would be better for the woman to be judged as an unmarried woman than as a wife. (Exodus Rabbah 43:1)

In other words, we can view Moses destroying the tablets (like tearing up the marriage document) as an act of mercy; Moses intercedes so that Israel can be judged less harshly.

We can reframe even our worst mistakes in light of the love of Hashem; that is what the Scriptures do, and that is what Yeshua the Messiah mediates for us. We (and Israel) are defined not by our mistakes, but by God’s faithfulness to us. We are given a sandwich of the mobile presence of God around the golden calf story. Like the gold earrings, our weaknesses and mistakes are opportunities for redemption, learning, and growth. Why not see them the way Hashem does? Not only can we extend this grace to our own stories, but also to others and their narratives.

If God’s response to our mistakes is to draw near, then shouldn’t we imitate him? Let’s be sandwich makers for others. After all, we are made in his image, and let’s be honest: who doesn’t like a nice sandwich?

We Need an Advocate

Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20–30:10

By Rabbi Paul L. Saal, Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, West Hartford, CT

Early in this week’s parasha we are introduced to the new and exotic station given to Aaron and his sons—the role and office of the Kohanim (priests). They would become the highest religious authorities in the Torah, providing a stable presence as officiants, healers, and intercessors. Through the elaborate practices of sacrifice, offerings, and ritual purity, the Kohen Gadol (the High Priest) and his associates would provide Israel with the comfort of Hashem’s renewed love as well as a reminder of his awesome presence. On a daily basis they would help to exemplify the dynamic tension between Ahavat Hashem (the love of God) and Yirat Hashem (the appropriate fear of God). They would call B’nei Yisrael back to a renewed commitment to Torah.

This week’s parasha elaborates on the dazzling apparel of the Kohanim and especially Aaron the Kohen Gadol. The Torah speaks of his tunic, ephod, precious stones, crown, and choshen (breastplate). The choshen was adorned with three rows of four stones each. On each stone was inscribed the name of one of Israel’s twelve tribes. According to the Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 38), the Kohen Gadol would wear the stones so that when he entered the Holy of Holies Hashem would be mindful of the merits of the tribes of Israel.

So not only were the Kohanim to remind the people of Israel of Hashem, but part of their function was to remind Hashem of the people as well. They stood as symbolic exemplars of the Jewish people’s striving for holiness and justice through a life and regimen of sacred deeds. Through the ritual of sacrifice, they would plead on the people’s behalf, acting as their advocate so that Hashem might not remove his Holy Presence.

Why then, in response to Messianic claims about the mediating role of the Messiah, does one often hear some Jewish people remark, “We Jews believe that we can come directly to God, we have no need for an advocate”? This sort of statement portrays the difference between the two belief systems of Messianic and mainstream Judaism as a controversy over the possibility of obtaining unmediated access to God. Is this an accurate representation? Historically it is, in part, but only if we ignore the greater weight of Torah and accept but one particular view of Judaism.

After the destruction of the Temple in the year 70 the priestly system of mediation ceased. Judaism at that time was a broad landscape that included the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Essences, the Qumran community, and among others the followers of Yeshua. Each of these groups had to ask themselves how the Jewish people were to survive without the priestly system that was essential to Judaism and prominent through most of the Torah. The early Messianic Jews understood Yeshua as the embodiment of the Kohen Gadol and the ultimate mediator. The rabbinic form of Judaism that attained ascendancy in the post-Temple era saw Israel communally as the mediator, and therefore deemphasized the need for individual mediators, even to the point of guarding against the glorification of Moses. This is reflected in the absence of references to Moses in the Passover Haggadah, and the dearth of such references in the Siddur. To this extent, the common view of Judaism’s attitude toward mediation is somewhat justified.

On a deeper level, however, this view falls far short. While the role of individual mediators is downplayed in most iterations of Rabbinic Judaism, and while the priestly vocation no longer exists as a collective representative of God to Israel and Israel to God, the individual Jew does not approach God directly. In our hearts we know this. That is why our people have carefully maintained a legacy of Kohanim. They are given privilege as the first aliyah called to the Torah, in the performance of the Pidyon Haben (the redemption of the firstborn), and in the traditional blessing at the end of Yom Kippur.

The concept of holy advocacy may not sit well with an American Jew during the first quarter of the twenty-first century, accustomed to thinking about religious (and most other) matters in highly individualistic terms. Nevertheless, it is a fair depiction of both Torah’s instruction and Judaism’s historic understanding of relationship with God.

This is the reality that is expressed in the first blessing of the Amidah, the basic prayer of Jewish tradition. This blessing begins by addressing God as “our God and the God of our Fathers, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,” and concludes by calling him “the Shield of Abraham.” Thus, we inaugurate our prayer by acknowledging that we have confidence to stand before God and offer him our requests because we are part of the people of Israel, descended from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and heir to all the promises made to the Patriarchs. This is advocacy in the strongest sense.

In Messianic thought, Yeshua is the individual and personal embodiment of the entire people, like Jacob himself. As Israel is referred to in Scripture as God’s son, so Yeshua the Messiah is quintessentially God’s son. If Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Moses and Aaron, heroic figures that were nonetheless human, fragile, and faulted, could mediate the justice and mercy of God, then how much more could a Kohen Gadol who was tempted in all things and yet was without sin (Heb 4:15)?

Messiah our High Priest doesn’t simply go instead of us as some might posit, but rather ahead of us as our advocate. Therefore, we can follow him into the throne room of grace, confident that we will receive grace and mercy in our time of need.

Becoming a Mishkan

Parashat Terumah, Exodus 25:1-27:19

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

In Christian circles you often hear people talking about inviting Jesus into your heart, the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, and God living within us. Many years ago there was a booklet entitled “My Heart, Christ’s Home” which drew an analogy between a house and our inner lives. It likened the study to what we expose ourselves to in reading, the kitchen to the food that we eat, the workshop to our actions, and the recreation room to the kinds of entertainment we consume.

We don’t expect to hear such language in Judaism, but we actually do! This is especially true in Hasidut. In Exodus 25:8 we read:

וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתֹוכָֽם׃

They are to make me a sanctuary, so that I may live among them.

The Hasidic rabbis assert that this commandment applies to each and every person. They translate the last word, be-to-cham, as “in them” instead of “among them.” In other words, we are to make ourselves into a mishkan, a dwelling place for the Shekinah. The rabbis go even further and state that this is the purpose of Creation, for us to become holy sanctuaries.

After the splitting of the Red Sea the people say, “This is my God and I will praise him.” The word used for “praise” is from the Hebrew root nun-vav-hey which can mean not only praise, but also adorn or beautify. Both Rashi and Ibn Ezra note that this verse could be read as, “This is my God and I will make a beautiful home for him.” The Onkelos Aramaic Targum reflects this translation as well; it says “This is my God and I will build a sanctuary for him.”

The Kotzker Rebbe states that this means each and every Jew should make themselves a sanctuary. The Kabbalistic text Reshit Hochmah says:

When a person reflects on this idea, the soul will be impassioned with love and ask itself, Can I, made from dust and ashes, be worthy? God wants to dwell in me? It is only fitting for me to make a beautiful home for Him, in my heart.

When Israel was building the Mishkan, God instructed them in Exodus 25:2 to bring him a donation as their hearts moved them. It comes from our hearts! The Lubavitcher Rebbe says that these gifts take the form of Torah, Avodah, and Gemilut Hasadim (study, prayer, and good deeds). In other words, we build a home for Hashem in our hearts through study, prayer, and good deeds.

This idea is reflected in the teachings in the Besorah. 

Ephesians 3 says, “I pray that from the treasures of his glory he will empower you with inner strength by his Spirit, so that the Messiah may live in your hearts.”

In Yochanan 14 Yeshua says, “If someone loves me, he will keep my word; and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.”

He also declares in Revelation 3, “Here, I'm standing at the door, knocking. If someone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he will eat with me.”

The Kotzker Rebbe asks, why does the Shema tell us to put words of Torah on our hearts; why not in our hearts? He answers his own question by stating that our hearts are not always open, but if we heap words of Torah upon our hearts, when they do open, the words will seep in.

We Messianic Jews recognize Messiah Yeshua as the Living Torah. Heaping words of Torah upon our hearts, is heaping loads of Yeshua on our hearts!

Another Hasidic saying is, “The greatest synagogue is the synagogue of the heart.”

May we build a beautiful home for Hashem in our hearts through study, prayer, and good deeds.

May we invite our Father and his Son into our lives, and let them help clean up our “rooms.”

May we make our hearts into glorious and beautiful shuls.

Then we will be a mishkan, a sanctuary, a dwelling place for Hashem in this world!

God of the Details

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1–23:33

Haftarah: Jeremiah 34:8–11; 17–22; Brit Chadasha: Acts 4:32–5:11

R. Mordechai Gliebe, Devar Emet Messianic Synagogue, Skokie, IL

I often find myself caught up with grand events, perhaps the world of politics or global conflict. Then I begin to wonder how God is going to respond to a growing crisis. Yet God is not just the God of big things. He is also the God of the details: that quarrel you have with your neighbor, the disparaging remarks you have made about a fellow man, or the disrespect you showed another commuter the other day is God’s business too. This week’s parasha, Mishpatim, follows directly after the giving of the Ten Commandments. Given that almost the entire Torah portion is related to civil law, there is a curious connection to be acknowledged: the Torah is not beyond our physical realm and our worldly minutiae. The corresponding Haftarah and Brit Chadasha readings share this theme. Let’s consider five examples: 

First, there were only two ways that a Jew could become a slave to another Jew: selling himself, with no other recourse due to poverty, or being caught as a thief (Exod 22:2). Note that while debtors’ prison still exists even today, there were no prisons in Israel, so the Torah provides for indentured servitude for a limited sentence. The maximum service was six years; in the seventh year, they were freed without a redemption fee being paid. Notice the justice displayed in this system: a Jewish person could overcome their poverty by service and be protected from exploitation. While others in society could easily overlook the plight of the impoverished or incarcerated, God values them. 

Next, consider the fees imposed on a thief who is caught stealing an ox or a sheep (Exod 21:37–22:3 [22:1–4]). If a thief steals an ox, he pays more for that ox than he would if he stole a sheep. Rabbi Yochanan b. Zakkai explains that the thief pays less for the sheep because he carried the sheep as he stole it, thereby suffering embarrassment for his wretched situation (Bava Kamma 79b). Rashi goes a step further: if God shows so much compassion towards the feelings of a thief, imagine how much he values the feelings of someone who is innocent! God values the seemingly insignificant—even those who we think do not deserve our care! 

Finally, consider the charge not to “follow a crowd to do evil [or] pervert justice [or] takes sides with a poor man in his case” (Exod 23:2–3). God charges judges to genuinely give judgments based on their understanding of the law and not to be persuaded by pressures from other judges even in the case of a poor person. One might feel tempted to rule in their favor, knowing that a rich man wouldn’t even miss his wealth and the reward would help the poor gain dignity. Yet while a noble cause, this would be perversion of law. Or HaChaim adds some color to this: the poor man’s grievance is really against God. As such, a judge would be perverting law in some fashion to “protect” God, which is ridiculous (Chamisha Chumshei Torah, Mesorah, 433). Even in small rulings the Torah commands righteousness, as God pays attention to the seemingly insignificant. 

The Haftarah is a sorrowful story before the Babylonian exile. As Nebuchadnezzar and his army of Babylonians bore down upon Judah, King Zedekiah and the ruling class recommitted themselves to God with much celebration and pledged to keep the Torah by freeing their slaves in the seventh year as was commanded. However, as soon as the Babylonians began to withdraw from Judah, the ruling class betrayed God’s law and captured all of the freed slaves. God sees the plight of those betrayed and dragged back into slavery and promises judgment against the leadership of Judah. Again, God values the seemingly insignificant.

Finally, in our Brit Chadasha reading, we see what some may call a small theft and the serious consequences from God for it. All of the small body of believers was one mind and unit, and yet we see Ananias and Sapphira cheat God and the body of believers. Why should anyone care? Both people contributed to charity: they gave money and probably a decent sum! Why does Peter (and God for that matter) get involved in the affair? It’s because God is a God of details, and this crime does not go unpunished even if it is small. Others may dismiss their sin as insignificant, but God did not. He notices the details.

How can we boast about big ideas when we are the ones who cannot be responsible for even small things— especially our relationships? We find ourselves caught up in the forest forgetting the trees, but God sees the trees and the forest at the same time. Let’s do the same: be at peace with your neighbor, gossip no more about a fellow man, and forgive the person who just cut you off on the highway. Take pride in the work you do for God and take pride in the work others do as well. And remember to value the seemingly insignificant people and details because God does too.

Bringing Light into the Darkness

Parashat Yitro: Exodus 18:1–20:23

Ben Volman, UMJC Vice President

This past week, while rummaging through old family papers, I found a document that revealed some painful details about my mother’s family and their escape from Germany to Palestine in 1934. It is a deposition given by my late grandmother 65 years ago, detailing the family trauma under the Nazis for a German reparations commission. My grandmother described the abrupt end of my grandfather’s livelihood (a skilled tradesman and injured WWI veteran, as a Jew, he couldn’t work); the forced sale of their family home, with his workshop and all the contents sold for a third of their value. They were allowed to leave, but with only a small fraction of their life savings.  

So it’s not surprising that when I read about Israel gathered before Mt. Sinai to hear the voice of God, I’m confronting the deep doubts about God that I had growing up as a child of survivors. But even as a child, when I heard teaching or the reciting of Exodus 20, I felt the power of those words to prod my young conscience. Something happened at Sinai that still moves the world—an event by which we still measure our integrity, our moral grounding.  

We speak of “The Ten Commandments” as if it’s a Biblical term though it appears nowhere in the Torah, not even in Jewish tradition. The decalogue or aseret ha’dibrot—the “ten words” were honored as essential Jewish teaching in my father’s Hungarian Reform tradition. In contrast, Jewish orthodoxy emphasizes that there are fully 613 commandments, each of significance. In his important book, Morality, the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks makes no single reference to the decalogue, although his Shavuot machzor notes that they remain “the simplest, shortest guide to the creation of a good society.”  

You would never know this from our familiar Protestant traditions or popular American Christian culture. The authority of the Ten Commandments is one of the rare passages of the Hebrew Bible publicly extolled as an essential spiritual pillar, not only for the believer’s life but society at large.  

How can we disagree? Alongside Yeshua’s Golden Rule, is there any other succinct ethical teaching for which there is so much acceptance that its principles are considered foundational for a shared society—even in today’s polarized, over-politicized culture? Polls as recent as 2018 suggest that between 89 and 100 percent of Americans respect the biblical instructions to honor parents, not to murder, not to commit adultery, not to steal, not to lie and not to covet the possessions of their neighbor. The least popular? Honoring of the Sabbath Day (one assumes they meant Sunday) got 67% approval. 

Our sages have some remarkable reflections about this awe-inspiring, climactic encounter with the living God at Sinai and the revelation to Israel of the Torah. One midrash discusses at length how Hashem revealed himself to every other nation but they would neither listen nor accept his commandments, and only then did he give the Torah to Israel (Sifrei Devarim 343). Another tells us that until the Torah was given, the borders between the earthly world and the heavenly world were shut. And then, “The Lord descended on Mount Sinai” (Exod 19:20) and “To Moshe [Adonai] said, ‘Come up to Adonai...’” (Exod 24:1). 

None of this means that we do not break the commandments, forget them, ignore, or resist them. I confess that the same, prodding goads to my youthful conscience are still present every time I read or hear them read. Do I truly live without idols? Is my speech so pure that no one hears me speak a rash word in the name of the Lord? Do I never prevaricate or rationalize when I fall short of real integrity? How about my Sabbath-keeping? And will I ever give up that slight tinge of envy for possessions that I can never afford? 

In a profound sense I do not doubt that I was there at Mt. Sinai, joined with every generation of Israel in committing to do all that God commanded. The glory of God’s reality—a blessing that I didn’t always know but that was always waiting to be received—resonates in my heart and life. Nor do I doubt that this singular covenant moment was given to make our people a light—“a shining beacon”—to the nations. 

But after seeing my grandmother’s testimony, I couldn’t help reflecting on the countries where my forebears once proudly considered themselves citizens: Is this what happens when the light goes out? Is this what comes of humanity when we turn our back on God, forget even a great spiritual legacy in order to seize an unrestrained “triumph of the will”? Perhaps we can never understand how deeply we need these words, these truths, until they seem lost or forgotten. 

If these words and the memory of this transformative moment can unite us and provide us with a light into the uncertain future, isn’t this a greater impetus for us to be “a light to the nations”?  Yes, we will fall short. We can’t forget how Israel was left trembling in the presence of God, but consider how Moshe reassured them: “Don’t be afraid, because God has come only to test you and make you fear him, so that you won’t commit sins” (Exod 20:20). 

Something happened at Sinai, and it gives us the power to see ourselves—not willfully triumphant over sin, but as those whom God can address for the sake of grace and reconciliation. Five years ago, the town in Germany where my grandfather grew up invited my family back to show their sorrow for what took place and seek forgiveness for the crimes that were done. I came from Canada, but most of the family came from Israel.  

Despite every form of resistance, the descendants of those who stood before Mt. Sinai are numbered today among the nations and the slender hope that my grandparents held onto in some of the darkest hours of the 20th century has now flourished. God’s word to Israel is not only still speaking to the world, but Israel itself is a thriving reality. And the struggle to be a light in the darkness, for earth and heaven to find a bridge of harmony whatever challenges we face, goes on.

Scripture references are from Complete Jewish Bible (CJB).

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.