Let Us Draw Near

Parashat Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1-6:7

David Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

The entire system of sacrifices in Leviticus is about nearness to God. This is evident in the opening verses of our parasha, Vayikra. The Hebrew root ק-ר-ב is the root of both “brings near” (yakriv) and “offering” (korban). The phrase “presents an offering” (yakriv korban) has a poetic repetition better captured in Everett Fox’s translation, “brings near a near-offering.”

The opening word, Vayikra, “He called,” also connotes invitation and intimacy. Jewish commentators point out that this personal invitation to Moses comes immediately after the end of Exodus, where the cloud of Hashem’s presence so fills the Temple that Moses cannot enter (Exod 40:35)! As R. Aviva Richman points out, being prevented from entering the Mishkan must have been a blow to Moses, making the personal invitation of Vayikra that much sweeter.

The traditional view of the korbanot, or sacrifices, is that, bereft of a Temple in which to offer them, we are in a state of long-term galut, or exile. Even when we have a Jewish nation in the land of Israel, our inability to resume the sacrifices leaves us separated from God, unable to draw close, and in a state of unending ritual impurity.

Certainly this is true on some level. Without the Temple our people are scattered and fractured, and ways that people draw close to the Creator proliferate beyond number. On the other hand, the besorah of Yeshua implies that the situation is not so bleak:

Therefore, brothers and sisters, we have boldness to enter into the Holies by the blood of Yeshua. He inaugurated a new and living way for us through the curtain—that is, His flesh. We also have a Kohen Gadol over God’s household. So let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and body washed with pure water. (Heb 10:19-22, TLV)

The model of the korbanot is one where we participate as partners with God in maintaining the relationship. Our parasha starts with God calling to Moses, but it immediately follows with “when anyone of you brings an offering to Adonai” (v. 2). You may have noticed that many of the details of the building of the Mishkan appear twice: once when God commands and another time when Moses (or the artisans) actually do the work. Accordingly, the author of Hebrews does not stop at what Yeshua does as Kohen Gadol (High Priest) for us, but continues with the same theme as our parasha: “So let us draw near.”

But in this time of galut, when even our flawed status quo is shaken and the structures and systems we (mistakenly?) relied upon are showing their weakness, what do we do? How do we draw near?

Prayer: continuing the sacrifices

When the Temple was destroyed our sages first turned to prayer as a way to draw near. Regular prayer times were already in place before the Temple’s destruction (e.g. Acts 3:1), so it was a small step to establish the three daily services, shacharit, mincha, and maariv, based on the sacrificial schedule.

There is a natural tendency to turn prayer into something that serves our needs, rather than bringing it as a gift. This tendency to be a taker instead of a giver is a temptation in any relationship—and usually a destructive one. Once prayer becomes truly a relational act that contains both giving and receiving, it will draw us nearer to our Creator. As it says, “Adonai is near (karov) to all who call on Him, to all who call on Him in truth” (Psa 145:18).

Shabbat: build the Mishkan in time

R. Abraham Joshua Heschel famously described the Shabbat as “a sanctuary in time” (The Sabbath, p. 29). While Moses and Aaron, Betzalel and Oholiav built the Mishkan in the desert with various types of labor, we all build this sanctuary each week by desisting from those same types of labor.

It is not a rest for our health (though it may be healthy!), as much as a boundary like that around the Mishkan that Moses set up before the presence of Hashem filled it (Ex. 40:33). We create a space for holiness by distinguishing the day, putting boundaries around it.

When we have guests stay over, I need to move my computers, guitars, and assorted books from the guest room so they have a comfortable place to stay. So we make room for God’s presence on Shabbat, and allow his presence to draw near.

Kehilah: let’s do it together

Without Kehilat Israel, the congregation of Israel, the Mishkan is never built. Note that when God commands Moses, “Have them make a Sanctuary for me,” it is not “so that I may dwell in it,” but rather, “so that I may dwell among them” (Ex. 25:8, emphasis added). Each Israelite having a shrine in their own tent doesn’t work; the building must be done together.

In this modern life it’s easy (or at least easier) to forget that we are social animals, built to be deeply interdependent on one another. Much of Western thought considers a human as a free-floating individual, but that is its great flaw: human life is defined by relationships. Anything meaningful we do will be shaped and enabled by the communities we live in, whatever shape that may take.

Kehilah, community, also gives us endless opportunities to love others. As R. Jonathan Sacks reminded us, sacrifice is best understood as an expression of love. Yeshua’s sacrifice demonstrates the depth of God’s love for us; his teaching makes it clear that loving God and loving your neighbor are not simply the most important commandments, they are interdependent, mutually reinforcing. What, then, could be more important than living lives of sacrifice, love, and mutual commitment?

Mussar: work out your salvation with fear and trembling

R. Yisrael Salanter compared mussar study, study of the classic Jewish texts on inner change and ethics, with the mincha offering (Ohr Yisrael, Letter 12; see Lev 2). Why does this comparison make sense?

R. Salanter saw that religious life was deeply compromised if it was purely external. Today most religious leaders treat as axiomatic that character matters, but few of us have truly mastered the disciplines that develop character. The issues, individual and societal, that motivated R. Salanter to innovate practices of mussar still persist. As a result, many times our communities must rely on new members who have not had the time and mentorship to develop into healthy contributors. The mussar tradition provides tools for the renovation of our inner selves, strengthening our families and communities, drawing us all nearer each other, and to God.

In the end it’s not overly complicated, but neither is it easy. The service of the Mishkan is not tangential, but is fundamental to our spiritual life together. R. Eliezer Melamed sums it up beautifully:

Even though there is a big difference in status between the Mishkan and the rest of the world, in reality the whole world is meant to be a Mishkan, that is, a place where the Shekhina (Divine Presence) can dwell. Consequently, all of man’s labor must be connected to the crafting of the Mishkan… Therefore one must orient all his actions toward the greater glory of God—in the field or in the factory, while engaged in scientific research or in business, all in order to improve the world and perfect it, until it reaches its ultimate purpose of being a Mishkan for the Shekhina. (Peninei Halakha: Laws of Shabbat, vol. 1).

So even without the sacrifices, the scope of our participation has not shrunk, but grown! This is the meaning of Hebrews inviting us to enter—in boldness!—the very place we were once kept from, the Most Holy Place. Further, while the original Mishkan was built once and then completed, we can participate in its building and rebuilding every day: living lives of prayer, Shabbat, and mitzvot as people of humility, faith and character. Thus may we draw near to God that God may, in mercy, draw near to us.

The Trail Map of Torah

Parashat Pekudei,  Exodus 38:21–40:38

Rachel Wolf, Beth Messiah, Loveland, OH, guest contributor

I am an avid hiker. I like nothing better than to be “out there,” surrounded by the splendor of the natural world. And I am old-fashioned enough to love maps. Real maps. The kind you can hold in your hands, then fold up and put in your pocket. I love maps because I like to know where I am in the big picture of things. Tracing where I’ve been, the trails I’ve taken, then locating my present position, is the only way I know to navigate the road ahead. This is a good life practice for individuals, as well as for communities. 

As a Jewish community, we are greatly blessed to have ancestors that saw value in recording their physical and spiritual journeys. This is our unique history, our legacy: the historical map of a very real journey with many miracles, sins, and trials, but also replete with ordinary tasks, accomplished with detailed record-keeping.  

In Parashat Pekudei we come to the end of the book of Exodus. We are about to embark on our next journey through the book of Leviticus where there are many narrow passages to navigate, and not as many far-ranging vistas as in parts of Exodus or Deuteronomy. But before we move on, let’s check the map and take a quick look back at the trails we’ve recently trekked. 

The book of Exodus, in my view, can be understood in three parts.  

• In the first part, Chapters 1–15, God, through Moses and Aaron, as well as by great signs and wonders, brings the family of Jacob, the family he particularly loves, out of bondage in Egypt to fulfill his promises to the fathers.

• In the second part, Chapters 16–24, the children of Jacob become the nation of Israel. They arrive at the wilderness of Sinai, in view of the Mountain of God. Here, in Midbar Sinai, Israel receives and accepts their holy covenant with God; God cuts covenant with the Jewish nation. Through this blood offering, sprinkled on the people, God anchors his own Holy Name to the earth, by eternally joining his Name to a people of flesh. Henceforth, the God of all creation calls himself the God of Israel.

• The third part, Chapters 25–40, focuses on the plans for, and then the building of, God’s Dwelling Place, the Mishkan (tabernacle or tent). Moses receives the plans on the mountain, then, starting in chapter 35, the people begin to build it.

The Campsite

We are now, still, camped at Midbar Sinai, the broad scruffy land at the foot of the Mountain of God. It’s been a year since we left Egypt (see 40:17). In Pekudei, we have the wonderful privilege of seeing the completion of all of the many specified parts needed for the Mishkan, and then, at the very end, its final construction. 

But here we must pause. The immense star-packed sky above is heavy with hints of a wondrous plan beyond our ken. We must wonder then, why is this peculiar task, the building of the Mishkan, the central preparatory task of our people’s journey? There is not space here to explore this pivotal question. But its centrality in our inherited trail map is certainly related to the fact that this precisely designed tent is called the Dwelling Place (mishkan in Hebrew) of God in the midst of Israel. 

A useful map is not Abstract Expressionist. 

The design of the Mishkan’s structural parts and furnishings was anything but spontaneous or random. The gifted artisans chosen by the Lord to oversee this project had not heard of Abstract Expressionism, much less Jackson Pollock! Everything was done, start to finish, in a structured and orderly way, always prioritizing, and based directly on, the vision on the mountain. 

Let’s look at God’s way of completing this project. God is the Master Architect. But, in fact, he is designing his own house! So he has at least two reasons to desire it to be finished according to his specs. Many of these principles can be applied to how we order our congregations. 

It starts with a vision.

God commands Moses to come up to the mountain. There he is shown what I believe is a view of the heavenly temple, the heavenly city, God’s realm. The people are to make God’s earthly tent “according to all [the pattern] that I show you.” (25:9) This is a detailed pattern. The vision for the plan takes all of chapters 25 through 31.

The vision needs a visionary.

The vision is from God, but it is not given directly to the people. The people do not determine the vision by comparing prophetic dreams, nor by a vote. The vision is given to Moses, a man tried and tested by God. He is, like our Messiah, “a man of sorrow, acquainted with grief.” He is utterly faithful.

The visionary communicates the general vision to the people.

Moses gathers the whole congregation of Israel and tells them what the Lord has commanded. But he speaks in general terms, not in detail. He concentrates on the first thing God spoke to him: the people should bring freewill offerings of the various materials needed. He then tells them that gifted artisans will be in charge of the construction. (35:10–19)

The visionary communicates the detailed vision to the leaders.

This is a serious responsibility. It takes patience and communication skills. It has to be palpably clear, yet allow for a degree of artistic creativity in those called to bring it to fruition. Moses tells all the people that Bezalel and Aholiab are the project’s Executive Designers: Master Artisans called by God (Exod 35:30–36:3).

The artisan leaders oversee the work.

These Master Designers appoint other gifted craftsmen (and women) to jobs that suit their skills. They continue to oversee all of the work. In this section, when we read “he” it usually refers to Bezalel, not to Moses (36:1–39:31).

The executive designer brings the finished work to the visionary.

The artisans did everything they could to have all of the specified items made according to spec. But, in the last step, Bezalel brings all of the pieces to Moses for inspection before assembling them. There was still time to correct something, if needed (39:32–41).

Moses inspects all the work according to the vision.

This must have been a tense period for all of the artisans. They had worked so hard. They had done their best to artistically express the vision Moses had communicated. They had put their whole hearts into the work. Yet, they submit it all to the one whom God had called to carry the vision. After, perhaps, a couple hours of inspection, Moses confirms they had done well! He blesses them! We can imagine that there were many sighs of relief and much rejoicing (39:42–43).

Moses personally oversees the construction.

Moses, in his priestly role, oversees the construction of all of the parts. Now, when we see “He,” it refers to Moses. I doubt Moses did all of the heavy lifting, but he did do all of the priestly tasks himself, including anointing the Mishkan and all its furnishings with the holy anointing oil, and placing the holy garments on Aaron and his sons, and anointing them. He most likely also personally placed the “testimony” into the ark and placed the kaporet (often translated “mercy seat”) on the ark. I imagine he closely supervised those who carried the ark into the tent (40:1–33).

God brings his Presence.

One of the most famous phrases in Torah is v-y’chal Moshe: Moses finished.

And he raised up the court all around the tabernacle and the altar, and hung up the screen of the court gate. So Moses finished the work. (40:33)

Then the glory of the LORD filled the tent. . . . Whenever the cloud was taken up from above the tabernacle, the children of Israel would go onward in all their journeys. (40:34–38)

The journeying of the Israelites was determined, from here on, by the cloud of Hashem. It is not clear whether the cloud showed them the route, or just the timing of breaking camp. In any case, Moses was still the one in charge of both the spiritual map and the trail map. Moses stands unique as a leader of the people. It is clear why Messiah is called a “prophet like Moses.”

Moses and our Fathers left us detailed, notated maps of their journeys so that we would remember. “Remember!” is one of the most often-uttered commands in Torah. But remembering is just the first step. We are to study these strange trails—to know them intimately, to the extent that we come to feel that we ourselves have taken these trails.

But the maps we have inherited do not only show us the past. As we study and envision ourselves on the long trail of Torah, we begin to understand more clearly the paths we should take into our future. 

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).